AU CARYL

Chapter One

Hard Work and Dedication

"What the hell ya expectin' me ta do, Merle? Turn it down? Fuck all that. I done worked too damn hard an' too damn long ta fuckin' throw it back in his face. They picked me. Don't kno' why, but they did. Don't see what the fuckin' issue is, seein' as ya locked up for the next four fuckin' years. Ya lucky I told ya cockamamy ass what my plans were ta begin with. Coulda left ya sittin' an' wonderin' where I gone ta… Kinda how ya did me, all them times when I was growin' up. Took off wit' no care in th' world…"

Daryl Dixon was pacing back and forth along his back porch, smoking a cigarette as he argued with his dumbass brother on the phone. It was the same conversation they had been having for two months now, ever since his older brother had been sentenced to spend the next mandatory four years behind bars. Drug trafficking and manufacturing, the story - the same old same, as far back as he could remember. And Daryl remembered everything.

"I'ma leave the trailer as it is. It's done fuckin' paid for, worth three times as much as when I bought it! An' I told ya I'd keep up wit' th' lot rent so's they don't tow it away. I didn't even hafta leave it for ya. I coulda done sold the piece o' shit an' say's worry 'bout findin' ya own pot ta piss in when they let's ya out."

He shook his head and took an aggravated puff, relishing that soothing effect of the nicotine, the smoke filling his lungs. Cloud billowing upon exhalation, the redneck ran a weary hand over the scruff of his cheek.

"Do whatever ya feel like, don't giv' a shit, Merle. Haul it off when ya git out! Hell, burn the fucker up, couldn't care fuckin' less. Ya don't like the neighbors; well they ain't too fond o' you neither. Good lord, Merle. Ya done driven me crazy."

Sitting back against the railing, he crushed the cigarette into an old coffee tin which served as an ashtray for the back deck. With the cell phone pressed to his ear, he pinched the bridge of his nose as he listened to his brother's opinion, once again, about Daryl's new job.

"Ain't no cock suckin' office detail, dickwad. I'ma be in charge o' th' whole fuckin' facility. . . . . .Don't kno', Merle, maybe cause they realizin' I've done fuckin' worked my ass off for 'em since I were jus' eighteen years old. . . . . .An' whose fault is that, brother? Yours! Couldn't keep away from the damn drugs, could ya? Always wantin' one more cookie from the cookie jar. .I ain't never did them shrooms on my own, ya put those in my food, dipshit! Givin' me pot brownies when I were jus' a kid, knowin' I'd eat whatever th' fuck ya gave me coss you're my big brother . . .Weren't my problem ta babysit ya lazy carcass no more, an' someone had ta pay th' goddamn bills an' keep food in the fuckin' fridge ta feed ya lazy ass an' feed them nasty ass diseased skanks ya always kept 'round here. . . . . . . . . Ain't matterin' none, Merle, 'M already packed up an' ready ta relocate. . . . .Nah, don't kno' yet, ain't startin' till the plant opens at the beginnin' o' June – so, two months. . . . . . . Ya jus' do your fuckin' time an' work your fuckin' shit out, brother, ain't dicussin' this no more. Gave ya plenty o' chances ta straighten out, ya got what ya paid for this time. Ya goddamn greed done got th' best 'o ya an' I ain't feelin' sorry for ya one damn bit. Ya wanted ta help them fool tweeker buddies ya were mixed up with make meth, well, look where it gotcha?"

Daryl lit another cigarette as he listened.

"Ain't Buckwheat, its Buckhead. That's where the plant is, stupid, Buckhead, Georgia… How many fuckin' times I gotta repeat maself? Prison makin' ya go full stupid on me? . . . . .Yeah, been spendin' my weekends up there overseein' th' last of the preparations. . . . .Well, s'posse I'ma try an' find a house ta rent or a room or some shit from someone in town. . . .Nah ain't wantin' ta buy 'til's I kno' I'ma do my job well enough ta wanna stick 'round an' they ain't gonna change they damn minds coss they tend ta shuffle folks whenever an' wherever they damn well please. . . .We been over this a million times. . . .Mamet offered me th' job an' I took it. Been workin' for Blake goin' on twenty-three years now an' I fuckin' earned it. . . . .Good lord, Merle, I told ya I'd keep money on your fuckin' account. When have I ever not? Shit, your pissin' me off. 'M kinda pissed a lot. How many good things come my way an' how many times ya act like it ain't shit? Ya takin' it all for granted.. An' maybe I ain't gonna be 'round for ya th' next few years… Nah, I ain't you."

