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…

kingdom of god 24

Telas gawked at the old man as mounds of apple sauce were shoved into his mouth while nurses shuffled in and out of the sterile and cold penthouse overlooking the sprawling megalopolis. It was nestled safely thousands of miles away from the war ravaged Nain. Bill Wilcox, the aide de camp, was at the Shepherd’s beside. Hundreds of tubes and wires were connected to the old man’s decrepit body and they interpreted signals from his brain. Bill was there to elucidate every word to Telas, who along with the commandant of the Nain territory, Brigadier Hilas Philemon, was there to receive the latest decree from the Shepherd. Wilcox looked up from his interface to receive them.

“The Shepherd would like to thank you for being here,” the aide de camp explained. The old man looked motionless and infirm towards the high plafond seemingly unaware of the bustle surrounding him. Wilcox continued. “The Shepherd and the Chancellor commend you both for your service. You have both performed remarkably.”

“Thank you, sir,” the stern Brigadier responded. But the High Priest said nothing.

“The good news is the lands south of the Sianna have been cleared,” Wilcox declared. “But General, have you made any progress in clearing the Yorkin Pass?”

“It’s rough terrain sir,” Hilas explained. “The group occupying the pass have been harassing the operating posts south of Nisan and then retreating back into the Urbanas. It will take some time to flush them out.”

“You need to do it quickly,” Wilcox warned. “Contractors will be in the Nain basin within a month.”

“Aye sir.”

“The political situation with the Chancellor has changed. While his constituency might find a degree of loss of life acceptable, too much may be unbearable. Please handle this situation delicately and discreetly. The people of Nain must find safe passage to the south.”

“Of course sir.”

“You are dismissed.”

The general bowed his head and departed the penthouse then Wilcox turned towards Telas. “The Shepherd would like to speak with you alone,” he said.

TO BE CONTINUED…

kingdom of god 23

Stephanos puzzled at the strange man sitting across the fire. The boy snuggled up to him and the man reached into his duster for a canteen. “I’m sorry,” the preacher said. “I’ve seen so many faces. Forgive me if I don’t recognize you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the drifter told him. “I’ve seen hundreds of your kind. All with different faces but the same prying eyes. None of you know Jonny from a hole in the ground.”

“That’s not true,” Stephanos protested.

“It’s not? Do you know who that fellow over there is?”

“He was of the agency.”

“Yes. He was Javier Gomez.”

“And how do you know him?”

“I know an enemy when I see one. That’s the difference between you and me.”

“But there are no enemies in the eyes of God.”

“God? Do you think his kingdom dwells in the heavens? Or does it dwell down here, with flesh and blood?”

“As equal creatures in the eyes of God, we will all be relieved of the burden of flesh and blood once we enter his kingdom in heaven.”

The drifter smiled and picked his teeth. His scars flashed as malicious augury against the flames. “You have some funny ideas, preacher,” he said. “Your kind is always searching for the unexplainable in the mystical. It’s indistinguishable from the nonexistent. While tales of magic inspire awe, it prevents you from seeing what’s right in front of you. Evil is real and it sits right next to us. God is not a god of unseen power but is force is itself. To extinguish evil, it takes power. It takes force. You don’t believe in god. You believe in vanity. There is no future for you, only the complacency of an ever cursed present.”

The preacher didn’t reply. He considered reaching for the Colt but the drifter already had fingers on the shotgun. “I don’t want any problems,” Stephanos told him.

“I don’t either,” said the drifter. Then he lifted the shotgun and blew a hole in the preacher’s chest. After emptying the shells, he approached Stephanos’ corpse and took his pistol and placed it under his duster. Then he took the child by the hand and they resumed their path down the king’s road.

TO BE CONTINUED…

kingdom of god 23

The preacher lifted Gomez over his shoulders and carried him down king’s road. Passersby only glared at the men as sweat drenched down Stephanos’ face. Blood trickled down his smock. Urgency coursed through his veins as the midday sun beat down upon him. “I’m a dead man,” said Gomez. “Just leave me here.” But the preacher ignored him. Miles ahead and his knees began to buckle. He saw a thicket of trees yards off to the right and headed towards it. In a small clearing, he laid down Gomez’s whitening body and tended to his bleeding. “Thank you for your help preacher,” the dying man said, “but there’s nothing more to be done.” Blood puddled into the grass and Gomez grew cold. Before nightfall, he was dead.

Stephanos sat silently beneath the trees for several hours while Gomez’s body rested peacefully against the oak. The nighttime prairie glowed from a full moon and the preacher figured he would bury him in the morning. Numbed by the day’s pain, he struggled to make his bed. Against his better instincts, he dug through the deceased man’s remains and made a fire. He didn’t eat and he didn’t drink. His eyes remained fixed on the smoldering flame.

The hours passed. The preacher’s eyes grew heavy. Then there was a cracking at the edge of the meadow. He turned around to find a hunched over man walking hand in hand with a small boy. As they approached, the fire illuminated the man’s face. He was scared and bundled up in a charcoaled duster. What appeared to be a cane holding him up was actually a long range shotgun. Staphanos thought of reaching for the pistol but the small boy threw him off. The boy was five or six years old and said nothing.

“Excuse me sir,” the man said. “Mind if we rest by your fire?”

The preacher drew a sigh of relief and welcomed them in. “Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry but I have to food or water to give you.”

“What about that fellow over there?”

“He’s dead.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No. I found him wounded on the side of the road. I couldn’t save him.”

The man straightened out his coat and sat next to the fire. The boy sat with him. He sat the shotgun off to the side and held his hands over the fire. “I’m Stephanos, an emissary of Jonny,” the preacher said. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Yes I know who you are,” the man said.

“You’ve seen me before?”

“In Cessa in fact. You claim to have received the word directly from Jonny.”

“That is true. I have received the word.”

“Then tell me preacher. If you’ve received the word from Jonny, why don’t you recognize me?”

TO BE CONTINUED…