The putrid and rank possum’s corpse laid on the southbound lane headed into Vicksburg. For three days it festered under the sweltering August heat, with red guts spattered on both sides of the road before spoiling and flattening into a pancake with a few scant shit flies picking at its remains. On the northbound side, Deputy Gene Ricketts rested his squad car underneath the large sweetgum lined up on the left side entrance to the old Hopper farm by the lonesome highway. With the driver’s side door open, he spat countless sunflower seed hulls into the unkempt grass while Don Williams softly played. But when the sunflower seeds couldn’t keep his mind off the spittin tobacco, he turned to the 100 proof Jack in the concealed thermos on the passenger’s side floor. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the heat ratcheted up ten degrees every hour. As the time slowly passed, the deputy would dab a rag across his forehead. Eventually, the song faded out and the radio station transitioned to the latest country hit. And as it did, the deputy looked down the road towards the north. A mile or two ahead, through the unbearable Mississippi heat and mirage waves, a small motor vehicle came barreling towards him—an easy speeding ticket, likely his only for the day. He squinted his eyes. It was a motorcycle clearly, but with something peculiar. It had a sidecar. The deputy closed the door and cut on the engine and waited for the bike to roar past him. And when it did, the siren blared and the Warren County squad car sped away from the dirt patch on the side of the road and left a cloud of red dust lingering behind.
The bike didn’t put up much of a fight. Upon noticing the deputy behind, the driver pulled over and braked. The squad car stopped two or three meters away. Deputy Ricketts climbed out, shades concealing his eyes, and he slowly sauntered towards the offending vehicle. There were two men—one on the bike and one in the side car. Neither turned around. Neither made a sound. “Well boys,” the deputy said, “that’s one helluva knucklehead ya got there. Not sure if the sidecar is street legal. But I might let it slide.”
The two men—decked out in black leather, mud washed denim, and wearing German-made half helmets—remained silent. The deputy looked at the license plate. “Ontario?” the deputy beamed. “Canadian, eh?”
They said nothing.
The deputy strolled up to the front of the bike to gander at their faces. His brow furrowed. Like him, the two men had their eyes concealed behind reflecting shades. Their faces looked cut from stone, each sporting a dark chevron mustache. If the deputy had to have guessed, he would have reckoned they were twins. “My my,” Ricketts spoke, “don’t you two make quite a pair.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
The Internet Ruined Everything 