Mer Rouge (Part 46)

Hutch found an old faded porno laying in the grass on the south facing side of the church. He picked it up and knocked off the spiders, grass, and other critters that burrowed its way into the pages and thumbed through it. A few feet away, Oren had the windows rolled down and the driver’s seat eased back in the Toyota. He heard Hutch strolling his way towards his corner of the yard and he lifted his head. He saw that his brother was all smiles as he glared at the full bushed woman from the December 1981 issue of Penthouse. Oren knew that issue well. He called out to Hutch. “Get in the car man!”

Hutch was slightly startled and promptly dropped the magazine. “Shit! I didn’t see you there bro!”

“Just get in!”

Hutch shrugged and strolled to the passengers side. He opened the door, sat his rotund ass down and took out a cigarette. “Whatchu thinking man?” he asked his brother. But Oren inserted the keys into the ignition and started the car. “I’m thinkin we’re gettin the hell outta here!”

Oren laid on the gas, kicking up a cloud of rock and dirt. But just a few meters down the dirt road, Sheriff DuPont stumbled into their path. Oren slammed on the brakes. The Sheriff didn’t budge an inch as he glared at the brothers through the windshield. He slowly approached the driver’s side and he ordered Oren to roll down the window. He complied and the officer leaned forward and rested his forearms on the sill. “So uh, you boys just goin for a Sunday drive?” DuPont asked.

“Yessir,” said Oren.

“Nosir,” said Hutch.

“Well I reckon that would be alright as long as yur back n about thirty minutes,” the sheriff explained. “The problem is that this is an illegally obtained vehicle. Now don’t worry. I get it. This is unusual circumstances. But after we’re done with this little operation here, we’ll need to get the car back to it’s rightful owner, see. I hope you understand.”

“Yessir.”

“Now I’m supposin that yur Oren Waites of Utah, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then I got some excellent news for ya. I got that Honco of yours in impound.”

“You do?”

“Oh yes. Still runs like a charm too, I’ll tell ya. Sure the cab and windshield are busted up, but I got the gas tank patched up. Now mind you, you’re gonna have to pick it up come tonight. Else I’m gonna have to charge you impound and towing fees, ya see.”

Oren swallowed hard. “Okay, I understand,” he said.

“Good,” said the sheriff. “Now why don’t you turn this piece of shit around and pull up to the shack down yonder. We’re fixin to head out soon.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 45)

The priest gave everyone a cup of boiled peanuts and a shot of bourbon. Hutch took one look at it and passed. “I ain’t touching this crap,” he said. Moses dug his fork around in the cup and shrugged. “Better than the shit we ate on the inside.”

Sheriff DuPont raised an eyebrow and glanced at the priest. “You know that no one likes this shit down here, right?”

“More for me then,” the priest said.

Oren sloshed his fork around in the cup and gave up. “I’m gonna go take a nap guys,” he announced. He excused himself from the table and found a shaded corner of the yard. DuPont lifted his bourbon glass and sipped. “So uh, where do you come from priest?”

Peanut juice dripped down his beard and he wiped it away with a cheap napkin. “I’m not sure you’re ready to have that conversation yet, Sheriff.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means he doesn’t remember where he comes from,” Moses spoke up.

The priest looked up and glared at Moses. The sheriff’s eyes shifted back and forth between the two men. “You don’t remember?” he asked.

The priest sat down his cup and picked up the bourbon. “What do you know about Judge Castor, Sheriff?”

“Almost nuthin. Except he’s been around forever and he’s always trouble.”

The priest nodded. “That sounds about right. What say you, Mo?”

“How the hell would I know?” Moses spat.

“You seem to be a man that’s been around a while,” the priest said. He casually sipped on his drink. “You never crossed paths with this devil?”

“I only know what the sheriff knows.”

“Uh huh,” the priest shrugged. He downed the bourbon and slapped the glass on the table. “Well Sheriff, to answer your question, the judge and I go way back,” he continued. “At times we was allies. But not no more. And that’s all I can say about that.”

The sheriff drowned his shot of bourbon and then smirked. “Gimme another shot of that, will ya?” he said. He stood up and straightened himself out. “I gotta piss,” he announced. And he excused himself from the room.

Out of earshot, the priest began replenishing everyone’s drinks. Then he looked at Moses. “So I guess Mount Hebron wasn’t the end of your story, huh?”

“The hell you talkin about old fool?”

“C’mon. You’re amongst your own here. How old are you? Two thousand? Three thousand years old?”