He pushed away from the railing and started pacing again.

"Change my number, an' nev'a take another call from ya ev'r again," Daryl sighed, mournful and despondent. "My bank statement ain't non'ya business, Merle, jus' kno' I'll make sure ya have plenty o' cash for your fuckin' commodities, whatever th' fuck it is.. so ya can git ya ramen an' tha' other shit ya like . . . . .Meetin' with some lady t'morrow ta find out what they got available in town. Stop in an' hav' som' lunch. They got this bar an' grill tha' ain't lookin' half bad, steak an' salad an' all tha'. . . . . .. Yeah, git ya ass ta count, call me back brother. Bye."

Daryl ended the call and sighed as he put his cell phone in his pocket. The angry red glow of his cigarette burned brightly as he inhaled a deep lungful of smoke. Talking to Merle always put him in a damn foul mood and this time was no fucking exception. He'd been wary of his job promotion at first. Hell, uprooting all his possessions and not knowing a single miserable person confined within Buckhead town limits, contributed an even heavier strain to melancholic nerves. Daryl Dixon liked familiarity, he enjoyed consistency, and change wasn't something the redneck handled very well. But he'd earned this new job. He'd bled for it over the years, and put his whole life against it to make something for himself. Putting the name Dixon and his daddy's reputation behind him as he painted a whole new canvass of just him and his accomplishments. The town no longer stared at him like he might blow up and stomp someone's ass just for crossing his path on the sidewalk. Daryl was a quiet man. A reticent man who stayed away from disorder and trouble or until trouble found him and it was usually in the form of some stupid bullshit his brother got mixed up into.

Sure, some of the folks around still whispered and swapped gossip when things were dull and topics to discuss were limited. The white trash, good-for-nothing pieces of shit Dixon clan. Mama Dixon, done burned herself up with a bottle of wine and a cigarette, lazing around in bed too drunk to get up. Papa Dixon, the town belligerent, starting brawls and beating the fuck out of people for no apparent reason other than he could. And oh, lookie there, Merle Dixon, the oldest boy, high on dope and strung out on crank and pills. Ain't they the top examples of our fine, established town. The youngest boy, Baby Dixon, looks like he has another black eye – Can't believe he's still in school; maybe he ain't as worthless as his kin.

Daryl heard it all, he wasn't deaf and dumb like most of them had thought. Hard work right out of high school put an end to people and their trash talking. When his daddy finally left town and Merle rode off into the sunset right behind him a few years later, Daryl had been free. His brother came back from time to time, and during the instances Merle lingered, the littlest Dixon boy had grown into a man and someone who had earned the respect of the people of the community. Wasn't too often one could grow out from under such an onerous coat of tarnish and bad luck with a family name that brought nothing but disgust and loathing from the folks avoiding your every move.

Merle had reappeared back into to his life permanently about two years ago. Preaching and going on about how he'd found God and changed his life because he saw the Lord after he witnessed their daddy get gunned down in a bar fight. This had been swallowed with a grain of salt. Daryl hadn't even asked about a funeral or the details. If Merle said the man who raised them had died, then he had. Daryl figured Merle had found God during a boozed-up pill popping bender or some shit, and sure enough, not even a week went by and Merle was strung out on crank again. He'd let his brother move into his trailer but he sure as shit weren't gonna have him selling drugs out of his place. No way, no how. So, between the comings and goings of his brother's druggie compadres, were the late-night poundings on the door of some half-cocked skag flashing her pussy for a fix. Daryl hated these mortification's more than any-fucking-thing else. He'd been putting up with his brother's whores for years and his daddy's even longer. Daryl's entire childhood consisted of whores, tweekers and - he didn't wanna think about that right now. Nah - they couldn't seem to comprehend that he wanted to vomit at the very sight of them. Meth gave the really nasty ones green teeth like they had a thick slimy layer of lake algae coated on them. Most of them had needle marks and ugly purple veins with yellow pot marks, oozing some kind of diseased shit which made his stomach churn up bile into his mouth. Daryl flipped his shit one night when one of his brothers' floozies had found her way into his bed, rubbing up on his cock just about to put her mouth on him. His dick went limp as soon as he woke up and he threw the dumb cunt out of his room by her hair, and he went ranting and raving on Merle. They had a tumble, okay, a fist fight -, and Merle ended up outside in a tent for a month. It didn't put an end to the whores showing up at all hours on any given day, but it did stop them from going into his room.

