Beale watched the afternoon sun set through the fog of alcohol that evening, empty jars cracked and scattered around his dirty plastic lawn chair. In his right hand lay the handle of a rifle, the strap strewn across his shoulder, and in his left, another jar half full of pure moonshine. He watched a raccoon curled up in the stocks of moonshine as his eyelids grew heavier, the pull of a day's worth of sitting in the sun finally taking its toll on him.
He woke up hours later, hot and sweating, the sticky alcohol dripping down his hand like blood. It was dark. The only light shone from the moon through the dozens of jars stacked on the truck, and two pinpoints of light directly in front of his face. Beale swore and rolled awkwardly off the lawn chair, feeling the skittering claws of the raccoon as if scampered off, startled. He cursed to himself again and settled down in the chair. Only a few more hours till they came to drive off the truck, and Beale would get paid his hundred dollars and go home. He wasn't exactly the most qualified for the job, but as Dunn had told him, you don't need to be a genius to sit and watch a truck for ten hours. He returned to his seat and let his head droop back down to his shoulders, knowing full well this job meant he should stay awake. But he was too tired to watch still bottles, and they weren't about to go anywhere anyways.
"Didn't do a lousy thing." Beale woke to a burly man with a three-day beard staring scornfully into his face. He only watched in horror as Dunn drew his leg back, shoving his muddy boot into Beale's stomach. Beale bent over, clutching his abdomen in pain. "Don't let me catch you fallin' asleep on the job again," one of Dunn's workers said. "Coulda let the whole stock be stolen like that." One of them stuck the key in ignition, starting the engine of the black 4x4.
"Wait!" Beale called weakly. One of them looked back, his gray-streaked beard tangled below his hooked nose. Beale's breath caught in his throat, afraid to say what he was about to. Cautiously, he drew in a breath and opened his mouth to speak.
"What about my hunnit dollars?" he said weakly. All three of the men looked at him with faces of disgust. He shouldn't a said it. They looked at him like they were fixing to give him a wooping. Dunn stepped forward, worked up a good spit, and ejected it straight into Beale's face. It dripped down his face in a straight line all the way to his sweat-stained shirt.
"Let's go, boys."