Moses guffawed. “Well first off father. You should know the good book better than that. It wasn’t Hebron. It was Mount Nebo.”

“I don’t give a goddamn what it was. Just who the hell are you and why was ya in Mer Rouge?”

“I ain’t nobody, preacher man. A better question is just who the hell are you?”

The priest drowned another shot and then he poured another. “Drink up,” he ordered Moses. “We’re fixin to find some truths this mornin’.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 44)

He dragged his dangling foot through brush and shallow swamps before resting on a downed southern pine. Ahead of him, he could hear the soft humming of passing vehicles. He took his canteen and poured the remaining few drops down his throat and then threw it on the ground. Then, after hearing some shimmering beneath the needles, a squirrel popped up beneath the deadened brush and he shot it. He skinned and roasted it over a piddly fire while the black night above morphed into a faint blue. The meat made him sick. He vomited and passed out and the rising dew put the fire out. He awoke thirty minutes later and found his foot semi reattached. Some of the gunshot blasts to the neck and chest partially healed. The recovery process was working faster than expected but not fast enough. After spewing the remaining bits of rat meat from his throat, he reached for a tree branch from the downed pine and used it to lift himself. He marched in the direction of the street hum.

It was a couple in a burnt orange Volkswagen van that saw him first. He was limping southbound in the direction of Monroe when the tires squealed. The man hopped out of the vehicle and approached the broken figure in a stricken panic. The man nearly heaved. The figure’s eyes were swollen shut and his scalp half burned and his clothes charred and bloodied. “Oh my god sir! Are you okay?!!” the man yelled.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Get the fuck out of my way,” the brother told him.

“Darlene! This man is in shock! Help me carry him to the van!”

“No goddamnit! I said I’m fine!”

The woman sprinted in their direction and grabbed the brother by the legs. The man slid his hands under his armpits and despite his protest, they carried him to the back of the van. “Don’t worry sir! We’re gonna get you to a hospital!” the man said as he jumped into the driver’s seat.

“Fuck you! Just let me out!”

“Darlene! Give him some water!”

Darlene opened a canteen of water and the brother kept pushing it away and it spilled all over the floorboards. “Just stop the fucking car!” the brother demanded.

The driver turned around momentarily to assure the injured man that he was in good hands. But the van drifted into the northbound lane and smacked a large Peterbilt head on. Hours later, the brother woke up in a hospital in Monroe. He looked under the covers and realized the gunshot wounds and numerous broken bones were fully healed. Even his burnt scalp returned to normal. He would have got up and left if it weren’t for two large Monroe PD officers flanking him on both sides. Then the doctor came in.

“Glad to see that you’re awake,” the doc said. “You were the sole survivor of a horrific car accident and we have a lot of questions for you.”

“Is it still Sunday?” the brother asked.

“Yes it is.”

“Thank Christ,” he said and began pulling out IVs.

“Lay back down sir.”

“Why?”

The large burly officer to the right laid his hand on the brother’s chest and pushed him back on the bed. “First off,” the doctor said, “who are you? We found no identification on your person.”

“What difference does it make?”

“Because you came in here with multiple gunshot blasts to the chest and neck. Your lungs were punctured and filled with blood. You had multiple fractured and broken bones consistent with a car accident. And your brain was swelling to the point where it was oozing from your ear holes. And now look at you. It’s just hours later and you’re good enough to walk out. That doesn’t seem unusual to you?”

“Good genes I guess, doc. What can I say?”

“You were also carrying a .380 ACP, a few shotgun shells, and we’re burned all to hell,” a Monroe officer spoke up.

“It’s Louisiana, sir. Is that a crime down here?”

“We’re gonna be keeping you overnight,” the other officer said. “Until we get to the bottom of this.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

A movie about space zombies

I’m not here to judge the quality of Star Trek: First Contact as a Star Trek movie. Trekkies like Angela Collier and Mike Stoklasa have informed me that Star Trek has to be super serious, boring, and never fun. So on that note, First Contact is a terrible Star Trek movie. But as a movie movie, I say that 1996 was my year of awakening. Twister. Independence Day. Star Trek: First Contact. Or, “the triple headed dragon” as I like to say in film history. They changed everything. It was during this era that SFX/CGI was it it’s peak. Special effects were still special and First Contact still holds up remarkably well.

