Elmo Sparggs was tired. The skinny, weathered, 58-year old stood on the porch of his small Lousiana cabin looking west to the sunset. Staring out at the declining sun over the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway, Elmo lamented, "Damned blight on a beautiful view". Elmo hated the new bridge, even if it was "good for the economy" as the carpetbaggers had sold it. Elmo scratched at his dirt-covered overalls grimly as he reviewed his thoughts about the bridge that spanned South to New Orleans. Sun will be down in 30 minutes, Elmo internally noted his need to light his outdoor fuel lamp and prepare for the skeeters; Elmo had work to do tonight.
Forty minutes later, had moved the night's work to his back lot. He hung the lantern at the edge of his back porch and moved to the small pot distiller he'd set up. Corn squeezings tonight, cornshine. The full moon should make the low-light work of distilling shine easier, while also allowing Elmo to work mostly in darkness; Like his Daddy taught him. The still was set and the fire ignited, fermented corn slop in the kettle. The next four hours should be quiet cooking and Elmo expected to pull at least a gallon of heads and hearts from tonight's stripping run. Elmo listened to the sound of the fire under the distillery, waiting to hear the telltale signs of activity in the belly of the brewpot. Elmo's father had always taught him: You brew with your nose but you make shine with your ears and tongue. Elmo reckoned he had another 2-25 minutes before the still would start spitting out the foreshots. Elmo mentally calculated how much foreshots he'd accumulated last month. The undrinkable deadly juice that comes first in distilling was quite valuable to Elmo. Add a little foreshots to your fuel and your boat can scoot a little faster than the revenuers, Elmo remembered his Daddy teaching him.
Elmo pondered the lessons of his father, remembering how his father would use his full name, Elmarco, when being stern about a lesson. He was a hard man, Sparggs thought of his Daddy, but he made me strong. Some memories of his father hurt.
Elmo pondered taking down his porch light. His daddy always taught him you only brew under the moon, you don't want to get caught because someone saw your fire. His father had taught him how to build a smokeless fire that couldn't be seen from more than 30 feet. But Daddy didn't know about these times, Elmo relaxed. "Times are different Daddy, its 1964," he spoke to his father's ghost, "the law here don't care if I'm cooking". Still, his gut and his muscle memory was telling him to pull down the porch lamp, even if it wasn't drawing skeeters yet.
Elmo chewed his cheroot, bothered more and more by the porch lamp. There was no reason to take it down, but it still bothered him. Better to stay with Daddy's lessons, Elmo reasoned. Giving an ear to the distiller, Elmo got up to take down the gas lamp hanging from the back porch.
As Elmo walked towards the porch to turn off the lamp, he heard movement at the treeline. He instantly spun to face the noise, tense and ready, his mind remembering the the path to the rifle just inside the back door. Seeing nothing in the treeline his mind raced to remember the sound he'd heard. Sounded like a large animal not a small one, Elmo knew the sounds of his little lakeside property. Something big there, maybe a deer? Conflicted, Elmo was torn between grabbing his hunting rifle and shooting some free venison, but leaving the shine run wasn't a good idea. Better, at least, to have the gun closer to still, Elmo thought.
Elmo, still calm, but not happy about the unidentified sound, walked backwards to the porch, keeping his sight on any movement in the treeline along his back work lot. Seeing and hearing nothing but the distiller and its fire as he backtracked to his porch, he felt safe turning to open his back door. That when he heard the sound again. This time accompanied by a large branch-snap and movement.
Elmo's blood ran cold. That's not a deer. Quickly turning to reach inside the front door and grab the Winchester, panicking at the fluttering and fast steps behind him. His mind trying to focus on getting the gun as the panic rose with each footstep getting closer. Grabbing the rifle and spinning, pulling the bolt-lock, Elmo was ready to fire on whatever was approaching. Elmo pulled the rifle to the center of the sound approaching him.
The he saw it. Elmo stopped still. Trying to comprehend what he was seeing. The damned thing had butterfly wings! Elmo stared at the black butterfly-man. Elmo had never been frozen by fear. He'd been chased by revenuers as a kid with his Daddy and he had no fear then. He'd been around gators and never broke a sweat. And now, all Elmo could do was stare in shock.
The creature approached him but Elmo was still frozen. He only regaining composure just long enough to ask, "Why are you here?" before the creature rushed towards him and spun him by his shoulders.