Then about six months ago his brother got caught up in some more shit and now his ass was in prison. Story of his fucking life. Ain't that what life is? Stories and more stories, until you lose yourself in them? All jumbled together until you can't remember what life was before? Daryl felt old. Tired. Worn out and just – lost.

Ruminations dissipated, long ago miseries of a life no longer. Never forgotten, no. Yet always lingering. Hissing, Daryl dropped the butt into the coffee tin, eyes squinting and visage twisting in disgust at the smell of burnt filter. Light footfalls, Daryl padded inside his trailer home, sliding the glass door shut and locking it. All his worldly possessions and collectables, things he'd kept throughout the years, all packed up, faced him as he stood and stared out at familiar surroundings. Out of everything, nothing churned his gut for pause, and nothing hinted to a strangled urge of repression. Nothing at all, kept the redneck in his hometown. Haunted eyes languish, ultimately, and effloresce. Shadows that linger, eventually fade. If only he knew the unknown.

"All I ev'a want'd was ta git th' fuck outta here, an' I'ma do it… I ain't stayin'. Change, change is good when it counts."

A mewling sound met his attentive ears and he felt the silky feel of fur rubbing against his bare leg.

"Ain't'na leave ya behind neither, ol' boy." Daryl stooped low to pick the feline up into his arms. "We a team, ain't tha' right, Cat?"

The black furred tom had adopted him several years ago and Daryl never had the heart to send him away after he had made sure no one else was missing him, asking around the trailer park heedfully knocking on doors and putting up signs. So, they were a pair now, and the cat took care of him just as much as Daryl took care of it. It was funny, how lonely the hunter realized he was when the animal suddenly appeared in his life. Daryl hadn't exactly named him and just simply called him Cat.

Going to the couch he eased his frame down, an ache in his back that only recently started, and the cat turned a few times and settled on his stomach. Flicking at the remote, he channel surfed until he came to some sitcom he vaguely remembered he enjoyed, and sat there idly stroking at the fur ball resting so serenely, purring and rumbling his cat song, luring Daryl into a lethargic state of peace.

Plant Director, that's me now.

When he had turned eighteen the plant had just opened and Daryl had just graduated from high school. It specialized in crop fertilization and had helped pull the small, floundering Georgia community out of its recession. It produced all natural, and chemical by-products and it employed over twelve hundred workers from various towns in the area. It was about twenty miles from where he lived, but Daryl was grateful to work out of town. Just four months previously he had found a yellow slip of paper hanging from his locker denoting a meeting with the Plant Director, Milton Mamet. Daryl had been a daytime Production Manager at the time and when he was told he was being rewarded for his hard work and dedication, he had been flabbergasted. They were giving him his very own plant to oversee. It was a much smaller facility, and was three hours away. He accepted the job with little forethought. It wasn't the staggering pay increase or the less strenuous work load which had intoxicated him to the idea of it all. It was that he had done this. Daryl Dixon had accomplished something no one else in his family ever had, a prestigious career and a respected reputation with his employer. He smirked lazily as he remembered that day it had all taken place, and the dread he had felt when he saw that slip of paper hanging from his locker.

FOUR MONTHS EARLIER

Christ.

There was a light yellow slip of office paper taped to his rusted, piebald work locker. Having just punched in at the time clock, seeing this simple, outwardly ordinary sight instilled a dread attached to a deep sense of foreboding which plucked at every nerve ending connected to his brain. Of course it was yellow; the plant owner didn't use pink slips.

Daryl stood staring at the thin, narrow strip of doom and in an unconscious gesture, he started chewing on his thumbnail. An old lunch pail swung from his other fist, stowed within just a basic cold cut sandwich, a peach and a thermos of strong black coffee.

"Fuck," he mumbled under his breath, stopping in front of the locker.

Grabbing at the note quickly, he glanced around to see if there was any of his crew lurking nearby. Spotting no one, he read the scribbled inscription and then glanced at his wristwatch. Sighing heavily, he wadded the slip up and shoved it into his pocket. Hasty fingers made a quick job of the combination, one he had been using for more years than he cared to remember, and with a sharp flick of his wrist, he opened the locker. He wondered for a moment if he should even bother putting his lunch pail inside. Shaking his head, he set it inside, grabbed his goggles, his gloves and his safety helmet. Placing the helmet on, he stretched the goggles around it to be eclipsed over his eyes later. If there is a later, he thought morosely, taking the thick work gloves and concealing them out of sight in the same pocket which hid the yellow note.

