Mer Rouge (Part 15)

Hutch and the deputy stepped across the red brick threshold and onto the well manicured terracotta floor. The interior was a Spanish design which conflicted with the eclectic modern exterior, but at least the foyer provided much needed shade from the rising temperatures outside. The butler immediately stopped them. “Please remove your shoes.” The deputy cursed under his breath while he removed his leather boots and placed them by the door. When Hutch took off his prison slippers, he revealed his patchy and rancid socks. As the butler noticed, the stench of raw asshole and landfill trash filled his nostrils. “On second thought,” the butler told him, “I’ll permit you to keep yours on.” A passing Persian cat slinked past the foyer and began to yak. Hutch shrugged and slid his feet back into his shoes. Soon after, the butler guided the men into the mansion while the deputy held on to Hutch’s elbow.

From inside the living area, they could see the inmates on the outside pointlessly toiling around while dust kicked up around them. When they approached an immaculate staircase, Hutch presumed they were about to ascend it. Instead, the butler proceeded to the right just under the staircase where an old rotted and wooden door was positioned. The butler opened it and ordered them inside. Hutch was to go in first. He stepped to the edge and looked down the passageway descending beneath the staircase. He noticed the walls were made of a combination of stucco and shit brown mud. Then he turned to the deputy. “How about you go down first?”

The deputy nudged him along. “Boy! Get yo ass down them stairs!”

Hutch slowly proceeded down the corridor with only dim candles guiding the way. The other two were close behind. Trickling water echoed down the passageway and then muffled voices were heard. At about the halfway point, the haunting blast of a church organ filled the air and Hutch jumped backwards. “Keep going you dumbfuck!” the deputy ordered. He cautiously moved forward. The muffled voices grew louder and more clear. When they reached the bottom of the steps, the corridor continued leftward. And when Hutch turned the corner, a cleared out underground den awaited him. Sheriff Dirk was there. A tall and gaunt man was reaming him out, using words that Hutch didn’t understand. Both of their eyes turned to meet the visitors. Dirk, sullen and gloomy, spoke first. “Mr. Waites, allow me to introduce you to Judge Castor.”

The sheriff stepped aside. Behind him was a fellow seated and turned away from them. His fingers placed on the unsettling organ.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Judgement Day

As the internet is well aware, after the ill advised firing of Mike Vrabel by the Tennessee Titans, I renounced my fandom for NFL franchise in Nashville and proclaimed my allegiance to new titans of mediocrity in Los Angeles, the Chargers. So far, that decision has paid off in spades. Yet Tennessee still had one ace up its sleeve – or, in football parlance – one last Hail Mary to bring me back into the fold. And that hand was played today by the unveiling of new uniforms.

So. The final verdict?

Underwhelmed.

For the record, this is not a bad uniform. But I’ve made my opinion clear to anyone who would listen. If the Titans want to be the Oilers, then they should stop with these half-assed measures. Go FULL ass. BE the Tennessee Oilers for fuck sake.

But alas, we get this halfhearted nod. Which is fine. But if they really want to send this uniform over the edge, do a light blue alternate for the helmet 👍

Mer Rouge (Part 14)

The inmates piled out of the old army truck with the urgency of a platoon going into battle. Everyone knew right where they were supposed to be. All except for Hutch. When his feet hit the ground, his instinct was to follow Moses. But a deputy lowered his shotgun to block his path. “Not so fast there bucko.” The officer’s face was as cold as granite, his eyes glaring a fiery red from underneath his leather brim. “Stand over there.”

So Hutch stood over there. 

Upon closer inspection, the sprawling ranch land did not consist of St. Augustine and Bermuda grasses but of a polyethylene blend found only on shitty ball fields. It was fake grass as far as the eye could see. All the inmates lined up along the dirt road and dragged their tools across the rocks to kick up dust. Hutch raised an eyebrow. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Hush! The judge will see you in a moment!” the deputy shouted.

Hutch stood off to the side with shovel in hand and scratched his ass. He gazed upon his fellow prisoners and pondered. They had the look of determination plastered over their faces as if they were doing actual work. It made no goddamn sense. Meanwhile, one deputy rested the butt of his shotgun on his hip. The other lazily jogged from the ominous mansion back to the truck while Hutch watched his man tits bounce to and fro. When he arrived, the deputy wheezed and leaned forward as if to puke. “The judge is ready to see you,” he managed to utter between laborious breaths. The other officer grabbed Hutch by the arm and handed off his shotgun. First, they traversed across phony grass before stepping onto brick underneath an exotic covered breezeway. This led them to right up to an ornate, if not garish, rustic double door and the deputy knocked. An English butler opened the door. “Yes suh?”

The deputy spat a wad of tobacco on the bricked porch. “We’re here for the judge.”

“Name, suh?”

“Deputy Iverson. Jesus Christ! Deputy Thumb was just in here! Did he not tell you we were comin?”

“And his name?”

The deputy nudged Hutch. “Tell him yur name.”

