Mer Rouge (Part 46)

Hutch found an old faded porno laying in the grass on the south facing side of the church. He picked it up and knocked off the spiders, grass, and other critters that burrowed its way into the pages and thumbed through it. A few feet away, Oren had the windows rolled down and the driver’s seat eased back in the Toyota. He heard Hutch strolling his way towards his corner of the yard and he lifted his head. He saw that his brother was all smiles as he glared at the full bushed woman from the December 1981 issue of Penthouse. Oren knew that issue well. He called out to Hutch. “Get in the car man!”

Hutch was slightly startled and promptly dropped the magazine. “Shit! I didn’t see you there bro!”

“Just get in!”

Hutch shrugged and strolled to the passengers side. He opened the door, sat his rotund ass down and took out a cigarette. “Whatchu thinking man?” he asked his brother. But Oren inserted the keys into the ignition and started the car. “I’m thinkin we’re gettin the hell outta here!”

Oren laid on the gas, kicking up a cloud of rock and dirt. But just a few meters down the dirt road, Sheriff DuPont stumbled into their path. Oren slammed on the brakes. The Sheriff didn’t budge an inch as he glared at the brothers through the windshield. He slowly approached the driver’s side and he ordered Oren to roll down the window. He complied and the officer leaned forward and rested his forearms on the sill. “So uh, you boys just goin for a Sunday drive?” DuPont asked.

“Yessir,” said Oren.

“Nosir,” said Hutch.

“Well I reckon that would be alright as long as yur back n about thirty minutes,” the sheriff explained. “The problem is that this is an illegally obtained vehicle. Now don’t worry. I get it. This is unusual circumstances. But after we’re done with this little operation here, we’ll need to get the car back to it’s rightful owner, see. I hope you understand.”

“Yessir.”

“Now I’m supposin that yur Oren Waites of Utah, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then I got some excellent news for ya. I got that Honco of yours in impound.”

“You do?”

“Oh yes. Still runs like a charm too, I’ll tell ya. Sure the cab and windshield are busted up, but I got the gas tank patched up. Now mind you, you’re gonna have to pick it up come tonight. Else I’m gonna have to charge you impound and towing fees, ya see.”

Oren swallowed hard. “Okay, I understand,” he said.

“Good,” said the sheriff. “Now why don’t you turn this piece of shit around and pull up to the shack down yonder. We’re fixin to head out soon.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 45)

The priest gave everyone a cup of boiled peanuts and a shot of bourbon. Hutch took one look at it and passed. “I ain’t touching this crap,” he said. Moses dug his fork around in the cup and shrugged. “Better than the shit we ate on the inside.”

Sheriff DuPont raised an eyebrow and glanced at the priest. “You know that no one likes this shit down here, right?”

“More for me then,” the priest said.

Oren sloshed his fork around in the cup and gave up. “I’m gonna go take a nap guys,” he announced. He excused himself from the table and found a shaded corner of the yard. DuPont lifted his bourbon glass and sipped. “So uh, where do you come from priest?”

Peanut juice dripped down his beard and he wiped it away with a cheap napkin. “I’m not sure you’re ready to have that conversation yet, Sheriff.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means he doesn’t remember where he comes from,” Moses spoke up.

The priest looked up and glared at Moses. The sheriff’s eyes shifted back and forth between the two men. “You don’t remember?” he asked.

The priest sat down his cup and picked up the bourbon. “What do you know about Judge Castor, Sheriff?”

“Almost nuthin. Except he’s been around forever and he’s always trouble.”

The priest nodded. “That sounds about right. What say you, Mo?”

“How the hell would I know?” Moses spat.

“You seem to be a man that’s been around a while,” the priest said. He casually sipped on his drink. “You never crossed paths with this devil?”

“I only know what the sheriff knows.”

“Uh huh,” the priest shrugged. He downed the bourbon and slapped the glass on the table. “Well Sheriff, to answer your question, the judge and I go way back,” he continued. “At times we was allies. But not no more. And that’s all I can say about that.”