The plant was loud, even at six in the morning being as it was a twenty-four hour a day operation, the machinery from within the main fertilizer building was booming and buzzing, blocking out any kind of pleasantry from the outside world. Daryl Dixon had been roaming this environment for the past twenty-two years. The last five as one of the first shift Engineer/Production Managers. A crew of one hundred men and women applied their various skills in his sector which he overlooked, expedited, and maintained. He had fairly good working relationships with each and every one of them. He knew all of their names, their respective spouse's names, significant others and had been invited to picnics and attended many children's birthday parties over the years and most of this was before his promotion to Shift Manager. It was honest to say Daryl enjoyed his job, and was content with his lot in life. Yet the slip in his pocket, which he imagined was sentient and breathing, could end it all with two ordinary words, but devastating if said together.

You're fired.

The walk to the Personnel Building was quick, and once he entered the quiet lobby he approached the secretary behind the plastic partition. The woman glanced up from a document and smiled tiredly up at him.

"Can I help you?" The woman's voice reflected her tired demeanor but it was pleasant and helpful, as she smiled out at him.

He cleared his throat, and nodded. "Daryl Dixon, I have a meetin' with Mr. Mamet scheduled at 6:15."

"He's waiting for you Mr. Dixon. Go on back and I'll let him know you're on your way. Just enter by that door there to your right."

"Thank ya, ma'am," Daryl inclined his head, and turned to push through a heavy white door. It closed just as heavily behind him and he paused as a moment was taken to gain his bearings back.

Over the years there had never been a single time which he had been summoned to the Plant Director, Milton Mamet. When he had been promoted to Shift Engineer, they had only taped a white slip of paper to his locker and his pay checks reflected the hefty monetary increase. There was no meeting, no administrative comradely handshake to accommodate his promotion, just a slip of paper hanging nondescriptly at his locker. That's how they did it here. A woman from the corporate plant in Woodbury had come in for just one afternoon to familiarize him with his new duties, and she had departed before the day was over. Waste of a trip, Daryl had thought, and again, he was struck with how impersonal his promotion had been. It didn't matter in the end, he hated forced conversations and felt uncomfortable around the big dogs that blew in from time to time to critique and dictate how things should be handled. He didn't even remember the woman's name.

Gathering his wits, thick soled black work boots carried him along the nauseatingly yellow tinted corridor, so familiar in contrast to the note buried in his pocket. Irony, he thought, scowling as he thrust his hand into his pocket, past his gloves, to crumble up the wad of paper even more.

Soon, the last door with a brass name plate depicting MILTON MAMET in shiny onyx lettering, informed him he had reached his destination. The door opened just as knuckles applied a third soft thump, and an informally dressed male greeted him.

"Good morning, Mr. Dixon, I thank you for your immediate arrival. I'm Milton Mamet." He extended his hand, and Daryl promptly shook it.

He nodded awkwardly, not knowing how to rightly express displeasure in such a spontaneous meeting towards an impending dismissal. How did people deal with this kind of shit? Thankfully accept it? Smile and nod, and be on his way? He felt too old to start over. Twenty some years was too long. If he did allow such notions to be articulated, he was sure the stiffly bodied man before him would have him thrown from the premises. Daryl wanted to turn and bolt.

"Yeah, came soon as I saw the - uh, the slip Mr. Mamet."

He smiled lightly, "Please, address me as Milton, Mr. Dixon. No need for such formalities."

"Call me Daryl," he responded, and Milton let his hand go and indicated to a chair in front of his desk.

"Please have a seat then, Daryl, and we can move right along." Milton pushed his glasses upwards and seated himself as Daryl did the same. The man folded manicured hands together in front of him and seemed to be assessing Daryl in some kind of scientific fashion.

Milton didn't venture out much into the main buildings, and Daryl had ever only spotted the soft-spoken man in his area perhaps two or three times over the last five years, before that, he had only seen him at a distance as he oversaw the plant. They had never spoken to one another, however. Not uncommon practice, Daryl has his own superior who he reported to. This enlightened rumination suddenly grappled with him. The second shift manager had spoken numerous times on what an annoying little pest Milton was. Daryl always shrugged this information away, as he listened, but never once had a comment of his own to make. Mamet had never made a point to annoy or even step foot in Daryl's surroundings. Now, he was wondering why.

"Do you like your job, Daryl?" Another push to his glasses.

Fuck. I goddamned knew it.

Shifting in the chair, he nodded. "Yeah, I do."

"Are you happy with what you do here?"

"Ain't nothin' else I can see myself doin', so yeah, been very happy doin' it Mr. Mamet."

"Milton."

