Tag: homophobia

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 28)

His eyes grew heavy and his mind wandered. It was another lonely road to god knows where in a godforsaken land just south of the Arkansas border. The priest hadn’t felt the comfort of a warm bed in days and the gas gauge was still reading a quarter tank despite driving it over a hundred miles. It must’ve been broken, the priest thought. Or a 1970 AMC Gremlin simply had one hell of a gas mileage. He drove through Mer Rouge before turning down yet another lonesome highway. And eight miles outside of town, he made a right onto Kurtzy Road. There was no particular reason. He did it on a whim. And as the gravel kicked up beneath the Gremlin, leaving clouds of dust in its wake, the priest took out a cigarette and popped out the car’s cigarette lighter. As he tried to use it, the vehicle hit an unexpected pothole, causing him to drop it to the floorboards. “Goddamnit,” he said to himself. When he reached down to grab it, the road suddenly turned smooth, and when he popped back up to look out the windshield he saw nothing but new pavement in front of him. “Thank fucking Christ,” he uttered. He had completely missed the heavy road construction behind him.

But Kurtzy Road came to an end and the priest made a right turn. Again, on a whim. A few miles down the empty highway, where the pines grew tall, the priest couldn’t believe his eyes. It was a sign for St. John Chrysostom Greek Orthodox Church. He turned down the dirt road where, to his disappointment, he found the church abandoned and in disrepair. He contemplated telling himself ‘fuck it’ and lay down camp for the night, but that had been his plan the previous four nights. It was time for a real night’s sleep. He restarted the engine and resumed his southbound journey down whatever cursed highway this was and found a roadside motel just miles later. The parking lot was empty. He pulled up to the lobby and sauntered inside. No one was behind the reception desk.

“Hello?” he called out.

He approached the desk and dinged on the bell. When that didn’t work, he dinged on it harder. Seven minutes later, the old man with his WWII cap, now inexplicably turned backwards, and flannel red robe stumbled from the back and cursed at him. “Well shit, father, you should have hollered for me!”

“I did! Turn your hearing aids up, old man!”

“Well excuse the shit out of me for trying to squeeze in a nap! I rarely have more than one tenant a night!”

“But the parking lot’s empty.”

“Yeah, a couple of homos walked in off the street.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said A COUPLE OF HOMOS—“

“I heard that part! What did these fellas look like?”

“What do you care? Are you a queer too?”

“Shut the fuck up before I slap those dentures out your mouth! Tell me what these guys looked like!”

“Jesus, padre, alright! To be honest, I couldn’t tell! They were wearing shades, leather, a helmet, and were carrying two large duffle bags!”

“Shit,” the priest whispered beneath his breath. He stroked his beard and thought. “Alright,” he finally said, “gimme the room next to theirs.”

The old man shook his head and slapped the room key on the desk. “You people fuckin disgust me,” he said. The priest dropped a $50 bill and told the old man to stick it up his ass. 

TO BE CONTINUED…