Mer Rouge (Part 20)

The priest took out a pack of matches and struck one. He lit his cigarette and then Oren’s and flicked his wrist a few times to snuff out the flame. And like all the other crap he had owned, he tossed the discarded match onto the floor. His eyes narrowed as the smoke rose. He took a drag and then another and leaned forward as his voice lowered to a haunting gist. “Mer Rouge is a sinister place,” he spoke.

Oren, non plexed, looked the priest dead in the eye. “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”

“I mean, the sheriff. The mayor. The judge. They ain’t what they seem.”

“Uh huh”

The priest dabbed on the cigarette and let the ash fall to the floor. “They come from a cursed past that should be buried under the sands of time. No man hailing from this age should ever utter their names. Their conquests. The things they discovered here. Humanity should have never of found.”

Oren, slightly irked, rubbed his forehead with the cigarette dangling between his fingers. “I’m not following,” he said.

“Here. Have some more shine,” the priest said. He handed him the jug and Oren took a small swig. The priest tapped on his cigarette again and continued. “No man was meant to live forever,” he warned. “I’ve been around the world and if there’s one lesson I’ve learned is that death is as vital as the air we breathe. Despite our instincts, immortality is a curse. It’s damnation. It chains us to an inescapable and abominable past that must be castigated.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

The priest slapped the cigarette out of Oren’s hands. “Listen to me goddamnit! There’s something here! In Mer Rouge! Something that needs to be destroyed and sent back to Hell!”

“Well spit it out damnit!”

“Alright alright.” The priest calmed himself and picked up the shine jug. “It’s the fountain of youth,” he said. “Judge Castor controls the fountain of youth.”

Despite his instinct to laugh, Oren entertained this story. “I thought that was in Florida.”

“No. It’s here in Louisiana.”

“That’s even worse.”

Oren reached for the priest’s smock and took out the pack of cigarettes along with the book of matches. He took one out and put it to his lips. “So uh, how did this Judge Castor come to control the fountain of youth?”

“Cuz he ain’t Judge Castor.”

“Is that right?” Oren asked with a shade of snark. Then he waved out the match.

“That’s right,” the priest nodded. “His real name is Hernando De Soto.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 19)

The priest stomped back into the shed with his head a-buzzin. He couldn’t help but gnaw on his fingers as he tried to figure what the police knew. While lost in the fog of his own mind, Oren initially paid him little attention. But as panic mounted, the priest’s belly rumbled. First he ransacked the small cupboard of goods, littering more crap and much needed food onto the already cluttered floor. Then he turned his eyes toward Oren and barked. “GIMME THEM GODDAMN PEANUTS!”

Oren looked up from his nearly depleted cup. “But I almost ate them all!”

“Just give em to me!”

The priest yanked the cup from his hand, fork and all, and frantically chowed down. Oren was vexed. The ceaseless slurping and moaning wasn’t helping either. When the priest finished the last of the peanuts, he threw the cup over his shoulder and released a hellish fart. “Much better,” he said. Then he uncorked a jug of moonshine and gulped down.

Oren scratched his head. “So I take it that wasn’t the cops that chased us last night?”

“Nope,” he said and then loudly belched.

“Then who were they?”

“It was the West Carroll Sheriff.”

“And?”

“He was asking me about your truck explodin. He had to have gone to the Moorhouse Parish Sheriff but I don’t reckon they told him shit.”

“Was he lookin for me?”

“Yeah he was lookin for ya.”

“Is there a warrant or something?”

“No. But I wouldn’t trust these fuckers as far as you can throw em. So don’t go runnin to the West Carroll sheriff for help! Ya hear?”

“I know that. But how the hell am I gonna get my brother out of jail?”

“Just shut the fuck up. I’m thinkin.” The priest took another gulp of shine. And then another. He didn’t have the courtesy to offer some to Oren. Finally, after drinking nearly half a jug, he sat it down on the frail wooden table and lifted his leg. A second passed and then a tiny, pitiful fart eeked out of his asshole and he leaned forward while clutching his stomach. “Oof. Peanuts and shine are kickin in. Just a moment,” he uttered. Then he stood up, arms still wrapped over his belly, and he stormed out the back of the shed. After about five maddening minutes, the priest came back inside fully refreshed. “Goddamn,” he kept repeating. Then he sat back down at the rickety ass table and pulled out a cigarette, this time offering one to Oren. “Okay son,” he began, “better start drinkin this shine because you ain’t gonna believe what I’m fixin to tell ya.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 18)

The priest waddled nonchalantly across the unkempt yard. His eyes ogled the dilapidated church. When DuPont saw him, he stepped out of the cruiser and rested his hands on top of the opened door. He watched the priest. The West Carroll sheriff had presumed that this man of God noticed his squad car roll up. He had presumed wrong. The priest seemed oblivious. He was mindlessly gawking off into nothing with his thumb up his ass. The sheriff loudly cleared his throat.

