Mer Rouge (part 7)

Oren floored it northbound, or possibly westbound, out of the Mer Rouge outskirts and onto the moonlit delta bayou. The road signs were riddled with bullet holes and graffiti and failed to provide any sense of direction. Despite this, to the best of his knowledge, he was making a beeline towards the Arkansas border. Yet the priest, noticing the futility of this path as the breeze swept back his greying hair, used the barrel of his .38 to tap on the rearview glass. Keeping his eyes on the road, Oren reached back to slide open the window. “In about 8 miles,” the priest shouted over the wind, “you’ll see a dirt road on the right! Kurtzy Road!”

“Who the fuck are you?!”

“I’m here to save you buddy!”

Behind them, down the straight and narrow road, a gaggle of lights began to flicker. The priest’s eyes narrowed. “If you can get this piece of shit to move any faster, I’d do it!” he told Oren.

“It’s topped out!”

Then Oren looked in the rearview mirror and saw the lights zero in. There was no outgaining them. From the bed of the Honcho, seeing what they saw, Hutch grabbed the priest’s cassock. “Do you have another gun?!” he begged the holy man.

“No, but we have the upper hand,” he bullshitted Hutch. “If they try to board us, just kick them off!”

But bullets began ricocheting off the bed and the thunderous roar of a legion of motorcycles overwhelmed the cool night air. Hutch and the priest fell flat on the bed and the priest reloaded the .38 chamber. As the bikes drew closer, the hell riders drew their clubs and chains to begin their assault.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (part 6)

Dirk furrowed his brow and glared at the holy man. Since the priest had him dead to rights and he failed to securely cuff Hutch’s wrists, he knew he couldn’t reach for the concealed .44. It was hidden underneath his leather vest. Reaching for it would have risked Hutch escaping, or worse, the priest getting off the first shot. Not having the upper hand, the sheriff flashed his dimples and well manicured teeth. “Forgive me for saying so,” said Dirk, “but I think you’re a little out of your jurisdiction.”

All eyes shifted to the priest and the priest stood motionless and steadfast. The pistol was held firmly in his right hand. “You’re wrong, sheriff,” he softly spoke. “God has jurisdiction everywhere. Even in this godforsaken state of Louisiana.”

Dirk chuckled and thought. “It’s hard to argue with that, preacher man,” he said. Then he released Hutch’s wrists and placed the cuffs in his back pocket. Hutch was puzzled. Not knowing what to do, the out-of-towner turned around to face the sheriff. “Go on now,” Dirk instructed him.

The priest stepped towards Hutch, still gripping the pistol, and took him by the elbow. “Come on, young man,” he said. Then the two marched past the crowd and towards the exit. When they had one foot out the door, the sheriff called out. “And Jesus said ‘get thee behind me Satan’…”, he ominously proclaimed. Hutch and the priest turned around. The bar was dead silent.

“…so watch your back,” the sheriff finally warned.

The two dismissed him and departed the tavern. Outside, Hutch saw the Honcho parked across the street with the engine running and Oren still inside. As he headed in its direction, the priest gave him some last bit of advice. “Young man, you need to haul ass out of here and never come back, you understand?!”. Before Hutch could respond, the harrowing sound of Magnum .44 echoed through the town square. The bullet whizzed past them and blew the priest’s skoufia clear off his head. While Inside the Honcho, Oren jumped out of his seat and looked in the rear view mirror. Hutch and the priest were lying flat on the ground while the sheriff was charging out of the tavern and pumping bullets in their direction.

“Well shit!” the priest yelled. “Do you have a ride out of this shithole?!”

“We gotta make it to that Honcho! The engine’s running!”

“Then get going!”

“But bullets are flying padre!”

“Goddamnit, for the last time! I ain’t Catholic!”. Then he reached into his cassock and pulled out the .38. “Now go! God will cover us!”

Hutch leapt up and bolted towards the truck. Next was the priest, who stood straight up and emptied the revolver at the sheriff. But the sheriff dropped behind the rows of Harleys and dodged every round. Other patrons poured out of the bar with their firearms ready. Hutch and the priest hopped into the bed of the Honcho and Hutch ordered his brother to step on it. Tires squealed and they went rolling out of the town square going 7-0. Meanwhile, legions of guns sounded off from tavern patrons. They fired indiscriminately in the direction of the Honcho until it was out of sight. The sheriff reholstered his .44.

