dogfucker chet

The big Indian's name was Larry or something, and he wouldn't leave us alone. He had a little tube-shaped thing on his black leather jacket. He told us that it was a zip-gun and that it would "keep a nigger off yer back". Larry introduced us to his buddies, Chet and a quiet man who'd been in some horrible accident and was wearing a body cast. They were staying in a little trailer that looked like it rolled over more than once, judging by the dents and smashed in corners. Chet didn't look healthy. Tall and thin, but with a potbelly and instead of the whites of his eyes, I only saw red and yellow bloodshot. His foam-and-mesh cap read "I don't advocate drugs, sex, or violence, but they've always worked for me." I didn't trust any of them. Chet tried to pet my dog, and Larry said "Don't turn your tail on 'im dog - they call 'im dogfucker Chet for a reason."

Later we saw that Larry had stolen all of our stuff. We confronted him, and he claimed that the allegedly stolen items in his possession were actually his. The quiet man in the cast grunted out the command "give it back to 'em." Larry complied, and we got our stuff back.