Disclaimer: I do not own the Outsiders, or anything else recognizable.

Me and Curly dropped by Buck's place before leaving the city. We, we meaning Curly, talked Buck into letting him borrow the car for the night. I drove in Bucks car with the map, and Curly followed in Jason's car.

We made several stops before reaching our final, well, technically, Jason's final destination. All in different towns. We had all the trash from our cleanup in several large trash cans in several cities across three states. We also cleaned out Jason's car. We found nothing of great importance. We did happen to find several baggies of what Curly tells me was heroin. I already knew that, though. Not that I used it or anything, but there were some pictures in a book I read in health class. We figured he must have been dealing.

We had lined Buck's trunk with garbage bags and tossed the corpse inside. We managed to find a chop shop and sold Jason's car for two hundred dollars cash. And when I say 'we', I mean Curly. Lord knows how he found it. I left him alone for three frickin' minutes and I come back to find him hanging up a pay phone.

It was a small ceremony. A Viking funeral. A violent J.D sent adrift on a Louisiana swamp on a piece of ply wood with some nails sticking out. You know… nothing fancy. Well, it was an attempt at a Viking funeral, anyway. It floated for about two minutes before sinking, extinguishing the flames before the body could be burned completely.

We stood around for a few minutes after the body sank. We didn't really say anything. As we headed back to Buck's car, I looked over at Curly and said, "I wonder if gators like their food burnt."

Curly laughed.

I laughed.

I went into the driver's seat. Curly made a wise crack about me not having my license. We laughed again, and Curly turned on the radio. The Rolling Stone's 'Paint it, Black' was playing.

As I drove away, I began to wonder. Would I start talking in my sleep, shouting 'Out out, Damn spot?' and all but confess my guilt? Would Curly? Hath Curly murdered sleep? Hath…I mean, have I?

Of course not. Why, A little water clears us of this deed! I laughed at the thought.

Curly looked at me strangely, "Are you okay, Pone?"

"Fine, Curly. Just fine," I told him.

Why should we feel guilty? It wasn't some random act of violence, no was it a planned attack on an unwitting enemy. Curly had nothing to gain from the kill, except his life. I had nothing to gain from helping him dispose of the body except…well…Curly.

Despite the difference of opinion on pretty much everything, and the fact that we spend half of the time arguing and calling each other names, he was my best friend. And, when I thought about, my only friend, now.

I mean, sure, there's Steve and Two-Bit. But Steve only seems to hang out with me because I'm Sodapop's kid brother. And Two-Bit's more like a brother than a friend. And they were all older than I was. Of course, it's only a few years, but still, they have other friends, and girl friends, and don't want to hang around with some smart ass 'little' kid.

I don't think Curly has any other real friends either. I mean, he is, after all, Curly Shepard. Not exactly the most likeable person in Tulsa. But he was Tim Shepard's kid brother. Tim's gang was infamous in Tulsa. I think Curly knows most of his 'friends' are really just using him to get in with Tim and his gang.

I noticed the song changed. They were now playing 'Light my Fire' By the Doors.

I smiled.

I was worrying about nothing, I realized. I had rationalized myself out of any feelings of guilt.

I loved being smart.

I glanced over at Curly, who was quietly singing the words to the songs. I started singing along, too.

That was pretty much the rest of the night…eh…early morning. Except for that one brief moment when the song Sherry by Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons came on. I had gotten embarrassed and changed the station, while Curly laughed at me.

We pulled over briefly in Arkansas for a pit stop. We switched seats and Curly started to drive the rest of the way.

We were in Oklahoma at six in the morning. I had fallen asleep at some point before that, but was woken up by Curly. He had stopped the car, and was shaking my shoulder, and kept repeating, in a worried type of voice. 'Ponyboy…wake up Ponyboy…come on, Pone..."

"What the…" I jumped slightly, looking out the windshield.

"Buffalo." Was all Curly said, leaning forward on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead.

"Bison." I corrected. There were at least twenty of them, most of which were blocking the road. Several were surrounding the car.

"Huh?"

"American Bison. Bison bison. It's not a buffalo."

"What the fuck are ya talkin' about, Pone? It's called an American Buffalo, ain't it?"

"Yes…but it's not a buffalo. There are only two true types of buffalo, but those," I motioned to the large beasts outside of the car, "are not buffalos. They're bison's. Specifically, Bison Bison Bison. . There aren't any buffalos in North America."

"Then what are those huge fuckin' beasts I seen in Alaska?"

"When the fuck were you in Alaska?"

"Two years ago."

"Why?"

"We got some family up there."

"Oh…"

We watched the bison in silence, when I said, "Muskox."

"What?"

"In Alaska. What you saw were Muskoxen…or moose."

"I know what a moose looks like, Pony." He growled, " But I coulda sworn these fuckers were called Buffalo."

"They are."

"But you said…"

"That they are not Buffalos. And they're not. But people call them buffalos. See, Bison is really a Greek word. It means Ox-like animal, or something like that. And Buffalo comes from French fur trappers. They called them, "I pointed the herd in front of us, "'boeufs'. If I remember correctly, it means something like ox, or…bullock? Anyway, the words Bison and Buffalo mean practically the same thing."