“On your bikes!” he ordered.

Then the army of roughians and hellions mounted their Harleys and riproared out of the square like a gathering storm.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (part 5)

Hutch’s eyes shifted downward and he clutched his beer glass. Dirk, towering six inches above all the patrons, sauntered over to his side of the bar and laid his large, bigoted hand next to the outsider. Hutch fixated on it. Tattooed just below his pinky was the unmistakable blood cross of the Ku Klux Klan. Dirk greeted the bouncer. “Good evening Sam,” he said. “How the hell have you been?”

“Oh you know me,” explained Sam, “been in the hospital for a few days. My rectum got all blowed up from that firecracker I shoved up there. Been having to shit standing up. Other than that, things have been good. How the hell have you been?”

Hutch was sweating bullets.

“Well you know,” began Dirk, “just been up to things. What can I do for ya?”

“This fella right here,” Sam said, laying his hand on Hutch’s shoulder. “He claims some fellers stole some vacuum cleaners from the back of his truck. Can you believe that shit? What kind of sicko would do such a thing?”

“Yeah that doesn’t sound like somethin folks around here would do,” he said. Dirk lifted his hand from the bar and swiveled Hutch around on his stool. He was petrified by fear. The sheriff rubbed his hand across his chin and looked this outsider up and down. “Say, you weren’t that feller who came ridin in here in that fancy Jeep Honcho was you?”

Hutch shook his head.

“Yeah, I know it was you,” Dirk continued. “Thought you was a couple of badasses rollin down the square.”

“I think you have me mistaken for someone else sir.”

“Bullshit,” the sheriff laughed. “Where’s that other fella you was with? The one drivin. The colored fella.”

Hutch tried to disguise his hands as they trembled. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

“Well I can’t get to the bottom of this matter if I don’t talk to all the witnesses involved. You understand that I’ll need to bring this man into questioning.”

Hutch smiled and sat his beer on the bar. Then he reached into his pockets to pull out all the money on his person, which totaled $2.27 and then waved the cash in front of the sheriff. “Gentlemen, this is all one big misunderstanding,” he explained. “I was just pulling the bartender’s leg, ya see? Now why don’t you take my cash here and buy yourself a drink and let’s forget this matter.”

He shoved the money into the sheriff’s vest pocket and stood up. Dirk looked at his pocket. As Hutch tried to barrel past him, he placed his hand on his chest. “Now wait just one goddamn minute,” the sheriff said. “In the state of Louisiana, it’s a crime to bribe an officer of the law. You’re under arrest.”

Hutch was perplexed. “Would you take a check?” he asked.

“Turn around!” Dirk ordered as he reached for his cuffs. Hutch was thrown face first into the bar and the sheriff clasped his wrists. The bar patrons stopped their revelry to gawk at the unfolding spectacle.

“I’m an innocent man!” protested Hutch.

“You have the right to remain silent, you son of a bitch!”

Hutch wiggled and squirmed as the sheriff apprehended him and a slight commotion was erupting in the bar. Then punches were thrown. As Hutch fought for his escape, an all out brawl broke out. “Christ! I’m gonna need back up!” Dirk yelled. But before the scene crumbled into a complete war zone, a gunshot silenced the crowd. Eyes turned to the back of the bar and they saw a lone figure holding up a .38 service revolver. When he had the crowd’s attention, he lowered the pistol and stepped forward. Patrons moved aside, creating a direct path to the front of the bar. Seconds later, a bearded fellow in a black cassock and a black skoufia presented himself to the Sheriff and Hutch. A crucifix hung around his neck with the .38 by his side. “Let him go,” he ordered the sheriff.

“This ain’t your fight padre,” Dirk retorted.

“Padre?” the priest asked. “I’m Greek Orthadox. Not Catholic.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (part 4)

Oren hopped back into the pick up and immediately cut on the engine. He watched the rear view mirror as Hutch sauntered over to Kal’s Kountry Katina with hands in his pockets and one shoe untied. After he disappeared into the thicket of bikers and roughnecks, Oren slumped in the driver’s seat with his hood up. As he approached the bar, the locals looked Hutch up and down. He simply flashed his aw-shucks smile and trudged past them. When he swung open the door, clouds of cigarette smoke bellowed out and the sounds of roaring Harleys outside were replaced with riotous laughter and clanking beer bottles. Above all the noise was the cracking of billiard balls bouncing into one another. Hutch simply shrugged and approached the bar. “Excuse me. Excuse me,” he repeated as he snaked past the towering leatherbound patrons. When he reached the bar, he slammed his hand onto the sticky wood and called for the bartender.