"Milton." He corrected, fighting the urge to just ask what the fuck this was all about.

"How long have you been employed with us?" Milton asked in a manner which stated he was already aware of just how long Daryl had been collecting his paychecks.

"Goin' on twenty-three years now," he replied, shifting in his seat again.

Milton nodded to himself, and with a slight move of his hands, he opened a folder and began studying it, the man's lips pursing in thought, every few seconds.

"You started years ago, before I was hired, Daryl. You began your employment with us in February of 1987 with your elder brother Merle Dixon. Merle was fired two years later in 1989 for working while intoxicated. It says here Merle left your hometown soon after." Milton glanced up, pushed his glasses up again, and waited for some kind of response. "The Plant Director preceding myself notated that. If you're curious."

"Yeah, so? What's my brother gotta do with all this?"

"Directly, nothing at all," he glanced back down and flipped through several sheets of paper.

"In twenty-two years you have never phoned in sick, requested time off nor had any reprimands given, verbal or written." Milton spoke in a bewildered tone, and glanced at Daryl again. "Are you impervious to illness?"

"What?" Daryl smiled a little, his face contorted in confusion.

"Twenty-two years, and not a single call in? That's highly uncommon in any manner of business, commercial or otherwise and I just wonder if you have an exceedingly fine-tuned immune system."

"Take care o' myself, don't git sick." Daryl said plainly, shrugging his shoulders, confusion on where this line of questioning was headed.

The man nodded, seemingly content with his answer and moved on to his next question. "And why is it, in your opinion, you have never been reprimanded or written up for insubordination?"

Again, he shrugged. "Do the job, do it right, an' no one gits confused. Ain't hard to do if ya jus' do the work."

Milton had no expression on his face as he averted his gaze back to the folder. "I see."

Daryl fought the rise of his hand to chew on his cuticles.

"Do you have family besides your brother, Daryl? I can't seem to find anyone else on file here. You're not married?" He looked up again.

"Ain't no one else 'cept Merle. Ain't hitched, ain't never gonna be hitched."

"Girlfriend, a woman you see regularly – a man, perhaps?"

"No, no and uh, no." he said currishly, darting blue gaze glaring at an unaware Milton Mamet. "I'm alone. I live alone wit' a cat, it's jus' me." Why was his personal life brought into question? Whose business was that?

"Parents?"

"Dead."

"So I can presume you have no children either?"

Scoffing impatiently, he nodded. "Yeah, ain't got no kids."

"No kin, whatsoever, besides your brother Merle?"

"No, I done told ya, ain't no one else my kin 'cept Merle." It was difficult, but Daryl had succeeded in keeping his tone civil, however, Milton seemed to be oblivious that his inquiries were upsetting the redneck in front of him.

"Where is Merle, exactly?"

"Locked up in Georgia State Penitentiary. Ain't that written down in your file?"

"Oh no, this isn't my file, it's yours, and no, it isn't – but I shall make a note of it. Why is Merle incarcerated?"

"Methamphetamine manufacturin'," he offered blandly, sighing, feeling more and more uncomfortable the longer he sat there.

"How long is his sentence?"

"Was his third strike with the law gittin' caught up in drugs, so he's gotta go on a longer stretch this time 'round, so he's lookin' at ten years. Ain't gonna do that much time though, but he has a mandatory minimum of four years an' he's been gone two months now. So's I s'posse I'll see him on the outside say maybe four years from now."

"Are you bothered, Daryl?" Milton seemed to finally sort out that his questions were unnerving the man before him.

"I don't see how any o' these things gotta do with why ya asked me here ta see ya."

"Oh, well, they have everything to do with that." Affronted almost, Milton sat up straight.

"How? Our conversation ain't been much 'o one yet, jus' you askin' 'bout my family an' stuff, which I ain't got much of." Daryl cringed at the tone of his voice, slightly embarrassed, slightly resigned.

"Mr. Blake likes to have a proper comprehension of his employee's before we send them on their way. Anyone employed with Blake Industries is part of a larger family, extended from their own. It's more personal than just your average employment."

Send them on their way? The fuck does that mean?

Daryl sighed, and placed his hands on his knees to avoid clenching them or resorting to chewing on already weathered fingernails.

"Look, if you're preparin' ta git rid o' me, jus' git it over with'. I ain't got time ta play twenty questions, Milton."

Mamet pressed his lips together, and closed the folder. "I think I have all I need to know. Well Daryl..."

