Boner & Skinner: The Meat Mystics of Possum Snout

Posted on Sun Oct 5th, 2025 @ 9:14pm by Glitch

512 words; about a 3 minute read

Way down in the Appalachian backwoods, past the place where GPS gives up and banjos start playin’ on their own, lived two brothers who weren’t born normal. Not even close. Boner and Skinner McCoy were the kind of boys that made possums cross the road just to avoid eye contact.

They lived in a shack made of license plates, deer antlers, and one suspiciously intact vending machine. Their mama, Big Mabel McCoy, had birthed ‘em both during a thunderstorm while wrestling a bobcat off the roof. Folks say the lightning struck twice—once for each boy—and that’s why they came out “touched.”

Boner, the elder by six minutes and a yelp, had the uncanny ability to remove every bone from an animal without layin’ a finger on it. One glare from Boner and a squirrel’d collapse into a puddle of meat like a jelly donut with legs.

Skinner, the younger, could skin anything with a whistle and a wink. Didn’t matter if it was a rabbit, a raccoon, or a full-grown hog—he’d hum a tune and the hide would fly off like it owed him money.

Together, they were the pride of Possum Snout. The terror of taxidermists. The bane of barbecue competitions. And the reason Granny McCoy kept a shotgun loaded with pork chops—just in case.

One fine Tuesday, Boner and Skinner were sittin’ on their porch, sippin’ moonshine from a boot and watchin’ a chicken try to climb a tree.

“Skinner,” Boner said, squintin’ at the horizon, “I reckon we’re outta meat.”

Skinner nodded, tossin’ a skinned banana peel at a passing goat. “Ain’t had nothin’ but squirrel jerky and raccoon nuggets for three days. I’m startin’ to hallucinate gravy.”

That’s when they heard it: a low, majestic grunt echoing through the valley like a pig reciting Shakespeare.

“Wild hog,” whispered Boner.

“Big one,” confirmed Skinner, already unbuttoning his skinning shirt.

They grabbed their gear: a flashlight duct-taped to a rake, a bucket of possum grease, and Granny’s emergency moonshine flask labeled “DO NOT DRINK (unless you’re fightin’ God).”

They tracked the hog through the woods, following a trail of broken branches, hoofprints, and one very confused raccoon wearing lipstick.

Then they saw it.

The hog was massive. Bigger than a Buick. Covered in mud, rage, and what appeared to be a stolen lawn chair strapped to its back. It snorted like a freight train and glared at the brothers with the intensity of a preacher who just found out the communion wine was grape soda.

Boner squinted. Skinner whistled.

The air shimmered. The hog paused mid-charge. Its eyes crossed. Its knees buckled.

WHUMP.

It hit the ground like a sack of wet laundry. Boneless. Skinless. Just a pile of steaming, majestic pork.

Skinner poked it with a stick. “You reckon it’s mad?”

Boner shrugged. “Hard to tell without a face.”

They dragged the meat back to the shack, where Granny turned it into stew, jerky, and a surprisingly elegant meat sculpture of Elvis Presley.

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