“What can I get you, sweetheart?” the faded blond barmaid asked him. She had a cigarette dangling from her lips.

“A beer,” Hutch said. “AND some information.” Then he held up two $1 bills and he slid the money across the bar. The barmaid didn’t react. “Four assholes stole some vacuum cleaners out of the back of a red 81’ Honcho,” he continued. “I wanna know who did it.”

“Honey, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Gonna play hardball eh?” Hutch dug into his pocket and rolled out a few more dimes. “Now tell me what you do know.”

“Sam!” the barmaid yelled. A stout fella with a leather vest and beer belly waddled towards the bar and hovered behind Hutch and crossed his arms. “What seems to be the problem?” Sam asked the barmaid.

“This fella here is acting like a dumbass,” she explained.

“Excuse me,” Hutch protested. “But a crime has been committed here and I’m trying to get to the bottom of it!”

“That’s what the police are for,” the barmaid said.

“The sheriff is right over there,” offered Sam.

Hutch looked across the bar towards the sheriff. He didn’t like what he saw. It was a tall, clean cut fella, also shirtless and donning only a leather vest. Curiously, the man sported numerous tattoos. Two of them stood out: an iron cross over his chest and a Nazi SS emblem on his forearm. Hutch nodded. “I think I’m good,” he said. “I think I’ll leave and drop this matter altogether.”

“You sure?” asked Sam. “He’s a nice guy and he’ll be happy to help.”

“I’m quite sure. Thanks.”

“Just a second, I’ll call him over. Hey Dirk!” Sam yelled out.

Dirk turned around. His eyes narrowed and he glared in Sam’s direction. When he saw this, Hutch swallowed hard. He knew that if he hadn’t clogged the toilet earlier in the night that he would have shat his pants right then and there. His mind raced. He contemplated making a beeline towards the exit. Then the barmaid returned. “Here’s your beer!” she said to Hutch.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (part 3)

Oren threw open the passenger’s side door and his brother nearly fell out. “What the hell?!” Hutch cried out.

“You had ONE job, Hutch! ONE job!,” Oren yelled. “You couldn’t stay awake for three minutes?!”

“I was tired!”

“And now all of the vacuums are gone!”

Hutch raised an eyebrow and strained his neck trying to look out the rear view window. When he saw that the bed was empty, he furrowed his brow and faced his brother. “No worries,” he calmly explained. “We’ll just go to the police.”

“The police ain’t gonna do shit!”

Oren restrained himself from swinging at his brother. Since there was nothing to be done, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. But Hutch, in a rare moment of self awareness, was embarrassed by his lack of vigilance. He unbuckled himself from the passenger’s seat and stepped out. While Oren was busy choking back tears of rage, he looked around the town square. It was a Friday night and the square was poppin’. The engines of Harley’s and Dodge Ram’s roared up and down the road and they all migrated around the local tavern like moths to a light. Figuring he had to do something, he consoled his brother.

“There there,” Hutch said as he patted Oren’s shoulder. “There’s no shame in a grown man crying. I would never cry in front of another man but it’s okay if you do. So why don’t you sit in the truck while I wander over to the watering hole. Surely someone over there saw something.”

Oren wiped his eyes and nose and looked towards the tavern. It would have been comical if it wasn’t so tragic. Kal’s Komfy Kantina the sign read in gothic lettering. As if that wasn’t enough, a prominent flaming cross was the finishing touch. To Oren, this wasn’t a promising start. But before Hutch marched in its direction, he grabbed his brother by the elbow. “If you get in trouble there,” explained Oren, “I can’t help you.”

Hutch shrugged. “What’s the worst that could happen?” he asked.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (part 2)

Dusk was settling over the delta when they crossed the state line. Oren’s heart sank. His eyes gazed over the flat cotton fields of scraggly trees and twisted debris left over from a long ago storm. A bloated deer carcass was chained to a pillar holding a sign reading Welcome to Louisiana. They were going 8-0 southbound down 165. Oren uncapped a bottle of Bacardi and took a swig. “We need to get in and out, ya hear?” he told Hutch.

