Don't Stick Your Dick in These Holes

The Ozark hills roll out beneath a heavy moon, the kind of lonely countryside where the trees huddle close and the air smells faintly of pine and damp earth. You’ve been walking for miles along a dirt road that winds through the dark like a lazy river, no sound but the insects and the crunch of gravel under your boots.

Up ahead, a lantern sways from a porch beam, casting soft yellow light over a weather-worn farmhouse crouched low against the night sky. Its windows flicker like tired eyes, and as you draw closer, a voice carries out — warm, twangy, and just a little too cheerful.

A man steps into the light to meet you. He’s short and broad-shouldered, dressed in faded overalls, a work shirt rolled to the elbows. A short, scruffy beard shadows his jaw, and his smile is the kind that makes you unsure whether he’s being kind or just rehearsed at it. His boots thud against the porch boards as he comes down to meet you, wiping his palms on his legs.

“Well, hey there,” he says, voice carrying that sing-song Ozark drawl. “You look like you’ve been travelin’ a long time.”

He gestures back toward the yard for you to follow, the lantern swinging as he starts walking. The path between house and barn glows in the lantern’s circle — the glint of old plow blades, a milk pail turned on its side, the distant chirr of frogs in a low field. The man hums to himself as you follow, the tune somewhere between a hymn and a bar song. By the time he reaches the barn door, the hum’s become a quiet little melody.

“Step this way, right this way,” he says, slipping naturally into a rhythm that’s almost sung, his words lilting up and down like he’s keeping time with some old tune. “See my house? That’s my house, but you shall not stay in my house. You shall stay in the barn.”

He pushes the door open and leads you inside. The smell of straw and warm wood hits you; dust hangs in the lamplight like smoke. He sets the lantern on a beam and looks back at you, his eyes half lost in the glow. The friendliness doesn’t fade, but there’s something firmer under it now — a line he means to draw.

He pauses, then gestures toward the far wall. In the lantern light, you can just make out three round, dark openings drilled into the boards. His voice turns slow and deliberate, and again, a hint of melody creeps in — half warning, half refrain.

“But adhere to this simple rule,” he says, pointing at the holes. “Don’t stick your dick in these holes. Don’t stick your dick in these holes. These holes three are not for thee.”

The words hang in the dusty air, absurd and perfectly serious at once. He gives a small nod, satisfied, then picks up the lantern and heads back toward the door.

“Good night to you,” he says softly, the light spilling across the floorboards before he steps outside. The hinges creak, the door thuds shut, and his boots fade into the crickets and night breeze.

The barn settles around you — warm, quiet, and watching. On the far wall, the three holes wait.