“Thomas Jefferson Waites. They call me Hutch.”

“One moment, gentlemen.” Then the butler shut the door.

“Jesus fuckin Christ!” the deputy cursed.

Twenty minutes and three cigarettes later, the butler opened the door and bowed. “The Honorable Judge Castor will see you now.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 13)

Midday. Outside of the tool crib under the lingering sun, Fornier shoved a shovel into Hutch’s chest. Hutch gripped the handle and raised an eyebrow and voiced his concern. “The fuck is this?” he asked. The sheriff chewed his loose leaf tobacco and spat. “You ain’t never seen a shovel before?”

“I mean, I have. But I don’t know what I need it for.”

The inmates behind Hutch grew pissy as sweat poured down their brows. Before agitation could reach a boiling point, Moses spoke up. “It’s for yardwork you dolt!”

“Yardwork?” said Hutch. “I’m a prisoner. I don’t know anything about yardwork!”

Fornier shook his head. “Boy, you are a special kind of dumbass.”

“Just take the goddamn shovel and get in the truck!” Moses shouted.

Hutch did as he said and took his seat in the open air convoy truck. Other inmates poured in behind him. When the bed was filled, two deputies donning their pump action shotguns climbed in and took their seats. No words were spoken and the truck roared southward into the green lush bayou. The skies were clear. For the moment, the midday breeze provided a reprieve from the scorched sun. Hutch’s mind began to wander. He knew not if Oren was dead or alive. Then remorse sank in. If only he had ate more fiber, then that toilet in Arkansas would have never been clogged and they’d probably be in Florida by now. But the wheels underneath him kept spinning. It took him further and further away. Then the truck turned down yet another dirt road. Dry dust kicked up and the inmates covered their faces. The deputies lifted rags over their noses. When they arrived, it was a sprawling plantation stretching out onto the flat horizon. The only elevation in sight was a gentle sloping hill on which a colonial, almost gaudy, mansion sat. The deputies climbed out and opened the bed.

“Everyone out!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Tf is this shjt?

So I walk into Waffle House. I sit at the bar. The server asks what I want. I say coffee. He brings me a coffee. Then he asks what I want to eat. I said I hadn’t decided. He says take your time. So I take my time. Then he comes back. I tell him I want an All-Star breakfast for $12.99. Eggs runny. Bacon burnt. He says yessir. So I drink my coffee. It’s black. Tastes good. I watch the staff. They’re happy. They’re friendly. 4 minutes and 28 seconds later. Food is in front of me. Bacon. Crispy as fuck. Eggs. Runny as snot. Waffle. Cooked to perfection.

I look upon the spread in front of me. It was everything that I had hoped for. The server stood over with a smile as wide as Kansas. So I look him in the eye and hold my fork in an almost threatening way. “What the fuck is this shit?” I ask him.

“Sir?”

“I said ‘what, the fuck, is, this shit?’”

“It’s what you ordered.”

I looked at his name tag. I turned around to glance at the sign outside. Then my eyes flow from one end of the diner to the other. “Forgive me, I thought this was a Waffle House,” I said.

“But it is,” the server pleaded.

I furiously shook my head. “No,” I told him. “At Waffle House, I come here for half assed and unsatisfactory service and food that’s greasy enough to cure next week’s hangover. That’s REAL America. If I wanted to be respected as a human being, I’d have gone to Denny’s.”

THE END

What a great day

The weather’s warmer. Just got out of jail. Have $27 in my pocket. And my stool sample came back negative for dysentery.

But the best part?

No new war has been instigated by the United States that bears an alarming similarity with another disastrous war instigated 20 years prior. It’s like after 300,000 years of humanity’s existence, we’re finally starting to learn from history.

So I think we’re gonna make it as a species, folks! We’re turning over a new leaf 🥰

Mer Rouge (part 12)

Deputy Fornier strolled out of the holding cell twirling the baton. He marched right into the precinct break room, poured a coffee into a white styrofoam cup and took it into the bathroom. After dropping a massive shit, he flushed the toilet and reentered the break area where fellow Deputy Simpson glared at him. “Droppin some of that Mississippi mud are ya?”

“Just takin my morning glory.”

“Well goddamn boy, maybe you should lay off the jambalaya.”

“Kiss my ass.”

Simpson shoved a donut in his mouth and sipped some black sludge. “Dirk wants to see ya. He’s on the porch.”

Fornier glanced out the window to see Dirk sitting cross legged in the rocking chair. He gulped his coffee and poured another. “Hell, probably has something to do with that goober he booked last night.”

“He killed a guy.”

“That dumbass back there?!”

“Yessir. Him and some black son of a bitch. I just finished scooping his brains off the asphalt. They also had a priest with them.”

“No shit? Castor’s gonna have a shit fit.”

“Welp, I reckon you outta go talk to him.”

Fornier tightened his pants and buttoned his shirt midway. With his bare and flabby chest swaying, he marched onto the porch with coffee in hand. Dirk didn’t look at him as the front door swung open. The deputy closed the door behind him and stood over the sheriff’s shoulder. “Yessir?”

