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 12)

Deputy Fornier strolled out of the holding cell twirling the baton. He marched right into the precinct break room, poured a coffee into a white styrofoam cup and took it into the bathroom. After dropping a massive shit, he flushed the toilet and reentered the break area where fellow Deputy Simpson glared at him. “Droppin some of that Mississippi mud are ya?”

“Just takin my morning glory.”

“Well goddamn boy, maybe you should lay off the jambalaya.”

“Kiss my ass.”

Simpson shoved a donut in his mouth and sipped some black sludge. “Dirk wants to see ya. He’s on the porch.”

Fornier glanced out the window to see Dirk sitting cross legged in the rocking chair. He gulped his coffee and poured another. “Hell, probably has something to do with that goober he booked last night.”

“He killed a guy.”

“That dumbass back there?!”

“Yessir. Him and some black son of a bitch. I just finished scooping his brains off the asphalt. They also had a priest with them.”

“No shit? Castor’s gonna have a shit fit.”

“Welp, I reckon you outta go talk to him.”

Fornier tightened his pants and buttoned his shirt midway. With his bare and flabby chest swaying, he marched onto the porch with coffee in hand. Dirk didn’t look at him as the front door swung open. The deputy closed the door behind him and stood over the sheriff’s shoulder. “Yessir?”

Dirk spat a wad of tobacco juice into the freshly cut grass and leaned forward. “Has he told you anything?”

“The new boy?”

“Yup.”

“No sir. I didn’t know he killed somebody.”

“He did. Wentworth.”

“Ah hell, sheriff. Had I of known—“

“Nevermind that. I want him a part of the Castor detail this afternoon. Understood?”

“Of course!”

As he barked out instructions, the sheriff of West Carroll Parish rolled up the gravel way. The rival lawman stepped out of his squad car in khakis and gator skinned boots and meandered up to Dirk and his deputy. Dirk spat into the grass again and welcomed the visitor. “Well as I live and breathe, Sheriff DuPont. What can I do for you?”

DuPont approached the porch and removed his Stetson while his eyes remained concealed behind reflective aviators. He lifted one boot onto the porch with the other firmly planted in the grass. “I don’t know if you heard the reports this morning. But we found a burnt up truck at the county line off Kurtzy Road. As you are well aware, our side of the road is fully paved. But lookin at the dirt tracks on your side, it appears that the truck was chased off Morehouse Parish onto ours. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that?”

“No sir.”

“It’s the most goddamnedest thing. Apparently, the truck flipped on its head, blew up, then landed right side up. I did fetch for a tow truck, but one of my deputies patched up the gas tank, and the engine started right up. Can you believe that? Sure the windows are busted up, but we drove it straight to impound.”

“What can I say? Jeeps are indestructible.”

DuPont tilted his head back and looked the sheriff up and down. “I didn’t say anything about it being a jeep.”

Dirk calmly retorted. “Sheriff, only a jeep could have survived that level of damage.”

“I see.” Feigning satisfaction, DuPont lowered his boot from the porch and headed back towards the squad car. At the halfway point, he turned around. “Oh, and one other thing, sheriff. Although the vehicle was heavily burned, I managed to make out the plates. The Honcho is registered to an Oren Waits of Provo, Utah. Apparently he’s a black man. Now I know you tend to keep outsiders away from your Parrish, but if you see Mr. Waits, let him know I have his truck.”

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…

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…

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…