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 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 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…

Mer Rouge (part 4)

Oren hopped back into the pick up and immediately cut on the engine. He watched the rear view mirror as Hutch sauntered over to Kal’s Kountry Katina with hands in his pockets and one shoe untied. After he disappeared into the thicket of bikers and roughnecks, Oren slumped in the driver’s seat with his hood up. As he approached the bar, the locals looked Hutch up and down. He simply flashed his aw-shucks smile and trudged past them. When he swung open the door, clouds of cigarette smoke bellowed out and the sounds of roaring Harleys outside were replaced with riotous laughter and clanking beer bottles. Above all the noise was the cracking of billiard balls bouncing into one another. Hutch simply shrugged and approached the bar. “Excuse me. Excuse me,” he repeated as he snaked past the towering leatherbound patrons. When he reached the bar, he slammed his hand onto the sticky wood and called for the bartender.

“What can I get you, sweetheart?” the faded blond barmaid asked him. She had a cigarette dangling from her lips.

“A beer,” Hutch said. “AND some information.” Then he held up two $1 bills and he slid the money across the bar. The barmaid didn’t react. “Four assholes stole some vacuum cleaners out of the back of a red 81’ Honcho,” he continued. “I wanna know who did it.”

“Honey, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Gonna play hardball eh?” Hutch dug into his pocket and rolled out a few more dimes. “Now tell me what you do know.”

“Sam!” the barmaid yelled. A stout fella with a leather vest and beer belly waddled towards the bar and hovered behind Hutch and crossed his arms. “What seems to be the problem?” Sam asked the barmaid.

“This fella here is acting like a dumbass,” she explained.

“Excuse me,” Hutch protested. “But a crime has been committed here and I’m trying to get to the bottom of it!”

“That’s what the police are for,” the barmaid said.

“The sheriff is right over there,” offered Sam.

Hutch looked across the bar towards the sheriff. He didn’t like what he saw. It was a tall, clean cut fella, also shirtless and donning only a leather vest. Curiously, the man sported numerous tattoos. Two of them stood out: an iron cross over his chest and a Nazi SS emblem on his forearm. Hutch nodded. “I think I’m good,” he said. “I think I’ll leave and drop this matter altogether.”

“You sure?” asked Sam. “He’s a nice guy and he’ll be happy to help.”

“I’m quite sure. Thanks.”

“Just a second, I’ll call him over. Hey Dirk!” Sam yelled out.

Dirk turned around. His eyes narrowed and he glared in Sam’s direction. When he saw this, Hutch swallowed hard. He knew that if he hadn’t clogged the toilet earlier in the night that he would have shat his pants right then and there. His mind raced. He contemplated making a beeline towards the exit. Then the barmaid returned. “Here’s your beer!” she said to Hutch.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (part 3)

Oren threw open the passenger’s side door and his brother nearly fell out. “What the hell?!” Hutch cried out.

“You had ONE job, Hutch! ONE job!,” Oren yelled. “You couldn’t stay awake for three minutes?!”

“I was tired!”

“And now all of the vacuums are gone!”

Hutch raised an eyebrow and strained his neck trying to look out the rear view window. When he saw that the bed was empty, he furrowed his brow and faced his brother. “No worries,” he calmly explained. “We’ll just go to the police.”

“The police ain’t gonna do shit!”

Oren restrained himself from swinging at his brother. Since there was nothing to be done, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. But Hutch, in a rare moment of self awareness, was embarrassed by his lack of vigilance. He unbuckled himself from the passenger’s seat and stepped out. While Oren was busy choking back tears of rage, he looked around the town square. It was a Friday night and the square was poppin’. The engines of Harley’s and Dodge Ram’s roared up and down the road and they all migrated around the local tavern like moths to a light. Figuring he had to do something, he consoled his brother.

“There there,” Hutch said as he patted Oren’s shoulder. “There’s no shame in a grown man crying. I would never cry in front of another man but it’s okay if you do. So why don’t you sit in the truck while I wander over to the watering hole. Surely someone over there saw something.”

Oren wiped his eyes and nose and looked towards the tavern. It would have been comical if it wasn’t so tragic. Kal’s Komfy Kantina the sign read in gothic lettering. As if that wasn’t enough, a prominent flaming cross was the finishing touch. To Oren, this wasn’t a promising start. But before Hutch marched in its direction, he grabbed his brother by the elbow. “If you get in trouble there,” explained Oren, “I can’t help you.”

Hutch shrugged. “What’s the worst that could happen?” he asked.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (part 2)

Dusk was settling over the delta when they crossed the state line. Oren’s heart sank. His eyes gazed over the flat cotton fields of scraggly trees and twisted debris left over from a long ago storm. A bloated deer carcass was chained to a pillar holding a sign reading Welcome to Louisiana. They were going 8-0 southbound down 165. Oren uncapped a bottle of Bacardi and took a swig. “We need to get in and out, ya hear?” he told Hutch.

“But I gotta piss.”

“You’re gonna have to hold it.”