The sheriff drowned his shot of bourbon and then smirked. “Gimme another shot of that, will ya?” he said. He stood up and straightened himself out. “I gotta piss,” he announced. And he excused himself from the room.

Out of earshot, the priest began replenishing everyone’s drinks. Then he looked at Moses. “So I guess Mount Hebron wasn’t the end of your story, huh?”

“The hell you talkin about old fool?”

“C’mon. You’re amongst your own here. How old are you? Two thousand? Three thousand years old?”

Moses guffawed. “Well first off father. You should know the good book better than that. It wasn’t Hebron. It was Mount Nebo.”

“I don’t give a goddamn what it was. Just who the hell are you and why was ya in Mer Rouge?”

“I ain’t nobody, preacher man. A better question is just who the hell are you?”

The priest drowned another shot and then he poured another. “Drink up,” he ordered Moses. “We’re fixin to find some truths this mornin’.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 43)

DuPont let Hutch finish pissing and then he made the escapee hug the tree. The sheriff handcuffed both of his wrists and ordered the prisoner to not make a sound. A few feet away, three bundled cylinders just barely a foot in length were laid in the grass. DuPont reholstered his revolver and strapped the cylinders to his back. Hutch grew concerned. “Uhh, watchu got there officer?” he asked. But the sheriff twisted a few valves along the hose connected to a firing mechanism held in his right hand and a small flame popped up at the end of the hose. “Don’t go nowheres,” DuPont told Hutch. Then he marched toward the shack.

Inside, the Priest was relentlessly cackling over Moses’ comments. All seemed to be at ease until the sheriff gently pushed open the door. Every eyeball turned to that small flame at the end of the hose. After a few moments, the priest looked into the eyes of the man holding the hose. “Sheriff DuPont,” he said. “Glad you could join us for Sunday service.”

“Do you usually invite escape convicts to your services?”

“We’re all children of God ain’t we?”

The sheriff twisted the valve further and the flame grew larger. “I know what you are,” DuPont said.

“I don’t know what this is about but I’m sure there’s a more civilized way to handle it.”

“Old folks used to talk about you,” DuPont continued. “They said that Methuselahs still walked among us. That some kind of holy water meant for consumption from the gods can turn men immortal. They said they can only be stopped by the power of the flame. I used to say bullshit. And that whatever happens in that godforsaken Morehouse Parish was none of my business until it spills over into my parish. And now it has. I know you was behind that motel fire. And you was most certainly behind that explosion off Kurtzy Road. And it was you at the Morehouse Jail fire this mornin’.

The priest nodded. “Yes, Sheriff. You are correct. You are correct in more ways than one.”

“I know I am.”

“Good. Then you should know that there’s something in Mer Rouge that needs to be stopped. You can arrest all of us and handle the matter yourself. Or we can all take care of this problem right now. Of course, your third option is you can light us all on fire.”

“I think I’d rather be arrested,” Moses interrupted.

“I just gotta know one thing,” DuPont said. “Are you one of them?”

“I am.”

“Then we all head out to Judge Castor’s this morning.”

“Even me?” asked Moses.

“Do I have to go too?” chimed Oren.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 42)

At dawn’s twilight, the four men were laying low at the shack behind St. John Chyrsostom Church. The priest was doing his damndest to boil coffee by the fire out back. Moses retreated out of his prison uniform, now sporting a plain white t-shirt and a wrinkled pair of khakis. Hutch meanwhile still donned his black and white striped uniform, with the top pulled down and the arms twisted around his waste. The priest came in delighted with himself over the coffee and gave each man a tin mug. He happily splashed the brown sludge into each of their cups. “Gentlemen,” he said, “we should rest up for a few hours. But we gotta move fast. The Morehouse sheriff’s department is probably already pissing themselves.”

Moses protested. “I don’t know what y’all have planned but leave me out of it.”