He didn't finish his sentence because Daryl stood up suddenly, confusion and fright coursing through his veins. His stance was non-confrontational; instead it was self-defensive, his arms hugging his torso and fingertips hiding under his biceps as he nibbled on his inner cheek.

"Are you quite well, Daryl? Is something the matter?"

"Can I just go now? Rather git my personal items cleared out 'fore my crew," he sighed, knowing they weren't his crew any longer, "'fore the others git here."

"You want to leave now?" He asked incredulously, seeming to be slightly annoyed. "We'll let you finish your workweek before we send you off; in fact, you may need until the end of the month." Milton stood now too and walked around the desk to lean one hip upon it. "I wasn't aware you were privy to what this meeting entailed. We only came to this decision yesterday, Mr. Blake and I, after we reviewed your file for the past few months along with your extensive history with the company. We only assumed…"

The tracker shrugged. "Ain't matterin' none, I can tell that ya just buyin' time until ya send me off on my way, right?" The bitter scoff couldn't be held back, and Daryl wanted to say a lot more than that. "Twenty-two years I been here an' jus' lik' tha', ya throw it all away."

Milton frowned, and now stared at Daryl as though he were the one not making any sense. "I'm thinking you may have jumped to the wrong conclusion. I am sending you on your way, of course, if you choose to go. Why do you think I inquired about a family? Mr. Blake likes to have an understanding about certain things. If you had a wife and children, we would be reluctant to uproot you from your life here. A single man with no attachments however, might be more willing to leave and go off to oversee what needs attending to. I imagine it's prudent to assume your cat won't mind a new environment to roam."

Comprehension flooded his embodiment, and his stance loosened considerably. Allowing a chuckle to burst forth from his lungs, Daryl shook his head in amazement. "Ya ain't firin' me?" Light laughter, he let his arms fall to his sides.

"Goodness gracious, no, not even in the same ballpark and I can't fathom why you thought I was about to. You must know you are the most qualified engineer we have here and the most productive member of the general management. Since your induction to Engineer, there hasn't been one accident on your shift, the byproduct output has improved over two-hundred percent and your crew has outstanding production elicitation. Fire you? No. We, Mr. Blake and I, want you to be the new Plant Director over in Morgan County."

As the information processed, Daryl could only stare at the smaller man in total befuddlement.

"Ya'll want me ta be what, the boss? You're givin' me my own facility? Are… Are ya fuckin' kiddin' me? Ya serious?"

Mamet was undeterred by his crude words. "Indeed, if you accept the job, it's yours. If you choose to seize this extraordinary opportunity, you'll be working with me, and under my training, you'll learn the in's and out's of running your own plant. You have the genius to do it Daryl, that's why Mr. Blake chooses you."

Plopping back down into the chair to keep his legs from melting under him, he inhaled and exhaled in relief. They wanted to give him a chance, a greater chance than he had ever felt within his reach. They weren't letting him go. Maybe it was the extra moment he took this morning to Zen his mind, as he waited for his old pick up to warm up. At this point, Daryl didn't care. The universe was shining down on him.

Milton walked back around and sat again. "You have given twenty plus years of your hard work and dedication, it's only right to reward such outstanding work ethics." He said matter-of-factly, in a dry deadpanned articulation. "Do you realize how uncommon it is to have an employee such as yourself, Daryl? I say this with regret that I have not taken the time to notice you before this. It was Mr. Blake who pointed you out and set me in your direction."

"I'll take the job," Daryl stated without an ounce hesitation, rubbing his hand along his scruffy chin. "I'm ready for more responsibility. I wanna do it. I can do it, Milton."

"Excellent, I knew you would. When I read your file. I knew you were the man for this job. Now, the new plant as you know has been under construction the past year on the outskirts of Buckhead, Georgia in Morgan County, roughly three hours away from here. It is a slightly smaller plant than this one, but it will offer many new job opportunities in that area where unemployment is high. Mr. Blake wishes to offer the communities there new hope in hindsight of such drastic declines to our economy. Your training will only take as long as it takes you to learn exactly what it is that I do here as Directing Manager. The plant opens in six months, on June 2nd, which gives you ample time, although I doubt it will take you that long to adjust. You'll need to find housing which shouldn't be a daunting task at all. I would suggest relocating directly to Buckhead. I'll give you the information to put you in touch with a local real estate agent for that area. The plant's only several miles away, in town. Buckhead isn't even one square mile in size. The population is barely over two hundred citizens."

"I kinda lik' the sound o' tha', ta be honest. Small community, ain't big on cities. Might not take th' job if it were Atlanta." Daryl sat forward, eyes cast on the other man.

