Who Is Joe?

Joe Slocum lives where the road ends and the rules stop applying. Born two years after his brother Bobby Ray, Joe got the fists, the fire, and the complete disregard for anything resembling a life plan. He doesn’t own a clock, a calendar, or a pair of clean socks – and he wouldn’t want ‘em if he did.

They call him “Cousin Joe,” but ain’t nobody sure who he’s really kin to. He hosts bar fights on Tuesdays, burns tires on Wednesdays, and plays washboard with animal bones by Thursday. His yard is a graveyard of dead appliances, gutted pickups, and one goat named Randy that drinks beer and screams at clouds.

Joe’s porch has no steps. You either jump or you don’t come in. He brews his own shine in a toilet tank (don’t ask which one), and swears every batch “kicks like a pissed-off pug.” He believes in freedom, fists, fried squirrel, and that the government watches through ceiling fans.

And yet… he’s oddly loyal. If you bleed in his yard, he’ll stitch you up with fishing line. If you cry, he’ll hand you moonshine. If you complain, he’ll shoot the air and yell “FIXED IT!”

Legacy

Joe’s house is half myth, half disaster zone. Folks say you leave dumber but freer. No phones, no rules, no apologies. He’s the last checkpoint before total anarchy – and damn proud of it.

His brother Bobby Ray says Joe’s got more chaos than common sense  – and Joe says Bobby’s just mad he never got invited back. Family reunions are more like recon missions now.

And even though Joe don’t believe in much, he still tunes into Rev Diesel’s Saturday sermons – broadcast illegally over a busted CB radio tower he rigged with a car battery and a skillet.
“Ain’t no better gospel than one that crackles through static,” Joe says, sittin’ on a busted lawn chair, drinkin’ shine and shoutin’ “AMEN!” at passing raccoons.

Sheriff Bo once said, “I don’t go up there unless the forest’s on fire. That ain’t law territory – that’s folklore with a zip code.”

If there’s a redneck Valhalla, Joe’s grillin’ roadkill at the gates.