Mer Rouge (Part 30)

The smoldering remains of the roadside motel reflected in the silvery shades of Sheriff DuPont. Under the early morning hours, as the sun slowly crept towards its high zenith and the dew blanketed the greenery, the air reeked of putrified swamp and charred wood. The lawman stood with fists to his waist and slight gut poking over his trousers. He sniffled a bit. Then scratched his cheek. The fire department was wrapping up and was fixin to depart. The old man was milking the medical attention and police investigation for all it’s worth. “I’m tellin ya, the man was a monk! Or a ninja! I’ve seen this before! In Okinawa, ya see!” he explained to Deputy Chaz.

Chaz was understandably skeptical. “Uh huh. And what about those other two fellas?”

“Goddamn those two fellas. A couple of queers. Either that or brothers.”

“So you’re telling me a couple of queers checked in, got into a firefight with a ninja. Then a car exploded which is what caused the fire. And you managed to chase these fellas off by cutting loose your M16?”

“Yessir! That’s exactly what happened!”

“Now Earl, just how the hell did you get your hands on an M16?” The Sheriff butted in.

“By god, I’ve kept it since my fightin days!”

“This is an M16A2 model,” the sheriff continued. “The Marine Corps only started using it this year! You and I both know that when you was in Iwo Jima, you used an M1!”

“Hell!” the old man brushed off.

“Hellfire, Earl. The recoil on these things are really something. You need to be more careful in your advanced age!”

“Sheriff, I can still shoot the pecker off a buck from 500 yards!”

“Get your ass outta here!” DuPont shouted, handing him back his weapon.

The old man stumbled off and Chaz pulled a lighter and a cigarette from his shirt pocket and offered one to the sheriff. DuPont declined, opting for a wad of Copenhagen in his lower lip. They spat and smoked as they considered the blackened rubble laid before them. “That old man is full of shit,” Chaz said. “I personally think it’s a good thing this rat trap finally got burnt to hell.”

“Yup.”

“What have you found out?”

“Welp, they reckon it was two fires instead of one that caused this mess.”

“Two fires?”

“Yessir. One in the room on the far end and another from the car explosion.”

“The old man said nuthin about a room fire.”

“Yup. That one appeared to have been caused by gasoline. The other un, under that car, that was probably C4.”

“C4?! Jesus sheriff!”

DuPont nodded and spat. He gnawed a little on the tobacco and thought. “Say Chaz, do you remember those fires off in Moorhouse Parish in about ‘67 or ‘68? They all seemed to have been centered around the house of that judge they have out there in Mer Rouge.”

“Hell, I was still in grade school then.”

“Yeah. I seem to recall the old folks staying away from that town. They called it a lake of fire. Maybe they were kidding, but I always reckoned that’s why they called it Mer Rouge.”

The deputy shrugged. “Do you want me to contact the Moorhouse Sheriff? Tell em we might have some bad dudes on the loose?”

“No. Leave that to me.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 29)

He waltzed back into the empty parking lot and opened the rear window to the Gremlin. There wasn’t much inside. A few pornos and socks. The priest picked up a porno, the March issue of Penthouse, and thumbed through it. He nodded and rolled it up. After shutting the window, he eyeballed the poorly lit parking lot and saw an old Ford F-100 parked in the rear of the lobby. The priest presumed it was the old man’s. He walked up to it and dug through the rusted up bed and found a gas can and a garden hose. Then he took out a pocket knife, cut the hose, and stuck one end into the tank and the other in the gas can and siphoned the gas. When it was full, he capped the can and carried it to the other end of the motel directly to his room. The time was 11:37pm. The lights were out in the room next door.

The priest unlocked the door to his room and cut on the lights. The beds weren’t made and there were finger prints on the mirror and two mice were fighting on the bathroom sink. To the right was the adjoining door to the brothers’ room. He put his ear to the door and listened. Not a sound was heard. Were they sleeping? This was a little too easy, the priest thought. But not wasting the opportunity, he cut off the lights and began picking the lock with a hairpin. When the catch released, the knob turned smoothly and the priest readied the .38. Then he took the rolled up Penthouse and stuffed one end into the gas can. Cautiously, he peeked open the door. Through the dark, he squinted his eyes to see still lumps under the covers of each bed. Content, he lit the protruding end of the porno on fire and quickly rushed into the room and sat the gas can between the beds. Once back across the threshold, he lifted the .38 and shouted. “See you in hell!”. He fired the gun. The bullet pierced the gas can and the room erupted into an inferno.