“Oh, forgive me! I didn’t see you there!” the priest lied. “What can I do for you, officer?”

DuPont removed his Stetson and extended his hand. “I reckon I should introduce myself. I’m Sheriff DuPont.

“Pleased to meet you.”

“Ya know, I’m ashamed to admit this, but I didn’t know we had a Greek Orthodox Church until someone pointed it out to me the other day.”

“That’s quite alright, sheriff. The diocese just sent me out here. This church hasn’t been used in years, so I’m just wandering around trying to figure out what bullshit needs to be done to fix the place up.”

“I see,” said the sheriff. “Well I won’t keep you long. But there was an incident last night involving an explosion. It occurred about half a mile away from here. Off Kurtzy Road. Did you happen to see anything? Hear anything?”

“No sir. Don’t believe so.”

“Are you certain? The incident occurred about that-a-way,” the sheriff pointed towards the northwest. “It would have been a very loud explosion. You certainly would have heard it from this distance.”

“No sir, didn’t hear nuthin. What time did this happen?”

“Couldn’t say at this point. Probably before midnight.”

The priest squinted his eyes and stroked his long, grey beard. “Hmm. Well I went to bed quite early last night. And I’m a pretty sound sleeper.”

“What time did you lay down?”

“Oh I couldn’t say. Round eight.”

The sheriff nodded. “I see.” Then he placed the Stetson back on his head. “Well if you hear anything, please let my office know.”

“Yes sir. I will.”

DuPont sauntered back to his cruiser and the priest resumed gawking at the church. But as the sheriff opened the door, he spoke up once more. “One other thing, padre.”

This Priest bit his tongue.

“We don’t get too many new faces around here,” the sheriff said. “But you’re always welcome to stop by the sheriff’s office. We like to work closely with the faith leaders in our community. And besides, we need a new chaplain. I encourage you to apply.”

The priest smiled and waved. “I may do that, sheriff!”

DuPont returned the wave and planted himself in the driver’s seat. The priest turned around and walked back toward the church. But before the sheriff started the engine, he called out again. “Also, father!”

The Priest concealed his annoyance.

“There’s a gentleman we’re on the look out for,” DuPont shouted. “A black fella, about five foot eight. His name is Oren Waits. He’s not in any trouble, at least not with us, but if you see him, tell him I want to talk to him.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 16)

For Chuck Norris

Hutch couldn’t help but gape at the Judge’s long and gnarly fingers as they danced across the ancient church organ. He couldn’t see his face. From behind, stringy white hairs dangled from beneath a black felt pork pie hat and what little skin showed was as white as a fantail pigeon. He didn’t speak. He only communicated through that haunting and ungodly organ. Hutch couldn’t help but jest. “The fuck is this? Transylvania?” he smirked.

The tall and gaunt man turned his attention away from the sheriff and shot him a bone chilling glare. “Show some respect you pissling!”

Hutch backed down. “Forgive me. You must be Riff Raff.”

The gaunt man, not getting the reference, lifted a finger to the air as if to make a great proclamation. “I am the mayor of Mer Rouge!” he declared.

Hutch was rueful. “Oh forgive me,” he explained. “I am honored to be in your presence.”

The mayor nodded. “Much better,” he said. Then he straightened his tailcoated tuxedo jacket and polished out his accent. “Now, you are responsible for killing two of my men. Why?”

Hutch became apoplectic. “Hey bud! I didn’t kill nobody! We were chased away by the sheriff and his gang! One guy got shot and one guy got ran over but that was they own damn fault!”

“Poppycock!”

“No it ain’t no poppycock neither!”

“But you knew that priest,” Dirk chimed in.

“I don’t know that priest from Adam!”

“He seems to have known you.”

“Shit. Maybe he was just a nice guy. You don’t seem to have too many of those around here.”

The judge laid onto the keys and the ghostly sound of a church organ again pummeled its way through the ether. All eyes shifted to him. After a moment of unearthly silence, the judge raised his decrepit finger and a gargantuan hooded figure resembling a Byzantine eunuch stepped forth and presented him with a grail. The judge took the chalice and raised it to his lips. His head slightly turned and Hutch could see the folds around his mouth. His pail skin pierced through the faint candlelit shadows. As the judge lifted the cup, the water dripped from both ends of his crinkled lips. When he finished, he returned the chalice to the eunuch and again turned his back towards Hutch. The Mayor and Dirk stood as still as a boggy creek bed. As the judge held his fingers over the faded white keys, the eunuch leaned forward. The judge turned to him and whispered in an unintelligible if not ancient and demonic tongue. The eunuch’s face turned sullen. When the judge completed his fiendish dictate, the eunuch stood straight up and turned his ghoulish eyes towards Hutch.