“But I gotta piss.”

“You’re gonna have to hold it.”

As he gripped the steering wheel, Oren’s palms turned clammy. Then, when he nearly finished the half pint of Bacardi, they entered the outskirts of Mer Rouge. Hutch scanned the surroundings. As they passed a decrepit yet lively Gulf gas station, he noticed reams of pickups parked outside. As he looked closer, some had dead boars tied to the hood while patrons sauntered into the establishment with shoguns slung over their shoulders. “I don’t know what you’re worried about,” said Hutch. “People seem friendly enough around here.”

“Look at you. Look at me. Notice a difference?”

Hutch cocked his head. “What? Is it because I’m Italian?”

A little further down the road, Oren’s red 81 Jeep Honcho entered the small yet bustling town center and he quietly hoped his Utah tags wouldn’t draw attention. On the other side of the square, off to the right, was Fred’s Hardware Store. Oren pulled past the gaggle of bikers and camo-covered farmers who were drifting into the local watering hole. He squeezed his truck into the tight parking space. Before he climbed out, he left the engine running. “Keep an eye on the shit in the back,” he warned Hutch. Then he slammed the door shut.

The bell dinged as he stepped inside. From behind the counter, a fellow in a blue button up and red hat looked up from his issue of the Louisiana Gazette. This was presumably Fred. Oren placed his hands in his pockets and hastily wandered the aisles searching for a toilet plunger. When he found a row of them in the back, he picked one up and took it to the register. Fred chewed his gum and didn’t move an inch. “From around here boy?” he asked.

Oren stammered. “Uh yeah, I’m from across the border. In Arkansas.”

“Then why do you have Utah plates on that fancy truck of yours?”

“It’s uh. Its my sister’s.”

“Your sister’s huh? So what are you carrying in the bed?”

“Nothin.”

“Nothin?”

“Vacuum cleaners.”

“Vacuum cleaners,” Fred pondered. He popped the gum in his mouth and rang up the plunger. “Well ain’t that a damn shame.”

“What’s a shame?” Oren asked as he pulled out his billfold.

“Oh nuthin. I would have sold them boys a vacuum cleaner at a decent price had they come in here.”

Oren turned around. He saw a flock of hooligans on the other side of the window reach into the bed of his Honcho. Each of them was carrying a large box with a sketch of a vacuum cleaner on the front. Forgoing the plunger, Oren sprinted outside and shouted. “Hey hey hey! What the hell?!,” he screamed. But the youths sprinted off into the woods with his cargo.

“Goddamnit!” he yelled. Then he peeked into the cab. Hutch was sound asleep.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (part 1)

The shit water cascaded down the bowl and onto the cold tiled floor like brownish rapids over the Armagosa. Oren was helpless to do anything about it. His brother had a cursed ass which shat out turds as thick as tungsten and wide as a rolling pin. Feeling helpless, the elder brother wanted to shake his fist at the heavens for this family curse, yet the comfort of depression sat in knowing this was his cross to carry. Then, seeming unbothered, the younger brother looked to his distressed sibling. “I tried to courtesy flush,” explained Hutch. “But it all came out in one piece. My sphincter wasn’t strong enough to break it up.”

He was splayed out across the bed while thumbing through the latest issue of Hot Rod.

Oren rubbed his hand over his chin and thought. He stood at the threshold of the bathroom as the water inched towards his feet. Finally the toilet completed the filling cycle and the full gravity of wretched stench ass filled his nostrils. Oren winced. “Christ,” he said aloud. But he assessed the damage and concluded it was manageable. Braving the elements, he stepped into the inch-thick pool of boo-boo water and searched for a plunger, first under the sink and then by the toilet. Nothing. Oren exited the bathroom and wiped bits of shit and toilet paper from the bottom of his boots onto the nylon carpet.

“Go to the lobby and ask for a plunger,” he ordered Hutch. “I’ll try to get this shit cleaned up.”

“But what do I say?”

“You walk up to the guy at the front desk and ask him if he has a plunger.”

“But what if he doesn’t?”