But through the heat and deluge of fire, the priest realized he had been had by the oldest trick in the book. As the flames spread across the beds, no one was underneath the covers. It was only rolled up blankets and pillows. Recognizing the deception, the priest rushed back out to the Gremlin as fire overtook the motel. Once in the driver’s seat, his godly senses began tingling. Without a second to spare, he leapt out of the vehicle as his stolen death can exploded into a hellish mushroom. Laying face down on the pavement, half conscious and the Gremlin ablaze, the priest came to and climbed to his knees. Gunshots rang from the roof and ricochet around him. With the shotgun lassoed around his shoulder, he unloaded it in the direction of the gun blasts and hurried his way backward toward the treeline.

Interrupting this exchange, the old man busted out of the lobby with an automatic M16 and unleashed it. “Take that you cocksuckers!”

But both the brothers and the priest disappeared into the darkness.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 23)

The screeching cicadas pierced through the cold silence as the sweat built up on the deputy’s neck. Not a peep was uttered by the suspicious duo. Not even a slight movement. They sat there hard and still like marble statues. The deputy stepped toward the grass and spat out the last remaining hulls between his teeth. “Well boys, are you gonna show me some identification?”

Nothing changed. He looked them up and down but couldn’t make heads or tails on what they might be hiding. They didn’t seem nervous. Not even a bead of sweat was apparent under all that leather. The deputy nearly asked them to step off the bike but before he did, a rickety pickup rounded the corner and sounded the horn. “Evening deputy!” the driver shouted. It was Hopper returning to his farm. The deputy turned his back and waved before resuming his duties. And when he did, the duo was gone. Vanished. Only the bike and the puny sidecar remained.

Ricketts drew his service revolver and searched the treeline. When he came up with nothing, he charged across the road and looked there. Out of options, he returned to the squad car and radioed in. “This is Ricketts. I’m out here on Highway Three and I urgently need another deputy…”

Before he could finish the request, a gigantic fireball exploded underneath his vehicle, lifting it a foot or two in the air before crashing back down. Then, out of the shadows, the brothers reappeared and assessed the carnage. The flames flashed brilliantly through their reflective shades. Satisfied with the destruction, they boarded the bike and kickstarted the engine. But clinging on to dear life, Ricketts pushed the drivers side door off its hinges and fell face first onto the pavement with revolver still in hand. His legs were blown off below the knees, left arm mangled, and his hair and clothes were burning into black carbon. “I’ll kill you!” he screamed with his dying breath. And in his final act, he emptied the revolver in the duo’s direction. Befuddled, the brothers flattened themselves to the ground and drew their weapons. But they watched the deputy pitiably claw his way across the road before the patches of fire spread and consumed him whole in the middle of the asphalt.

The brothers stood up and straightened themselves out and they faced each other for a hot moment. One nodded and the other returned it. Then they climbed on the bike and roared on into Vicksburg.

TO BE CONTINUED…

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 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 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…

Mer Rouge (part 8)

A single Harley roared in front of the others and the biker slammed his chain against the Honcho taillight. Millions of pieces of red plastic bits scattered across the two lane blacktop and the priest fired the opening volley of the counter assault. Through the storm of roaring engines, the .38 barely registered a sound. But a single shot lodged itself into the chest of the marauding biker and the resulting explosion of red mist was apparent even under the piercing blackness of night. While the biker clutched his chest, the wheels beneath him bobbled before collapsing bare onto the asphalt and skidding for several seconds. While the Harleys behind him attempted a dodge, they were too close. Sparks, blood, and indiscernible body parts were left in the wake of the skidding Harley and other bikers plowed into the wreckage which left a meshed pile of broken bodies and motorbikes. Stunned by the calamity, Hutch would have vomited had the certainty of an unpleasant death wasn’t upon him.

“Goddamn! That was one hell of a shot!” he shouted to the priest.

“It ain’t over yet!”

The dozen or so remaining bikes scurried around the wreckage, and once they cleared it, the tangled mess of Harley’s inexplicably erupted into a brilliant fireball which casted a hellish orange glow over the bayou. Oren was floored while watching the spectacle in the rearview mirror. Then, like a bat out of hell, another Harley tore its way in front of the pack and emptied a barrage of bullets into the Honcho. Hutch and the priest flattened themselves in the bed as the rounds whizzed above them. From inside the cab, glass rained down on Oren as the rear window shattered. But before the priest could return fire, the speeding Harley was already running apace with the Honcho on the driver’s side. The biker emptied a clip from a semiautomatic and the bullets tattered and ricocheted inside the cab and barely missed the driver. “Jesus Christ!” Oren screamed. Then the priest leapt up from the bed and fired a shot. He missed entirely but sensing gunfire behind him, the biker sped up to outrun the truck. This was a critical miscalculation. While outgaining the Honcho, Oren thought quickly and swerved into the rear of the Harley. The bike swiftly turned right and smashed against the front of the truck. With his right leg shattered, the biker screamed in agony before the Harley fell underneath the runaway Honcho. The vehicle lifted slightly to climb the meager wreckage before the rear passenger tire landed on the biker’s head and smashed it like a bloody meat melon.

