Winnie Like A Donkey
In this rural Maine grocery store bargain bin paperback thriller, the narrator (me? the innocent everyman?) decides to take his family on a weekend camping trip to some quasi-wilderness camping area to experience nature in its mostly unabridged beauty. They pack up two canoes and paddle out to the designated site they had reserved halfway along a 6-mile long lake, but as they approach the site they find it occupied. They start paddling ashore anyway – for chrissakes they paid for the site! – but before they can get there they are intercepted by a shirtless guy in a patched-up canoe with a shotgun across his lap. Grinning through his two or three teeth, he says, “Where you fink y’all headin’ at, wut? Now you jest turn yerseff around ‘n’ go back a-where yins come from, innit?”
The first thing the naturalist-dad thinks is, “What the heck kind of accent is that? Is this guy from the Ozarks via London and Pittsburgh?” He’s got a good mind to invoke his 31st amendment right to settle into the campsite he already paid for (this novel is set in the future, see, so there are several new amendments), while the greasy dirtbag with the shotgun keeps invoking his 2nd, 32nd, and 46th amendment rights to point guns at people, take over campsites, and go around shirtless and shoeless and yet still expect service. “I say! Y’all move along, ‘n ‘at, OK guv'nuh?”
Cue the inbred child with the banjo, Ned Beatty and Burt Reynolds.