Dirk spat a wad of tobacco juice into the freshly cut grass and leaned forward. “Has he told you anything?”

“The new boy?”

“Yup.”

“No sir. I didn’t know he killed somebody.”

“He did. Wentworth.”

“Ah hell, sheriff. Had I of known—“

“Nevermind that. I want him a part of the Castor detail this afternoon. Understood?”

“Of course!”

As he barked out instructions, the sheriff of West Carroll Parish rolled up the gravel way. The rival lawman stepped out of his squad car in khakis and gator skinned boots and meandered up to Dirk and his deputy. Dirk spat into the grass again and welcomed the visitor. “Well as I live and breathe, Sheriff DuPont. What can I do for you?”

DuPont approached the porch and removed his Stetson while his eyes remained concealed behind reflective aviators. He lifted one boot onto the porch with the other firmly planted in the grass. “I don’t know if you heard the reports this morning. But we found a burnt up truck at the county line off Kurtzy Road. As you are well aware, our side of the road is fully paved. But lookin at the dirt tracks on your side, it appears that the truck was chased off Morehouse Parish onto ours. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that?”

“No sir.”

“It’s the most goddamnedest thing. Apparently, the truck flipped on its head, blew up, then landed right side up. I did fetch for a tow truck, but one of my deputies patched up the gas tank, and the engine started right up. Can you believe that? Sure the windows are busted up, but we drove it straight to impound.”

“What can I say? Jeeps are indestructible.”

DuPont tilted his head back and looked the sheriff up and down. “I didn’t say anything about it being a jeep.”

Dirk calmly retorted. “Sheriff, only a jeep could have survived that level of damage.”

“I see.” Feigning satisfaction, DuPont lowered his boot from the porch and headed back towards the squad car. At the halfway point, he turned around. “Oh, and one other thing, sheriff. Although the vehicle was heavily burned, I managed to make out the plates. The Honcho is registered to an Oren Waits of Provo, Utah. Apparently he’s a black man. Now I know you tend to keep outsiders away from your Parrish, but if you see Mr. Waits, let him know I have his truck.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 11)

Hutch’s dream was interrupted by a warm and repugnant stream trickling down his face. His eyes opened to see a penis shoved between two bars and dangling over him. It was releasing a heavy torrent of piss. Instinctively, Hutch reached up to grab the drooping pecker. But the pecker’s keeper, a lowly sheriff’s deputy, jumped backwards and left a trail of urine in front of him. Cackling, the backwater lawman placed his member back into his pants and waved his finger. “Goddamn. Almost got it buddy!”

From across the jail cell, Moses climbed out of his bunk to admonish the odious turnkey. “Why you always floodin us with your piss, man!?”

The deputy reached for his baton and banged it against the metal bars. “Cuz yous nuthin but a toilet!,” he cried. Then he reholstered the baton and screeched a number of slurs at the inmate. Moses returned the shouting with equal fervor. “Man, you disgusting! Get the fuck outta here!”. The deputy spat a tobacco stained loogie onto the grimy jail floor and then flashed his yellowed smile. “Yard duty at noon” he beamed. “Right in the thick of day.”

“Shit, man.”

The deputy chuckled and made an about face. His laughter intensified as his footsteps echoed down the corridor. Once out of earshot, Moses tossed Hutch a towel. “Man, don’t be grabbin no peckers around here! Folks might be gettin the wrong idea. And another thing. Don’t be sleepin with your head against the bars!”

Hutch took the towel and dried his face. Then he looked at the cloth and sat it beside him. “How long have I been here?”

“They threw you in here round midnight. And you was stinkin of some nasty ass shit. Luckily they hosed you down and put you in a jumpsuit.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Shit. At least a year.”

“For what?”

“Stealin some cigarettes.”

“They locked you up for a year for stealing cigarettes?”

Moses cocked his head. “Do you know where you at?”

“Louisiana.”

“That’s correct. I’m a black man in Louisiana.”

“But don’t  we have to go in front of a judge at some point?”

“You ain’t seeing this judge.”

“Why not?”

“You must not be from around here.”

“I’m from Utah.”

“Well that explains why you don’t know shit. The judge of this county is Judge Castor. He’ll see you when he’s damn well ready.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Evolution

I used to think that Substack was for pretentious assholes—an asylum for failed journos and pissy contrarians. But then it occurred to me; maybe I’m a pretentious asshole. Quite honestly I feel the weight of stagnation flowing through me. Like I’ve taken this webpage as far as it can go. Perhaps it’s time to make a leap forward and do something to challenge myself out of this mediocre pit I find myself in. Maybe it’s time to do the unthinkable—I should burden the internet with yet another Substack.

I entertained that thought for maybe four seconds before I remembered Blogger, Medium, Tumblr, Wix, and Squarepspace and thought “who gives a shit?”

So I’m staying right here

Have a good weekend folks 👋