“How long were you locked up in there for?” Hutch asked. “I was only there for two nights and I wanna kill every sonava bitch there!”

“Fuck that!” Moses barked.

Oren took his brother aside. They stepped out to the front. Out of earshot from the priest. Oren put his hand on Hutch’s shoulder. “Maybe he’s right,” he said. “Look, I have a car. We can just hop in it and get the hell outta here. There’s shit going on here that has nothing to do with us!”

“And go where?!” retorted Hutch. “Hell, I’m probably already a fugitive! I gotta clear my name!”

“But you’re gonna die! You’re going up against an entire police department! They have guns! We ain’t got shit!”

Hutch nodded. “Maybe you’re right. But what the hell happened in there? How did you get us out?”

“There is shit here that goes against god, Hutch. I’m tellin ya. We didn’t set the fire. A couple of really bad dudes did. They just blew the whole place right to shit. I think one was killed.”

“Did you guys kill him?”

“No. But the priest did shoot one of the deputies.”

“The fat one?”

“No. The other one.”

“Damn,” Hutch mourned. “That was a good dude.”

“I’m sorry but we got lucky this time. I doubt we will again.”

Hutch looked back into the shack and saw the Priest and Moses chatting over their shitty coffee. He reached back to scratch his head. “Alright,” he said. “Lemme think through this. I gotta go piss first.”

Hutch marched off out of view while Oren returned to the shack. When he arrived at a lone tree facing the road, he dropped his prison outfit lower and took out his member. He took a deep breath mid piss. Then a clicking sound was heard. He turned to his right to see Sheriff DuPont aiming his service pistol at him. “Pull up your trousers, son,” the lawman ordered.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 41)

It was nearly 4am when the call came. Half asleep, DuPont reached for the phone on the nightstand. He pulled it under the covers and struggled to speak. “Uh huh,” he said.

“Sorry to wake you this early,” the deputy said. “But we got a call from Mrs. Ames. Apparently she woke up in the middle of the night to find her son Humphrey asleep on the couch. Now normally, this wouldn’t be much of a problem except that Humphrey got busted a few months back for cruisin up and down Interstate 20 and takin advantage of numerous hitchhikers of the female type, if you know what I mean. Fortunately, the boys in Bastrup caught up with him first. Of course, everything went to trial and Humphrey was found guilty and while he was awaiting a spot in Angola, they were holding him in Morehouse Parish. Evidently, he got out.”

“Well I’m sure you upheld your sworn duties and apprehended the man.”

“Yessir. He’s being booked as we speak.”

“So what’s the point of this story, Pete?”

“Well, after we apprehended him, Humphrey swore up and down that he didn’t escape from Morehouse. He’s tellin us that there was a fire and that a man of the cloth came through and opened the jail cell for him. He made all the way to his momma’s house in West Carroll before she called him in.”

DuPont immediately cut on the lamp and sat up in bed. “A man of the cloth?” he asked.

“Yessir. I tried calling Dirk but I can’t reach anyone over there. Do you want me to head out that way?”

The Sheriff threw off the covers. “No!” he said. “Don’t no one head out that way. I’m heading out there myself.”

“But sheriff, if there was a fire, it might be pretty dangerous. At least let me alert Chaz and the fire department.”

DuPont already had his khakis and button up on. He shook his head a moment and thought. “Yeah. Yeah Pete. Call up the fire department. Before I head out to Morehouse, I want to check on something first.”

“Do you want someone to come with you?”

“No. There will be no paperwork on this if you catch my drift. It’s Morehouse Parish’s problem technically. I’m just headed that way out of curiosity.”

“I catch your drift sheriff but should I be concerned?”

DuPont reached for his Stetson off the dresser and placed it on his head. “Well, I’ll tell you what,” he said, “if you don’t hear from me by nine A.M., you’ll have your answer.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Jack Hardcock: The Wrath of God (Part IX)

“At least carry a sidearm Dad!” Jack advised his dad.

“No!” Rod retorted. “That’s so uncivilized! AND I’m a pacifist!”