As he gripped the steering wheel, Oren’s palms turned clammy. Then, when he nearly finished the half pint of Bacardi, they entered the outskirts of Mer Rouge. Hutch scanned the surroundings. As they passed a decrepit yet lively Gulf gas station, he noticed reams of pickups parked outside. As he looked closer, some had dead boars tied to the hood while patrons sauntered into the establishment with shoguns slung over their shoulders. “I don’t know what you’re worried about,” said Hutch. “People seem friendly enough around here.”

“Look at you. Look at me. Notice a difference?”

Hutch cocked his head. “What? Is it because I’m Italian?”

A little further down the road, Oren’s red 81 Jeep Honcho entered the small yet bustling town center and he quietly hoped his Utah tags wouldn’t draw attention. On the other side of the square, off to the right, was Fred’s Hardware Store. Oren pulled past the gaggle of bikers and camo-covered farmers who were drifting into the local watering hole. He squeezed his truck into the tight parking space. Before he climbed out, he left the engine running. “Keep an eye on the shit in the back,” he warned Hutch. Then he slammed the door shut.

The bell dinged as he stepped inside. From behind the counter, a fellow in a blue button up and red hat looked up from his issue of the Louisiana Gazette. This was presumably Fred. Oren placed his hands in his pockets and hastily wandered the aisles searching for a toilet plunger. When he found a row of them in the back, he picked one up and took it to the register. Fred chewed his gum and didn’t move an inch. “From around here boy?” he asked.

Oren stammered. “Uh yeah, I’m from across the border. In Arkansas.”

“Then why do you have Utah plates on that fancy truck of yours?”

“It’s uh. Its my sister’s.”

“Your sister’s huh? So what are you carrying in the bed?”

“Nothin.”

“Nothin?”

“Vacuum cleaners.”

“Vacuum cleaners,” Fred pondered. He popped the gum in his mouth and rang up the plunger. “Well ain’t that a damn shame.”

“What’s a shame?” Oren asked as he pulled out his billfold.

“Oh nuthin. I would have sold them boys a vacuum cleaner at a decent price had they come in here.”

Oren turned around. He saw a flock of hooligans on the other side of the window reach into the bed of his Honcho. Each of them was carrying a large box with a sketch of a vacuum cleaner on the front. Forgoing the plunger, Oren sprinted outside and shouted. “Hey hey hey! What the hell?!,” he screamed. But the youths sprinted off into the woods with his cargo.

“Goddamnit!” he yelled. Then he peeked into the cab. Hutch was sound asleep.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Old miss

So I was just minding my own business while loitering in the Publix parking lot when I saw a guy driving a light blue car with an Ole Miss license plate and Ole Miss bumper stickers all over the back. When he stepped out of the car, he was wearing an Ole Miss polo with an Ole Miss hat.

So I stopped the man. “Excuse me, sir, I’m confused,” I said, “where did you go to college?”

He stood there and stared blankly at me. “Ole Miss,” he finally said.

“Ole Miss? Is that a college?”

“Yes. It’s the University of Mississippi.”

“The University of Mississippi you say? Is that in Mississippi?”

“Yes.”

“That’s great! I’m a fan of bulldogs and cowbells too!”

“That’s Mississippi STATE University, sir. I went to the University of Mississippi.”

“You guys don’t have cowbells and bulldogs?”

“No. We’re the Rebels.”

“The Rebels? Like in Star Wars?”

“No.”

“I don’t understand. If it’s not against Darth Vader and the Galactic Empire, I can’t imagine what you’d be rebelling against.”

“It’s rebels from the South during the Civil War.”

“They were rebelling against slavery, right?”

“No.”

“So they were rebelling FOR slavery?”

“Look, it’s just a college mascot.”

“But that’s racist sir. You’re fucked up,” I said while wagging my finger. “You should really be ashamed of yourself…”

Finally the staff called the cops and I’m now banned from Publix for three months. Smh…I can’t believe the nerve of some people. 😔

a quiet life (part iii)

Look, you guys have been clamoring for this.

I don’t want this story to continue. YOU do.

Therefore I am holding you personally responsible for everything I write henceforth.

***

“You can’t use racial slurs in conference calls!” the Human Resource officer told me.

“Susan, stop,” I said, “you know how much you turn me on when you’re angry.”

“I’m afraid that you will be suspended without pay until the Board decides what to do with you,” she responded.

“I’m not racist!” I declared. “I was simply stating what the Papa John’s guy said in HIS racist phone call!”

“You are hereby suspended. Please vacate the premise.”

“Bitch,” I said as I stood up.

I was so upset that I got drunk and drove to a cockfight. As I was placing a bet, my friend Don noticed something was wrong.

“What’s on your mind Bill?” Don asked as we were sharing a crack pipe.

“I don’t know anymore Don,” I said. “I feel like I’m stalling. All I’m doing is filling my time with sex, drugs, and absurd behavior. It’s gotten me nowhere. I don’t ask for much. All I really want is a quiet life. Sounds simple enough but I can’t seem to get out of my own way. I’m lost and the walls are crumbling all around me. Is it possible Don? Is it possible that I am the problem?”

Don took a hit off the pipe and thought for a moment.

“Nah,” he finally said.

“You’re probably right.”

Then we picked up some hookers off skid row.