Grave Digger

By Dick Johnson

“All these movies and TV shows are bullshit.” Jeffrey said.  

His spade struck the hard ground over and over digging up little scoops of dirt, which he deposited in a pile nearby.  

It was early evening and the sun was setting, but in the woods, it was already growing dark.  

An owl hooted to let his friends know it was almost time for their nocturnal ride.  

But Jeffrey didn’t care. Sweat dripped off his face as he dug little scoops of dirt and piled it.  

“This was a stupid idea” he whispered to himself. “This is bullshit” he said louder.  

The shadows grew even longer in the dense woods where he worked. A little shovel full at a time.  

“It always shows these mafia guys standing around a 6ft deep grave they dug in a few minutes, while wearing suits.” He said.  

He dug some more.  

“They never break a sweat… I should have brought a pick ax.” He said.  

“Oh they might take off their jacket or roll up their sleeves, but they obviously never dug a grave during a drought.”  

The hole got longer and deeper. Sweat poured down his face as he worked harder. Each shovel full was followed by a rant on the injustices of criminal grave digging.  

“This is why every news report describes a shallow grave. Some idiot like me came out in the dark with a few brewskis and tried to dig a grave like they do in the movies. Utter bullshit.”  

He leaned on his shovel and pulled a cheap blue hanky from his pocket, and dabbed his face. He drove the shovel into the dirt to make it stick, then walked over to his back pack and pulled out a Miller High Life bottle, popped the top and took a swig.  

“I’ll bet those writers who write stories never dug a hole in the woods. Chopping through tree roots, sweating like a pig.”  

He looked back at the hole as the shovel fell down from where it was stuck.  

“Damn dry ground. What bullshit ” he said.  

He downed the last of the beer and stuffed it along with the cap into the little backpack. Then went back to digging.  

“It would be a lot easier to get rid of a body with acid. Or maybe dump it into the sea or lake. Course you’d need a boat.” He said.  

He dug deeper still and had a hole as long as his body and about knee deep.  

“This sucks. It would be easier to cut up a body and deposit it in various trash dumpsters.”  

“What about not killing?” A thought came to him.  

“You know as well as I do that some people deserve to die, and some people leave you no real choice. It’s OK to kill bacteria but not humans? What good are we?” He said, philosophizing.   

He looked at the hole. It was good enough.   

He grabbed the shovel and took it back down the short trail to his beat-up Crown Victoria.  

He opened the back door and grabbed a Wal-mart sack and wrapped it around the shovel’s head, then placed it in the back seat.  

He walked around to the back of the car and unlocked the trunk with his keys, opening it.

“Not only that, but bodies are a lot heavier in real life than they seem on TV. You gotta put a lot of muscle into it. That’s why fat people never get murdered.” He said, looking down at the large military style duffel bag filling the trunk.  

He double checked to make sure he saw no lights coming down the dark back road. Then he grabbed the handles of the bag and dragged it out of the car trunk, and quickly over to the side of the road. He entered the woods and took a break.  

“Maybe a two-wheel cart or a little red wagon could help. It’s amazing what you can stuff into one of these bags. Maybe they have bags with wheels? I could check Amazon.”  

He grabbed the handles and dragged the bag through the woods again.  

“And another thing is stabbing. Movies and TV don’t get that right either.”  

He stopped. Took a few breaths, then dragged again till he came to the spot where the hole was. He dragged the bag to the hole and rolled it inside, where it fell with a flop.  

“People don’t just die when you stab them. Sometimes they run and you gotta trip them. You gotta be sneaky so you can stab them in the neck a few times. That way they don’t run far. Or use a really big knife that goes all the way through.”  

He looked around.  

“Motherfucker…why did I take that shovel back to the car? Son of a bitch I’m a fucking idiot.”  

He stormed off into the woods, and down the trail and back to the car. He checked both ways for lights before leaving the woods.  

“This is bullshit.” He said as he grabbed the door handle and nothing happened.  

“What the fuck?” He said and quickly fished out his keys and unlocked the front door, opening it and hitting the unlock button.  

“This is fucking bullshit. Are you trying to get me caught? What the fuck? I try and try and always some stupid bullshit happens, maybe I should just whack myself. Fuck it. Color me fucking done.”  

He opened the door. Grabbed the shovel and ran up the trail as the Wal-mart sack floated away in the breeze.  

“Motherfucker…” He cursed as he looked back at the bag and kept running. “Fuck it. Stupid fucking bag…”  

He got to the hole and started throwing dirt inside.  

“This is bullshit. Everything about this has been stupid. First the bitch fought. What the fuck…die already. Then, the knife was dull and too short so it took several whacks. Then I had to break her legs with a hammer to get her in that fucking sack.”   He shoveled dirt on the duffel bag as he ranted.   

“Bitch caused me as much trouble dying as she did living. She’s probably laughing at me from hell. Stupid bitch.”  

He tossed on the last bit of dirt.  

Turned and walked over to his back pack. Grabbed another beer. Opened it and took a drink while walking over to the grave.  

“This is to you, babe. We had some good times. But I just couldn’t take it anymore. I hope you forgive me. At least you’re with that mom of yours. You should be glad about that.  Don’t worry, Lester will be joining you soon.” He said, and took a drink. He grabbed his back pack and headed down the trail, then stopped and turned around.  

“Forgot the fuckin shovel….”    

Bio: Dick Johnson is a writer from St. Louis, MO. He likes to tell stories on the grittier side of life. He has several on The Yard: Crime Blog. “A Bottle of Vodka” “Hustler Man” “Thou Shalt Not”Bag of Soap” “Do You Like Masks?”, “Sad Day“, “The Crawl Space“ “Drunk Tank”, “Confession

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