There was another silence, and then Curly decided to point out, "You know a lot of useless shit, Ponyboy."

I didn't say anything. I just reached into the back seat and grabbed the sketch book and pencil crayons I had bought last night. I flipped to the first blank page and began to sketch the sight before me.

"How do you know all this shit, anyway?"

"Books…and a TV documentary."

Curly seemed satisfied with that answer. It was quiet in the car, now. Except for the scratching of the pencils on paper…and Curly rummaging through the glove compartment and our bags in the back seat. He took 'Confessions of an Opium Eater' out of my bag and started to read it. He only read about fifteen pages before closing the book and sighing.

"You know who's a good author?"

I inclined my head slightly, to show I was listening. It was an odd conversation starter for Curly.

"Fitzgerald."

I nodded, "I love Fitzgerald."

"Tim got all his books. I read most of 'em…ya know…when there ain't nothin' else to do…"

That was the extent of our conversation. It was another hour before the Bison moved out of the way.

We didn't get into Tulsa until seven that evening. We dropped the car off at Buck's. We stood outside on the sidewalk in silence for several minutes, until Curly asked, " What now?"

"What the hell do you mean, What now?"

"I dunno. It feels like we should be doing somethin…or…somethin'…ya know?"

"Sleep sound good." Aside from short naps in the car, neither of us has had any sleep in over 24 hours. "Possibly a shower."

"Oh…a shower would be nice…"

We walked home. We passed Curly's house first. We said goodbye and made some plans for tomorrow night.

I continued home, humming Paint it Black not so quietly, with my hands in my pockets.

So there I was, minding my own business, when, lo and behold, some dick-wad shoves me from be behind. I stumble forward, and turn around, facing a disgruntled looking hood.

"You part of the Shepard gang, aintcha?" He asked.

"What makes you think that?" I asked, tilting my head slightly. I just burned a dead body and helped someone get away with murder. I wasn't going to be scared off so easily by .

"That was the Leaders lil' brother, Wasn't it?"

"Yes…but I'd say that's a bit of a leap, isn't it? Walking with someone, and assuming they're both affiliated with the same gang?"

He didn't say anything at first, so I rolled my eyes and started to turn away, "I'm not part of the gang."

Apparently, he did have more to say. He grabbed my shoulder and pulled me back. Once again, I stumbled and then took a few steps back.

"The others told me about you."

" 'The others'? Oh, boy. That sounds ominous."

He ignored my gibe and kept going, "Yeah. They says you interrupted their work, a few nights back."

"Oh, they says that does they?" My eyes narrowed. I assumed it looked threatening. "How are you so sure it was me, Huh? And where are 'the others', anyway? Don't you people usually travel in herds?"

"They says-" I swear, this guys grammar was bothering me, I'm guessing this guy wasn't the gang leader – " they was interrupted by some red-headed, smart ass little punk who talked to much."

There was a moment of silence, very deliberate on my part, then," My hair isn't red."

It took him less than a second to pull out a blade. I reached for my razor, when I noticed another bulge at the back on my waist band. The gun I put there last night.

I pulled it out and aimed right between the eyes.

"I'll give you to the count of ten to get the hell out of here." The big bad hood paled when I cocked the gun. "One…two…"

He turned and ran.

"And I better not see you around here no more!" I shouted after him, "Bitch!" I added. I thought it would sound more intimidating. " Yeah. That's right. You better run!"

"Yeah…alright. Cool." I said, tucking the gun back in my waist band. I covered it with my shirt and continued home.

No one was home when I got there. So I hid the gun in my night side table, then went and got a shower. A few minutes later I heard the door slam close.

"Anybody home?"

It was Darry.

"Yeah."

I finished my shower and got dried off. After putting on a pair of pants, I stepped out of the bathroom.

"How was camping?" He asked.

"Fine. Didn't get much sleep thought."

"Yeah? Why not?"

I shrugged. " Stayed up talking."

"About what?"

"Things."

"What kind of things?"

"Anything. Fitzgerald."

"You and your friends talked about Fitzgerald on a camping trip."

"…yeah."

"What else?"

"Macbeth."

"Macbeth?"

"I was just as surprised as you are."

His eyes narrowed, ever so slightly. Was he buying any of this?

"What else?"

"Well…we talked about the American Buffalo…music…uh…girls…Uh…Curt talked a lot about cars. A lot a lot. I couldn't really follow all of it."

He seemed satisfied with that. He nodded, and I went to bed. It took only a few moments to fall sound asleep.

The American Bison's Binomial name is Bison Bison. The plains bison , Bison bison bison is one of two subspecies of the American bison

Paint it Black the Rolling Stones - 1966

Light my Fire- The Doors –1967

Sherry – Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons – 1962

I thoughts those songs would be on the radio in '68.

Fitzgerald, as in F. Scott. I wanted to slip him in somewhere, since The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is coming out in a couple of days.

The whole ' Hath ____ murdered sleep?' and 'A little water clears us of this deed' is from Macbeth, after Duncan's Murder. 'Macbeth hath murdered sleep, Macbeth shall sleep no more' was said by Macbeth showing the audience the guilt he felt, and the 'little water' is said by Lady Macbeth, showing her lack of guilt on the subject.

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