“Goddamn, Hutch!”

“Can’t this wait until tomorrow?!”

“If room service comes in here tomorrow and sees your shit on the floor, we’re gonna get kicked out of yet another hotel room!”

“But I’m afraid!”

“Afraid of what?!”

“That the hotel man will get mad at me.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake Hutch! Just come with me!”

Hutch climbed off the bed and followed Oren down the hallway and into the lobby. The man at the front desk was tall. Lean. He was hunched over the desk and heavily engaged in the latest issue of Water Fowler magazine. He hardly looked up to see the two brothers approach him. “It chaps my ass that duck hunting season is over,” the receptionist said. He didn’t take his eyes off the magazine.

“Yeah that sucks,” said Oren. “Do you got a plunger?”

“Did you boys clog the shitter?”

“Yeah but it’s not too bad.”

“Well shit. Let me look back here.”

The hotel man lowered the mag and leisurely looked behind the desk. After five seconds of searching, the man shrugged. “Don’t look like we have nothin back here,” he explained. “Maintence won’t be here until Monday mornin. How bad is it?”

“Its not bad. Look, is there a hardware store near here?”

The hotel man closed his eyes and ran his fingers through his few wisps of hair. It appeared he was about to have an aneurysm. “I don’t reckon,” the man said. “Unless you want to head into Morehouse Parish.”

“Across the border?”

“Yessir.”

“Can you give me the name of the town?”

“Yessir. It’s some piss hole called Mer Rouge.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

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The next generation

When I was a kid, everyone was dying of polio and World War I. No one wanted to go back to those days. But kids today won’t shut the fuck up about Blockbuster video, lead poisoning from water hoses, and masturbating to scrambled porn. They don’t have the courage to admit their childhood sucked. They lack imagination. They ceased hope for a better future.

That’s my fault. That’s my children’s fault. That’s my children’s children’s fault. That’s my children’s children’s children’s fault (I’m 113 years old, see). We failed. We failed to realize that every generation’s greatest responsibility is to build up the next generation. We failed to appreciate the current moment for what it was and to recognize that time only moves forward. We failed to overcome petty biases like generational rivalries. And it will take many more generations to unfuck itself. It’s one big systemic failure.

But there is one thing that unites all surviving generations. We are all perfectly content to lay blame at the feet of boomers.

kingdom of god 25

Telas tepidly approached the Shepherd’s bedside. With glazed eyes focused muddily towards the heavens, the old man was as motionless as death. The high priest pondered. Whatever was left within this cold vessel was a perpetual hostage suspended in the spaces between the living and the dead.. then monitors and machines beeped and dinged wildly as nurses rushed to his aid. There was a faint gagging. The mush that counted as the old man’s sustenance was lodged in his throat. While alarming to witness, Telas hoped that this was the sweet relief that the comatose man was looking for. But they pried open his mouth. Suction tubes were shoved in. Bill Wilcox stood calmly, almost disinterestedly, as the calamity unfolded. The suctioning screeched a loud scraping sound and the Shepherd jostled lightly as if to cling on to the last vestiges of life. But then the machines resumed their usual sounds. The obstruction was cleared and the old man glossed up at the ceiling as he did before. Then Wilcox continued his briefing.

“If this is a bad time, we can do this another…,” Telas began to say.

“Nonsense,” Wilcox interrupted. “The Shepherd wants you to know that he admired Jonny, and he is very thankful for your support.”

“Thank you. And you can tell the Shepherd that I’m thankful for his hospitality.”

“No need to tell me,” said Wilcox. “The Shepherd is perfectly capable of hearing your gratitude.”

Telas looked awkwardly at the old man and nodded. “Thank you sir,” he greeted.

“Now onto more pressing matters,” Wilcox continued. “The temple at Nisan will need to be dismantled. Once when the city’s population has been relocated to the south, you will be permitted to reestablish it with certain caveats.”

“Such as?”

“The followers of Jonny and others within the Alcain religion must not be granted pilgrimage to the Nain. That region will be off limits.”

The high priest shook his head. “The Nain has been a part of our religion for generations. While pilgrimages can be prohibited by temple decree, it will be impossible to stop them entirely…”

“That may be true,” Wilcox warned, “but by the end of the year, any trespassers in the region will be executed.”

TO BE CONTINUED…