But I’m not here to talk about that shit. Instead I’m gonna talk about the first five minutes or so. It might be hard for kids to remember, but it used to be that plots kicked off starting at the first frame. They were very economical in how they established characters and backgrounds and typically stuck with the “show don’t tell” rule. In First Contact, post credits, the first frame was Picard being assimilated by the Borg. Seconds later, it’s revealed to be a dream. Then BAM. The plot kicks off. No time wasted. Even as a kid, I thought damn, wanna take me out to dinner first? But there was no need. I knew exactly what was going on and what the motivations were.

Mind you, I was a TNG fan so I knew what the history was. But watching this opening now, I can’t help but think how the runtime would be wasted nowadays on thirty minutes of Picard whining to Deanna Troi about his emotional scars and blah blah blah. But this was the 1990s. This was the era of confined space action films like Die Hard, Under Siege, Air Force One, etc. So we all had one question on our minds: what if the USS Enterprise was hijacked by space zombies? And it wasted almost no time in getting us answers.

Mer Rouge (Part 43)

DuPont let Hutch finish pissing and then he made the escapee hug the tree. The sheriff handcuffed both of his wrists and ordered the prisoner to not make a sound. A few feet away, three bundled cylinders just barely a foot in length were laid in the grass. DuPont reholstered his revolver and strapped the cylinders to his back. Hutch grew concerned. “Uhh, watchu got there officer?” he asked. But the sheriff twisted a few valves along the hose connected to a firing mechanism held in his right hand and a small flame popped up at the end of the hose. “Don’t go nowheres,” DuPont told Hutch. Then he marched toward the shack.

Inside, the Priest was relentlessly cackling over Moses’ comments. All seemed to be at ease until the sheriff gently pushed open the door. Every eyeball turned to that small flame at the end of the hose. After a few moments, the priest looked into the eyes of the man holding the hose. “Sheriff DuPont,” he said. “Glad you could join us for Sunday service.”

“Do you usually invite escape convicts to your services?”

“We’re all children of God ain’t we?”

The sheriff twisted the valve further and the flame grew larger. “I know what you are,” DuPont said.

“I don’t know what this is about but I’m sure there’s a more civilized way to handle it.”

“Old folks used to talk about you,” DuPont continued. “They said that Methuselahs still walked among us. That some kind of holy water meant for consumption from the gods can turn men immortal. They said they can only be stopped by the power of the flame. I used to say bullshit. And that whatever happens in that godforsaken Morehouse Parish was none of my business until it spills over into my parish. And now it has. I know you was behind that motel fire. And you was most certainly behind that explosion off Kurtzy Road. And it was you at the Morehouse Jail fire this mornin’.

The priest nodded. “Yes, Sheriff. You are correct. You are correct in more ways than one.”

“I know I am.”

“Good. Then you should know that there’s something in Mer Rouge that needs to be stopped. You can arrest all of us and handle the matter yourself. Or we can all take care of this problem right now. Of course, your third option is you can light us all on fire.”

“I think I’d rather be arrested,” Moses interrupted.

“I just gotta know one thing,” DuPont said. “Are you one of them?”

“I am.”

“Then we all head out to Judge Castor’s this morning.”

“Even me?” asked Moses.

“Do I have to go too?” chimed Oren.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 42)

At dawn’s twilight, the four men were laying low at the shack behind St. John Chyrsostom Church. The priest was doing his damndest to boil coffee by the fire out back. Moses retreated out of his prison uniform, now sporting a plain white t-shirt and a wrinkled pair of khakis. Hutch meanwhile still donned his black and white striped uniform, with the top pulled down and the arms twisted around his waste. The priest came in delighted with himself over the coffee and gave each man a tin mug. He happily splashed the brown sludge into each of their cups. “Gentlemen,” he said, “we should rest up for a few hours. But we gotta move fast. The Morehouse sheriff’s department is probably already pissing themselves.”

Moses protested. “I don’t know what y’all have planned but leave me out of it.”

“How long were you locked up in there for?” Hutch asked. “I was only there for two nights and I wanna kill every sonava bitch there!”

“Fuck that!” Moses barked.

Oren took his brother aside. They stepped out to the front. Out of earshot from the priest. Oren put his hand on Hutch’s shoulder. “Maybe he’s right,” he said. “Look, I have a car. We can just hop in it and get the hell outta here. There’s shit going on here that has nothing to do with us!”

“And go where?!” retorted Hutch. “Hell, I’m probably already a fugitive! I gotta clear my name!”

“But you’re gonna die! You’re going up against an entire police department! They have guns! We ain’t got shit!”

Hutch nodded. “Maybe you’re right. But what the hell happened in there? How did you get us out?”

