Mer Rouge (Part 19)

The priest stomped back into the shed with his head a-buzzin. He couldn’t help but gnaw on his fingers as he tried to figure what the police knew. While lost in the fog of his own mind, Oren initially paid him little attention. But as panic mounted, the priest’s belly rumbled. First he ransacked the small cupboard of goods, littering more crap and much needed food onto the already cluttered floor. Then he turned his eyes toward Oren and barked. “GIMME THEM GODDAMN PEANUTS!”

Oren looked up from his nearly depleted cup. “But I almost ate them all!”

“Just give em to me!”

The priest yanked the cup from his hand, fork and all, and frantically chowed down. Oren was vexed. The ceaseless slurping and moaning wasn’t helping either. When the priest finished the last of the peanuts, he threw the cup over his shoulder and released a hellish fart. “Much better,” he said. Then he uncorked a jug of moonshine and gulped down.

Oren scratched his head. “So I take it that wasn’t the cops that chased us last night?”

“Nope,” he said and then loudly belched.

“Then who were they?”

“It was the West Carroll Sheriff.”

“And?”

“He was asking me about your truck explodin. He had to have gone to the Moorhouse Parish Sheriff but I don’t reckon they told him shit.”

“Was he lookin for me?”

“Yeah he was lookin for ya.”

“Is there a warrant or something?”

“No. But I wouldn’t trust these fuckers as far as you can throw em. So don’t go runnin to the West Carroll sheriff for help! Ya hear?”

“I know that. But how the hell am I gonna get my brother out of jail?”

“Just shut the fuck up. I’m thinkin.” The priest took another gulp of shine. And then another. He didn’t have the courtesy to offer some to Oren. Finally, after drinking nearly half a jug, he sat it down on the frail wooden table and lifted his leg. A second passed and then a tiny, pitiful fart eeked out of his asshole and he leaned forward while clutching his stomach. “Oof. Peanuts and shine are kickin in. Just a moment,” he uttered. Then he stood up, arms still wrapped over his belly, and he stormed out the back of the shed. After about five maddening minutes, the priest came back inside fully refreshed. “Goddamn,” he kept repeating. Then he sat back down at the rickety ass table and pulled out a cigarette, this time offering one to Oren. “Okay son,” he began, “better start drinkin this shine because you ain’t gonna believe what I’m fixin to tell ya.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 18)

The priest waddled nonchalantly across the unkempt yard. His eyes ogled the dilapidated church. When DuPont saw him, he stepped out of the cruiser and rested his hands on top of the opened door. He watched the priest. The West Carroll sheriff had presumed that this man of God noticed his squad car roll up. He had presumed wrong. The priest seemed oblivious. He was mindlessly gawking off into nothing with his thumb up his ass. The sheriff loudly cleared his throat.

“Oh, forgive me! I didn’t see you there!” the priest lied. “What can I do for you, officer?”

DuPont removed his Stetson and extended his hand. “I reckon I should introduce myself. I’m Sheriff DuPont.

“Pleased to meet you.”

“Ya know, I’m ashamed to admit this, but I didn’t know we had a Greek Orthodox Church until someone pointed it out to me the other day.”

“That’s quite alright, sheriff. The diocese just sent me out here. This church hasn’t been used in years, so I’m just wandering around trying to figure out what bullshit needs to be done to fix the place up.”

“I see,” said the sheriff. “Well I won’t keep you long. But there was an incident last night involving an explosion. It occurred about half a mile away from here. Off Kurtzy Road. Did you happen to see anything? Hear anything?”

“No sir. Don’t believe so.”

“Are you certain? The incident occurred about that-a-way,” the sheriff pointed towards the northwest. “It would have been a very loud explosion. You certainly would have heard it from this distance.”

“No sir, didn’t hear nuthin. What time did this happen?”

“Couldn’t say at this point. Probably before midnight.”