“It’s probably not a good idea to attack an entire cartel with only samurai swords!”

Jose had enough and threw the tequila bottle against the wall. “The whole thing is a trap!” he screamed.

“No it’s not!” Rod replied.

“It’s definitely a trap,” Jack added.

“Why would they lead us into the United States?” Jose continued. “If we cross the border and kill a bunch of guys, then we’re subject to US law! How do we know that the authorities aren’t watching us?”

Rod picked up his sword and began twirling it around. “We have them on the ropes,” he said. “This might be our last opportunity to finish what we started, Jose.”

“Then we should lead them back across the border and attack them on Mexican soil!” Jose replied.

“No!”

“Dad, if we kill ‘em on Mexican soil then we can get away with this scott free!” Jack pleaded.

“No! Noooooooooooo!”

Rod threw his samurai sword into the air and with one swift kick, he broke the sword in two. Jack and Jose stood in awed silence before Jose picked up the two broken pieces and shook his head. “You’re marching towards your death, Rod,” Jose said, “and I want no part of it. Where will this madness end?”

Jose dropped the pieces on the ground and began walking towards the door. Rod looked out the window into the barren New Mexican landscape. “This is my last cry, as my last blood flows,” he uttered to himself. “Then, O my Tyrians, besiege with hate His progeny and all his race to come: No love, no pact must be between our peoples.”

Jose stopped in his tracks. “What the hell are you talking about now?”

“The Aenied,” Rod said.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m an old man, Jose. I didn’t choose this life, and neither did you. Our whole lives, we’ve understood the risks but we rolled the dice anyway. Now’s not the time to back down. We don’t play defense. Now’s the time to attack! Right here, right now! NOW’S the time to make them pay for what they’ve done!”

“Fuckin’ A!” Jack seconded.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Jack Hardcock: The Wrath of God (Part XIII)

“This bullet wound ain’t shit,” Jack said. The bikers were carrying him away while dodging fire from the high flying hueys. While deep in the cover from the surrounding jungle, Jack attempted to cauterize the wound Rambo-style. But this was a spectacular failure and he soon went into shock.

After spending five days in a coma, Jack awoke to find his father standing over him. “Goddamn you, Jack,” Rod said. Then he punched his son out.

Jack spent five more days in a coma due to a severe concussion. When he awoke again, he found himself in a shack far away from Juarez. “Where the hell are we?” he asked.

The scarred up biker sitting nearby put down the tequila bottle. “Puerto Paloma,” he said, then belched and farted.

“Mexico?”

“Nuevo Mexico.”

Jose barged in splashing water on his face and cursing. “Hijo de puta!” he yelled.

“Why are we in the United States?” Jack asked.

Jose picked up the tequila bottle and shook his head. “While you were in a coma, we tracked Pablo and the cartel across the border,” Jose explained. “Your father is a bastardo.”

“Where is he? Whatever business my father had with cartel is over. I’m taking him with me.”

“Good luck with that,” Jose retorted. “He’s not listening to anyone!”

Jack got up from the dusty floor and walked out into the blazing sun. A few yards away was another shack where Jack presumed his father to be. He swung open the door where he found Rod Hardcock in deep meditation. “We’re leaving,” Jack ordered after he kicked in the side.

Rod emerged from deep thought and picked up a pair of nunchucks. He swung them around his body just inches away from Jack. “The fuck are you doing?” Jack asked.

“Why did you come to Mexico?” Rod responded, still focused on nunchuck practice. “I don’t need your help.”

“I’m not here to help you. I’m here to get you away from this mess!”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re 76 years old dad! Why are you still running around with a murderous gang of bikers?!”

Rod threw down the nunchucks and looked his son square in the eye. “You think I can’t hang? Try me!”

“Dad, you don’t want none of this.”

“I don’t want to fight you! I’m a pacifist! But I see that you’re still carrying around that pathetic .38. Come on now! You’re a big boy! Give it a shot!”