“There is shit here that goes against god, Hutch. I’m tellin ya. We didn’t set the fire. A couple of really bad dudes did. They just blew the whole place right to shit. I think one was killed.”

“Did you guys kill him?”

“No. But the priest did shoot one of the deputies.”

“The fat one?”

“No. The other one.”

“Damn,” Hutch mourned. “That was a good dude.”

“I’m sorry but we got lucky this time. I doubt we will again.”

Hutch looked back into the shack and saw the Priest and Moses chatting over their shitty coffee. He reached back to scratch his head. “Alright,” he said. “Lemme think through this. I gotta go piss first.”

Hutch marched off out of view while Oren returned to the shack. When he arrived at a lone tree facing the road, he dropped his prison outfit lower and took out his member. He took a deep breath mid piss. Then a clicking sound was heard. He turned to his right to see Sheriff DuPont aiming his service pistol at him. “Pull up your trousers, son,” the lawman ordered.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Your hometown

I think you’re wrong if you believe that a “nice place to live” is place that has a prolific “nightlife”, a unique “culture”, and a well-funded “education system”. That’s the wrong attitude to have. A nice place to live is a place where everyone steps outside of their home and feels a small shred of solidarity with their neighbors in knowing that they live in a goddamn madhouse.

Take my neighborhood for example. Now I would hardly describe it as a “shithole”, but it certainly has its “eccentricities” to say the least. One of our elected officials got caught exposing his penis at a gas station and then, weeks later — just a quarter mile down the road — a road rage incident went viral. I love living here.

It’s never the good things that create the strongest bonds. It’s the shit things; things like the godawful sports team, the rampant corruption, the crippling depression you feel because there’s no future. One of the joys in going to the gas station is seeing the guy behind the counter curse god because he sat down on a piss-soaked toilet. It’s the small, relatable incidents like that which brings us closer.

So in an era where we’re all lonely, I say we should forget about finding “our people”. You are an island unto yourself. No one will ever understand you and there’s no sense in trying. Instead, I say you should wonder down that dark alleyway. Maybe try some “stealth camping” by that graffiti-ridden dumpster behind Kroger. Perhaps that knife-wielding hobo has something interesting to say. You never know. You might make a friend or two.

Mer Rouge (Part 41)

It was nearly 4am when the call came. Half asleep, DuPont reached for the phone on the nightstand. He pulled it under the covers and struggled to speak. “Uh huh,” he said.

“Sorry to wake you this early,” the deputy said. “But we got a call from Mrs. Ames. Apparently she woke up in the middle of the night to find her son Humphrey asleep on the couch. Now normally, this wouldn’t be much of a problem except that Humphrey got busted a few months back for cruisin up and down Interstate 20 and takin advantage of numerous hitchhikers of the female type, if you know what I mean. Fortunately, the boys in Bastrup caught up with him first. Of course, everything went to trial and Humphrey was found guilty and while he was awaiting a spot in Angola, they were holding him in Morehouse Parish. Evidently, he got out.”

“Well I’m sure you upheld your sworn duties and apprehended the man.”

“Yessir. He’s being booked as we speak.”

“So what’s the point of this story, Pete?”

“Well, after we apprehended him, Humphrey swore up and down that he didn’t escape from Morehouse. He’s tellin us that there was a fire and that a man of the cloth came through and opened the jail cell for him. He made all the way to his momma’s house in West Carroll before she called him in.”

DuPont immediately cut on the lamp and sat up in bed. “A man of the cloth?” he asked.

“Yessir. I tried calling Dirk but I can’t reach anyone over there. Do you want me to head out that way?”

The Sheriff threw off the covers. “No!” he said. “Don’t no one head out that way. I’m heading out there myself.”

“But sheriff, if there was a fire, it might be pretty dangerous. At least let me alert Chaz and the fire department.”

DuPont already had his khakis and button up on. He shook his head a moment and thought. “Yeah. Yeah Pete. Call up the fire department. Before I head out to Morehouse, I want to check on something first.”

“Do you want someone to come with you?”

“No. There will be no paperwork on this if you catch my drift. It’s Morehouse Parish’s problem technically. I’m just headed that way out of curiosity.”

“I catch your drift sheriff but should I be concerned?”

DuPont reached for his Stetson off the dresser and placed it on his head. “Well, I’ll tell you what,” he said, “if you don’t hear from me by nine A.M., you’ll have your answer.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 40)

Through strained breath, Fornier shouted to the old man. “Yur that priest they lookin for ain’t ye?”

“There’s no time to talk,” the priest told the deputies. “Now’s the time to do what’s right!”