"I've visited Buckhead while I oversaw some of the construction. I enjoyed my time there. I would recommend the local farmers market. Quaint. Good eggs."

Daryl nodded, relaxing fully.

"You'll have several tasks to do before you and I start working in proximity. I want you to pick someone to replace you. Someone just as dedicated as yourself."

"Jim." He interjected. "That's who I would promote."

"Jim?"

"Yeah, he can do it, an' do it well. Been here almost as long as me," Daryl nodded slowly, staring at Milton's hand as he made a note. "He's a hard worker and always helps newbies, when we git 'em."

"Great, I'll let you inform him, and you can start today by showing him how to do your job. If you're comfortable with that." Mamet said, setting the pen between his fingers down and glancing up.

"I am."

Milton nodded, offering a smile and continued to drivel on, and Daryl stared at him intently, retaining all the details.

xxxxxx

Lids fluttered open as he was pulled out of his reflections by the ending credits of the sitcom and he looked down at the cat sprawled out on his lap.

"Whatcha thinkin', Cat? Ya wanna come an' stay with me in Buckhead? Maybe we can find ya a real nice lady cat to shack up with, huh? Whatcha think o' tha'?" The redneck dragged his fingers along the feline's spine, petting him lazily.

Cat's ears flicked back at the sound of his humans deep, smooth drawl, and his tail thumped his leg.

"Yeah, I thought so." Daryl gave him some scratches behind his ear and took the last drag from a cigarette he didn't remember lighting. "Ya ain't got time for that, well, me neither pal."

Daryl ate dinner some time later, and after washing up the dishes and cleaning the counters, he found himself back out on the patio. A slight chill kissing the breeze, not unpleasant, sent shivers all along his flesh. Daryl sighed, absentmindedly smoking as his head hung low. The uneventful quiet evening like a snail, dragging slowly, unhurried and he sighed, a cloud of cigarette smoke billowing upwards as he lifted his head. Too early to sleep. Emptiness echoed profoundly, the trailer park still and silent, nary a chirp, nary a faint hint of sound. Humming, the hunter bowed his head again and let his arm extend, dangling off the wood rail.

Moments later, the cell phone in his pocket started to buzz, alerting him to a call. Daryl straightened, allowed a second to snuff the cigarette out in the tin and dug the device out. Glancing at the caller ID, lips pursed. Not many people called him, so it wasn't a surprise to see that it was Merle again. Answering, Daryl listened to the automated voice informing him that an inmate was calling from Georgia State Corrections. Running a hand over his face, he accepted the call.

"Hello," he answered the wariness apparent in his voice.

"Well shit, baby bruther, din't think I'd getcha on the first call, reckoned ya were still sore at me for earlier. Can ya hear me okay?" Merle sounded as distant as the miles between them.

"Not really, th' fuck is goin' on in there? Some kinda riot? You start some shit at count or what?" The younger Dixon brother snorted, the edge of mouth quirking into a sullen smile.

Merle chuckled, "Nah, 's movie night, an' all these bastards wanna use th' phone 'fore we all sit down an' jerk each other off."

"Sounds lik' fun, ya'll watchin' anything good?"

"Fuck if I kno' lil bruther, I jus' join in on the circle jerk." Merle paused, rustling around a bit as though he switched ears. "Lookie here, jus' don't think ya movin' all yer shit ta sum shithole place is gonna do ya any good. They gonna look at'cha th' same way ev'ryone does now. Like a piece o' shit redneck tryin' ta com' into town an' start runnin' shit, takin' over. That ain't yer way, I done taught ya better than that, bruther."

"Th' fuck you did, Merle! Gonna mind my own damn business like I always does. Gonna be helpin' folks git jobs jus' like they helped me when I was started up. Ya can't kno' what it's like cause ya never wanted ta work, all ya ever wanted ta do was run 'round an' do whatever the fuck it was you wanted ta do." Daryl sat up, and cringed at the almost pleading quality in his voice, wanting some kind of acknowledgement that his brother was proud of him. That he was happy Daryl had earned this and was taking his prize. "One crazy scheme after 'nother an' who was always there? Pickin' up th' pieces each tim' ya came down from a binge? Me. Cain't ya jus' once be fuckin' happy for me, Merle? Cain't ya?"

"Awe, shit, yeah, I hear ya. Deryl, I kno', I fuckin' kno'. But Yer gonna be under sum assholes thumb, tellin' ya when ta piss, when ta shit, an' when ta fuck. I git it though, okay?" The elder Dixon brother sighed, long-sufferingly, and then chuckled. "When do ya start?"