Seeing the carnage behind him illuminated by the lights of pursuing Harley’s, Hutch did manage to vomit. Then the priest poked his head in through the broken rear window glass. “Kurtzy Road is coming up!” he told Oren. “Be prepared!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

kingdom of god 19

At the citadel, the preacher was hastily questioned by police and stowed away in the stockades overlooking the marching grounds outside along with the common thieves and the revolutionaries. In the yard surrounding them rested bones and rotted flesh and the black flies and vultures of death. Stephanos prayed to the god that be for his safe passage into the next world as men were dragged out by chromed guards and were summarily beaten and bound. Some were shot and bodies left where they fell. The revolutionaries were tied up and bayoneted and their leaders stripped and humiliated and the prisoners were called to attention to witness the execution of the latest ringleader who appeared before them bound and naked to the bone. He was buggered by the barrel of a rifle and his genitalia cut off and when it was over he was whipped and clubbed and he took it all with the serene power from a god the Preacher could never fathom. But bloodied and battered, the condemned man stood almost defiantly on his feet with his ankles and wrists bound and a noose around his neck. The other end of the rope was tied to a motored vehicle and the engine roared and the dirt kicked up beneath the wheels. The driver roared off and the prisoner flew forward behind him and his body was dragged and tossed through the mud before the vehicle swiftly turned and flung the prisoner’s body away from his head.

Stephanos wept at the horror. He clung to his sacred texts and hopes in a desperate cry for a reprieve and in the dead of night, he was whisked away to the watchman. He was brought to his knees and the watchman looked him over and questioned him. “You’re not a revolutionary, are you?” he asked the preacher.

“No. I’m a messenger of Jonny.”

“There seems to be a lot of those these days,” the watchman mocked. “Where are you from?”

“I’m from the steppe.”

“Then I suggest you return to the steppe. We can’t have large gatherings on the streets. I hope you understand.”

The preacher reluctantly nodded. They unbounded him and marched him down the hill and to the city streets and the watchman warned him that if he saw him again, he will be shot.

TO BE CONTINUED…

kingdom of god 18

PART II

In those winter months, the streets of Nasan swelled with the peoples of Nain with all their tongues and customs and they came to hear the wise words of Stephanos, a mysterious preacher of the plains who claimed the touch of Jonny and his message of peace. He stood upon the stoas and he shouted to the hungry denizens that the reign of the nighthawks was nearing and that the Shepherd was to lend a guiding hand. “God opened his heart,” Stephanos proclaimed of the Shepherd. “He told him that the Nain would be born anew and that bellies will be fed and the kingdom declared! The Urbanas shut up its passages to keep the people from fleeing because this is their land! Their kingdom!”

But a rabble rouser from the throng, a woman, shouted out of the masses to challenge him. “But the Shepherd brought the Nighthawks!” she cried out to the evangelist. “There can be no peace as long as he lives!”

Stephanos called her out from the crowd and when she came forth, he recognized her as a woman from the northern steppe. From atop of his stoa, he looked upon her and blessed her. “Jana, why do you challenge me?” he posed.

“Did you walk with Jonny? Did you hear his words? Did you feel his divine lifeblood in his presence?” she countered.

The crowd looked to one another and Stephanos sensed the unease. He raised his arms to calm them and then he turned his loving gaze towards Jana. “Yes, I felt all of that,” he said. “After the tragedy of the Nighthawks, I saw Jonny’s divine lifeblood absent from his earthly form and from this essence, I received his wisdom. He revealed to me that friend and enemy will walk in hand and the divisions that separated us for so long will be trampled upon and that we will receive a guiding light out of the stars and that the ultimate wisdom revealed to Jonny, the Ambassadors, and finally myself will be bestowed upon all of you. But it begins with a simple message of love and forgiveness and opening our hearts to the Shepherd.”

A smattering in the crowd laughed. Jana mocked and spat. “Think what you want,” she declared. “But there will be no rest until the Shepherd dies!”

There was a murmuring in the masses and few left the throng. But Stephanos wooed the remaining with sage words until men with guns stormed the forum and apprehended him. When the crowd saw what was happening, there was an uproar. The preacher tried to calm the simmering maelstrom but the armed men fired into the masses and it quickly dispersed. But in the thundering panic, men and women were trampled underfoot or shot outright and the peace proclaimed by the preachers of Jonny for the city of Nasan was again shattered.

TO BE CONTINUED…