Simpson froze and the fire raged on. It spread to the porch and was threatening to overtake the whole precinct along with the adjoining cellblock. The priest cocked the pistol. “What’s it gonna be?” he said.

The two deputies were juxtaposed against an endless black void with their faces illuminated by a burgeoning orange glow. Simpson, transfixed and petrified by the hellish priest before him, slowly reached for the keys. “By god, if you toss em them keys, we might as well both be dead!” Fornier warned his partner.

“Make your choice,” the priest advised.

Simpson reached for his belt with the keys dangling next to his holstered service pistol. The priest watched closely. As the deputy rested his hand above the key set, the priest nodded. Then came the critical error. Simpson reached for his pistol and drew it. The priest fired a single round into his skull and both him and Fornier fell into the grass. In a last ditch effort, Fornier attempted to draw his pistol. “It won’t do ya no good,” the priest told him.

The deputy knew that. He laid there pathetically with his hands in the air.

The priest approached Simpson’s body and ripped the keys from his belt. Then he turned his gun towards Fornier. “Did he drink of the water?” the priest asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll kill you later.”

Him and Oren retreated back into the precinct. The fire had already overwhelmed the entry way and kitchen and was swiftly working its way back. The priest fumbled with the set of a dozen keys before reaching the correct one. With the jailhouse unlocked, inmates were frantically shouting as the smoke billowed in.

“Are you in here Hutch?!” Oren cried out.

“Down here!” a voice called.

Oren sprinted to the end of the cellblock where he found his brother and Moses clinging to the bars. The priest stopped at the first cell and opened it and the freed men rushed for the back exit. “Down here!” Oren shouted.

“For fuck’s sake! We have to free everyone here!”

Four cells were opened before the fire roared into the jailhouse. On the fifth and final one, the priest unlocked it and Hutch jumped out and embraced his brother. “Not now!” the priest interrupted and the remaining four men ran at the rear. Outside, they found the back gate trampled down by the escaped prisoners and they crossed over it. After running several hundred yards, they turned around to watch the precinct collapse underneath the flames.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 39)

The force of the explosion rattled the ground and the brother disappeared into the fire. After getting knocked to their asses, the two deputies stood up in the doorway and gawked at the raging inferno. When the debris settled, Simpson stepped forward to survey the damage. “Goddamn! I think we got em!” he beamed.

“Don’t be so sure!” Fornier yelled. “Keep your eyes peeled!”

Before Fornier could move through the entryway, the surviving brother hurled a switchblade into his calf. The deputy screamed out and collapsed to the ground. As he reached for the blade, he saw the brother crawling on the floor with a trail of blood following him. Machete still plowed through his chest. Scrambling through the pain, Fornier unleashed the shotgun into the brother’s face, blowing off bits of hair and flesh and leaving the wall behind him awash with blood. Hearing the gun blasts, Simpson rushed back through the entrance and pumped his shotgun into the brother until he was seemingly nothing but a pile of gore. He helped Fornier to his feet and they retreated to the back of the office.

The Priest and Oren watched the explosion unfold from the outside. Befuddled by what just happened, the priest turned to his companion. “C’mon! This might be our only chance!”. As they rounded the corner, they found the shrapnel riddled brother standing up and removing the machete from his chest. Before he could see them, the two men backtracked behind the corner. To their astonishment, the other brother emerged from the fire on his elbows, heavily charred with legs and right hand missing. A patchwork of fire still consumed him. With his last bit of strength, he reached out his left hand for his brother. But the brother stood there, powerless to stop burgeoning flames. The priest gazed upon this hauntingly tranquil farewell. If they weren’t his sworn enemies, he might’ve wept for them. But after his own blood laid there as nothing more than a pile of blackened ash, the last surviving member of the Nine vanished into the night like a hellish wraith.

But the fire raged on and was threatening to overtake the sheriff’s station. Oren and the priest rushed in through the front. Expecting an exchange with the deputies, they found them retreating through the rear entrance and towards a squad car. The priest fired a round into the air. Simpson, with Fornier’s arm around his shoulder, swiftly turned around with his service revolver drawn only to find himself staring down the barrel of the Priest’s .38. “Give us the keys!” he ordered.

The deputy paused. Beads of sweat streamed down his face. “Why?!”

“You’re not gonna let those prisoners burn up are ya?!!”

There was a long pause. “What’s it to you old man?!” the deputy posed.

“Give us the keys and I’ll let you live!”

TO BE CONTINUED…