The priest squinted his eyes and stroked his long, grey beard. “Hmm. Well I went to bed quite early last night. And I’m a pretty sound sleeper.”

“What time did you lay down?”

“Oh I couldn’t say. Round eight.”

The sheriff nodded. “I see.” Then he placed the Stetson back on his head. “Well if you hear anything, please let my office know.”

“Yes sir. I will.”

DuPont sauntered back to his cruiser and the priest resumed gawking at the church. But as the sheriff opened the door, he spoke up once more. “One other thing, padre.”

This Priest bit his tongue.

“We don’t get too many new faces around here,” the sheriff said. “But you’re always welcome to stop by the sheriff’s office. We like to work closely with the faith leaders in our community. And besides, we need a new chaplain. I encourage you to apply.”

The priest smiled and waved. “I may do that, sheriff!”

DuPont returned the wave and planted himself in the driver’s seat. The priest turned around and walked back toward the church. But before the sheriff started the engine, he called out again. “Also, father!”

The Priest concealed his annoyance.

“There’s a gentleman we’re on the look out for,” DuPont shouted. “A black fella, about five foot eight. His name is Oren Waits. He’s not in any trouble, at least not with us, but if you see him, tell him I want to talk to him.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 17)

Oren was drenched in his own sweat while stowed away in a hotass shed behind Saint JohnChrysostom Greek Orthodox Church near Oak Grove. His brain was pounding. He stepped outside to heave and he found a puddle of petrified and fly infested vomit resting in the ankle high grass. He reckoned that it must have come from him. He didn’t recall. He didn’t recall much of anything from the hours prior. But the late summer mugginess beared down on him like a woolen blanket and he stumbled back into the shed and reached for an old aluminum canteen with only a speckle of water remaining. The piss warm liquid soothed his throat momentarily and then he coughed and collapsed to his knees. While fetaled on the ground, the priest came in. The holy man helped him back to his bed and offered him a white paper cup. When Oren looked at the cup’s contents, he nearly heaved again. After stirring the orangish ooze, the priest placed a small pill in his hand and Oren side eyed him.

“The fuck is this?”

“It’s Beano.”

“What for?”

“It’s for them boiled peanuts. Them things are fart bombs.”

Oren shrugged and swallowed the pill. He picked up the stem of the fork and swooshed it around the cup. Then he sampled the food. It occurred to Oren that the devil himself must be nothing compared to the wrath of a Cajun man’s asshole. And despite a famished stomach, his throat resisted.

“Is this what you people eat down here?” he asked the Priest.

“Well, that and moon bugs.”

The priest reached into his cassock pocket and pulled out a small lobster-like creature. It crawled slightly in the palm of his hand. “I have a whole pool of these things out back. I can get a pot boiling and get em fixed up for ya.”

Oren shook his head. “I’ll stick with the boiled peanuts.”

The priest lifted his shoulders and placed the creature back in his pocket. Then he handed Oren a fresh canteen of water. “Who was that feller you was with last night?”

“What feller?”

“That white feller in the back of your truck.”

“He’s my brother.”

“Your brother?”

“I was adopted.”

“No shit?”

Oren winced as he shoveled more soggy legumes into the face hole. Then he took the fresh canteen and swallowed. “Think he survived the crash?”

“I know he did. The sheriff got him. But I reckon they think you’re dead.”

“Shit.”

“You’re goddamn right shit. Don’t know what they’ll do when they find out you’re not.”

“I gotta get him out of there.”

“Your brother? Good luck.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Not even the best pettifrogger from New Orleans can get a man out of a Moorhouse Parish jail. You have to consult with a higher power.”

“You?”

“That might not even be enough.”

The Priest’s ears perked up as the sound of crushed gravel whispered its way into the shed. He sprung up from the ramshackled cot and glanced through mud smeared glass to see a West Carroll Parish Sheriff’s cruiser pull up to the church. The priest turned to Oren. “Stay here,” he said.

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 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 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 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…