“Find the priest,” he ordered.

TO BE CONTINUED…

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…

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…

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…

Mer Rouge (part 10)

Rubber soles clanked on the pavement. The sheriff approached the overturned Honcho and kneeled down. Inside the cab, Oren was unconscious and dangling in place from the seatbelt. Blood was streaming down his face. The sheriff stood up and noticed the river of gasoline gushing from the lacerated tank. He reached into his leather vest and pulled out a pack of Camels. There was a small matchbook. He took one out, struck it, and lit his cigarette. Then he dropped the match onto the torrent of gasoline and the truck went up in flames.

With the glowing heat rising above him, the sheriff nonchalantly marched back to his Harley and flicked the depleted Camel into the marsh. The deputy approached.

“We couldn’t find the priest,” he informed him.

The sheriff looked out over the illuminated bayou and shrugged. “The crawdads will get him,” he said.

The army of motorbikes roared back into the dark—back towards Mer Rouge. The priest was dripping with marshy water. He rushed up to the flaming Honcho and reached inside and undid Oren’s seatbelt and pulled the unconscious man out. Laying on the pavement, the priest slapped his cheeks to bring him to. “Come on,” he urged Oren. “We gotta get outta here.” Oren lifted his head from the daze and saw his truck overturned and on fire.

“What the fuck?!”

The priest helped him to his feet. “Run!” he ordered. The two men sprinted as the Honcho exploded and launched into the air. They turned around to see the truck momentarily suspended in the air before it landed right side up on all four tires. The flames were completely extinguished.

“Goddamn,” said the priest. “That is one indestructible truck.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 9)

The priest fired a few more rounds at the gang of bikers before looking over his shoulder. “There it is!” he shouted to Oren. Oren’s eyes squinted to see the uneven dirt road less than a hundred yards ahead. He understood immediately what the priest was getting at. While the ninety degree turn would be easy for the Honcho, the gaggle of Harley’s would have to slow down to make the sharp right. The marshy farmland on both sides also meant the bikes would have to stay on the pot marked dirt path to maintain their pursuit. This was the perfect opportunity to put some distance between them and the Mad Max mafia.

They were closing in on Kurtzy Road fast. “Hang on!” Oren shouted. He swerved right into the shallow marsh and nearly flung out the two passengers in the bed. While Hutch and the priest hung on for dear life, a wave of green and brownish water washed over them. They were covered in shit and leaches and all the muck Louisiana had to offer. When the Honcho was squared up on the dirt road, the priest raised up to look behind them. Through the clouds of dirt and dust, the pursuing lights were dimming. Relieved by this, he threw his arms around a shit covered Hutch. “By god, perhaps there’s a god afterall!” he beamed.

But a cool fog was descending upon the dirt road and visibility was quickly deteriorating. “I can’t see shit!” Oren screamed to the back.

“Don’t worry, there ain’t nuthin on this road! Just drive as fast as you can!” the priest assured him.

“That’s easy for you to say, pal!” the driver argued back. But while Oren had his eyes momentarily looking over his shoulder, road construction signs abruptly appeared. With little time to react, the Honcho crashed through a barricade and barreled toward a seemingly pointless ramp bolstered by a pile of rubble. “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucccccccckkkkkkk!” Oren shouted. Failing to hit the brakes, the Honcho went up the ramp at speeds reaching 90mph. Hutch and the priest were flung out from the bed while Oren had little choice but to accept his fate. The truck flew through the air for several yards before crashing face first into the newly cemented pavement. Then it hung vertically for a moment or two before landing upside down and nearly crushing its occupant.

There was silence. Even the crickets and creatures of the night ceased their chanting. But this calm after calamity was interrupted by the roars of Harley’s and hell wagons riding up to the scene. First was the sheriff. He slowed and stopped then lowered the kickstand and dismounted. He looked to the left side of the road. Hutch was laying face down in a drainage ditch. Then he looked to the right. The priest was nowhere to be found. Far ahead was the wreckage of that 81 Honcho. The sheriff presumed its driver to be dead. As the other bikers dismounted, the sheriff issued his orders. First, he pointed at Hutch’s unconscious body. “Grab him,” he said.

TO BE CONTINUED…