Jack cocked his head. “You want me to shoot you?”

“Shiiiiiiit, that bullet won’t come near me!”

Jack shrugged, pulled out the .38 and pointed it at his father. “I don’t know what you think this will prove,” he said, “but if you really want me to shoot you…”. He fired a single round and in less than a blink of an eye, Rod threw a shuriken which completely deflected the bullet.

“Mother of god,” Jack gasped.

Rod chuckled. “You still think your old man has nothing left to prove?”

“Alright then,” Jack replied while he re-holstered his gun, “so you’re a pacifist, eh? I should have known that you’ve become a filthy heathen. But why chase the cartel? What’s the point?”

Rod pulled an immaculate Samurai sword from off the wall and slowly swung it around. “You’re a messenger of the Lord’s Word,” he explained, “but I live by the Way of the Blade. I don’t know why fate has chose me, but I know it’s my duty to purify this land of its violent ways…specially by the tip of my sword.”

“Okay dad,” Jack agreed, “I will help you, but only because I have some unfinished business with Pablo. And after we mercilessly kill all of them, you’re coming with me.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Jack Hardcock: The Wrath of God (Part V)

Pablo Santora pushed a shot glass across the bar. Jack picked up the glass and took one look at the liquid. “Tequila is piss water,” Jack said, “fortunately I like piss.”

After he swallowed the drink, Jack asked for another. Pablo laughed as he unscrewed the bottle. “I know why you’re in Juarez, Jack,” he said.

“Why am I in Juarez, Pablo?”

Pablo poured the tequila and leaned forward. “The cartel the coming for you,” he warned, “you’re gonna need more than a gun that’s smaller than your dick.”

Jack reached for his .38 special and grabbed Pablo by the shirt. “How would YOU know how big my dick is?” he asked, “I know you are with the cartel. So give them a message for me: release my father or I’m coming for ALL OF YOU!”

“Estas loco Jack!” Pablo yelled.

Maria quickly broke up the fight. “Come to your senses Jack!” she pleaded. Jack released Pablo and placed .38 back in its holster. “I stopped by La Casa de La Muerte to deliver that message,” he said, “I’ll be back in a few days to see if that message was received.”

Jack straitened himself out and walked out the front doors. Maria rushed out after him. “I’m so sorry Jack,” she said, “but I couldn’t wait on you forever!”

Jack stopped in his tracks. “But why Pablo?” he asked.

She said nothing.

“What Pablo wants, Pablo gets,” Jack said, “and if it’s death he wants, then I’m happy to deliver.”

Jack walked away and a few blocks later he was kidnapped by some desperados in a pedo van.

TO BE CONTINUED..

Jack Hardcock: The Wrath of God (Part IV)

The border crossing station stuck out against the barren desert. The two guards laughed as they contemplated their easy assignments. “Lo tenemos hecho,” one said to the other.

Suddenly a lone figure barged in. The guards stared in awe at the ominous character. “Passport, please?” one asked in broken English.

The mysterious figure pulled out his .38.

“Jack Hardcock,” a guard gasped.

“Which way to Juarez?” Jack asked.

The guards silently pointed to the west.

“Gracias,” he said.

As Jack walked away, the guards watched as marched towards the horizon. “Dios ayudanos,” they uttered.

Gunshots and Mariachi music echoed through the streets of Juarez. Jack feared no evil as he walked through the valley of death. He knew the city would face the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah; God’s vengeance would soon reign.

If he himself was the one to deliver this vengeance, Jack did not know.

“I’m looking for La Casa de La Muerte,” Jack said to a random street vendor.

“Que?” the vendor replied.

“I’m an American,” Jack stated, “it’s my right to not speak Spanish. So you better answer me or answer to my .38!”

“sé lo que estás diciendo,” the vendor said, “pero no conozco este lugar.”

Jack pistol whipped the vendor and prepared to empty his revolver into the poor bastard. But Heaven granted the man a reprieve: at that moment, an angelic voice appeared. “Jack, no!” it ordered.