Daryl let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and didn't bother reminding Merle he had told him a hundred different times. "I'ma head up ta Buckhead t'morrow an' scope out the town with some lady real estate agent. I already been ta the plant an' met everyone. It ain't open yet though an' my boss say's I could take the next two months off an' git settled an' oversee the last o' the construction an' git done with the hirin' process. Thinkin' 'bout doin' that. I ain't wantin' ta stick 'round here no more or longer than I gotta."

"That Miller Munster guy yer boss?" Merle cackled, enjoying getting a rise out of his baby brother.

"Milton Mamet, an' no, talkin' 'bout Philip Blake."

"Whatever, so yer leavin' the trailer fer me? Ain't gonna sell it behind my back while I'm takin' my vacation?"

"Leavin' it be 'til ya can move back in when ya git out. Fuck, I told ya that, Merle. Don't'cha ev'a listen? Good lord." Pinching the bridge of his nose, Daryl closed his eyes.

"Reckon yer gonna take everything wit' ya up ta Buckwheat?"

"Buckhead," he corrected, much to Merles delight as he laughed in the receiver. "Nah, gonna leave the furniture here for ya. Might gonna buy som' new furniture, a new bed an' maybe a new couch – Don't kno' yet… But I ain't takin' non'a it I got here. Gonna spend a few months an' see how things go, an' if I takes to the job as good as I think I'ma gonna do, I'ma find a house. Jus' gonna rent some room for now."

"I see, yeah, good thinkin' baby bruther, ya don't wanna git roots set up, ya kno'? Might gotta high tail it outta there, might knock sumone up."

"Shut up," Daryl turned, hand dropping and leant upon the railing. "Ain't lookin' for none 'o that kinda shit, don't need the headache. Last thing on my mind."

"Gotta man up sumtime an' find ya a good woman ta keep yer bed warm an' yer cock wet." Merle guffawed bristly into the phone. "'S o' shame ya don't use it mor' often bruther, ya kno'. Only thing Pa ever gav' us was th' will ta survive an' a huge ol' pickle ta tickle th' ladies wit'."

"You're fuckin' disgustin', ya kno' that, Merle? What? Ya wanna see me shacked up wit' som' skag lik' you so's I can end up with the Clap like you did all them times?" Daryl chuckled, missing the man on the phone more than he'd ever admit to him.

Merle became quiet, and he sighed long and almost sadly. "Deryl, sumday ya gonna be in it so hard, ya ain't even gonna kno' what hit'cha. 'S how it always ends up ta be an' ya end up jus' another pussy whipped bitch waitin' on sum woman hand an' foot."

"Since when did you start clackin' like a hen givin' out relationship advice, brother? When the fuck were ya ever in one? Yeah, right." He rolled his eyes, staring upwards as he tilted his head back.

"Always figured you were still pristine, boy. Name me one-time ya got yer cock wet?"

Daryl scoffed, hating when every single conversation usually turned tables and ended up being a discussion about his lack of womanly companionship. Things seldom change, really. Life always comes back around to the familiar.

"I've had sex, Merle, I'm forty-one fuckin' years old. But ya done fucked up so much I ain't never gonna take advice from you 'bout nothin', let alone relationship advice."

"Who'd ya fuck bruther, coss I ain't never seen ya wit' a woman."

"You were gone for years, Merle. Ya ain't kno'ing what the fuck I been up to. Jus' shut the hell up already."

"Thas why ya should listen ta me, baby bruther, I done fucked up so much I know's wha' I'm talkin' 'bout. Glad ya had ya sum pussy though." Daryl could feel the smirk his brother had glued to his face over the miles that separated them.

His banter with Merle lasted a few more minutes until the twenty-minute phone call was disconnected. Daryl said goodbye and reminded Merle to behave, and that he would send him money soon. As much as he gave his older brother shit for it, Daryl knew that the commissary was a huge part of keeping up personal moral. Buying yourself snacks and being able to afford overpriced toiletries, it helped. Lighting up another cigarette, Daryl sat down at the patio table and smoked in quiet contemplation. Gazing around, he realized he would miss this old trailer, and the inviting woods which surrounded the trailer park. Far too long it had been since he allowed an entire day for a well-off hunt. His crossbow unfortunately seemed to be collecting dust in its corner. He had been thinking of replacing it and thought perhaps there might be a nice wooded area near Buckhead for a good hunting spot. Daryl loved being outside and made the decision to make more time for his passion as his work load became more demanding but less occupying.