Jack’s hand began to shiver as he aimed the .38. He knew this voice.

“Maria,” he uttered.

Jack slowly turned around. Maria was as radiant as a bluebonnet under the Texas sun. He thought he’d never see her face again. “Wh-what are you doing here?” he asked.

“I’ve been in Juarez for sometime,” she said, “why did you not respond to my letters?”

“Maria,” he pleaded, “I’m so sorry. I…”

That moment, Pablo Santora came marching up in his Wrangler jeans and snakeskin boots. He put his arm around Maria. “Jack,” Pablo smiled from underneath his mustache, “so pleasant to see you again.”

“Pablo,” Jack simply said. He had to restrain himself.

Pablo lifted a cigar to his mouth. “Jack, old friend,” he continued, “I am the proprietor of La Casa de La Muerte. Please, stop by and see us, yeah?”

“Thank you for the invitation, Pablo,” Jack said.

“Mi amigo,” Pablo chuckled, and he slowly strolled away.

Jack and Maria continued to lock eyes.

“Why Maria?” Jack asked, “Why Pablo?”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Jack Hardcock: The Wrath of God (Part I)

Brother Joses stood over his parish like a specter from the past. He was no mere preacher; he was a prophet of things to come.

“The Lord is not a Lord of peace,” he proclaimed to his captive audience, “as Isaiah told us: See, the day of the Lord is coming — a cruel day, with wrath and fierce anger. . . . I will put an end to the arrogance of the haughty. . . . Their infants will be dashed to pieces before their eyes; their houses will be looted and their wives violated. I shout to the world with the power of a thousand trumpets: repent! For the Lord shall have His vengeance!”

The parishioners nodded, too awestruck to proclaim their faith with revelry.

In the front pew sat Jack Hardcock, his hands trembling. He had seen the wrath that Joses spoke of, for he was It’s one instrument. And Jack’s own instrument of Death was none other than the Smith & Wesson .38 special. It was holstered securely underneath his jacket. But the fiery message of Brother Joses was speaking to his God-given urge to kill.

Jack quietly stood up, buttoned his jacket, and proceeded to exit the chapel. Halfway to the door, with his back turned toward Brother Joses, the preacher shouted: “Brother Jack, the Lord does not call upon the faint of heart!”

Jack turned around, unbuttoned his jacket, and pulled out the .38. The parishioners sat silently as he unloaded the revolver, leaving one in the chamber. “Do you trust the Lord?” asked Jack.

Joses said nothing as beads of sweat poured down his face. Jack spun the revolver and placed the stubbed barrel up to his chin. “I certainly do,” he said.

Then he pulled the trigger.

A few screams echoed through the chapel, but there was no gunfire. Jack stood there, barrel still to his chin, laughing at the weakhearted parishioners.

But Joses didn’t flinch.

“It appears as though I am one of God’s chosen,” Jack said to Joses. Then he pointed the .38 at the preacher.

“Are you?” he asked.

Jack pulled the trigger, unleashing a bullet that went clean through Joses’ shoulder. Blood splattered all over the Christian flag. Pandemonium broke out as parishioners rushed to their preacher’s aid.

“Faint of heart?” Jack chuckled to himself. He shook his head and walked out the front doors. As he proceeded down the steps, Jack looked out into the barren Utah landscape. He noticed a lone figure standing in the dusty wind.

Jack squinted.

“Could it be?” he thought.

It was his own flesh and blood; his brother. It was Peter Hardcock.

“Don’t you know that Mormons are godless heathens?” Peter asked.

“Peter,” Jack said, “I’m so sorry. After my last case, I had to go somewhere. The Mormons were the only ones that would take me in. I’m sorry that I never reached out.”

“Nevermind that,” Peter replied, “our father is missing.”

“Our father?”

“Yes. Our father is missing and he needs your help. Rod Hardcock has been taken prisoner by Mexican cartels.”

TO BE CONTINUED…