Mer Rouge (Part 31)

His arms were outstretched like the crucified Christ. Wrists and ankles tied by leather straps. A single wash rag, dampened by torrents of water, was draped over his face. Sheriff Dirk reached for the faucet above the prison’s head and opened it wide. Water splashed onto the rag and the prisoner wiggled and gagged to no avail. Off to the brightened corner of this colorless and soiled cellar, Deputy Simpson protested. “Well shit Dirk! Is this the Spanish Inquisition?”

Dirk looked the deputy dead in the eyes and opened the faucet again. The prisoner resumed the squealing and gagging and Simpson shook his head and looked to the floor. The sheriff cut off the water and the prisoner cursed. “What would you know about that?” he asked his deputy.

“I just know in the year of our lord, 1983, this seems a little — I dunno —inhumane!”

“Some techniques stand the test of time,” the sheriff said. And then he removed the rag from the prisoner’s face and leaned forward. “Isn’t that right?” he asked the man.

“I told you! I don’t know shit about the priest!” Hutch screamed.

“Nothing huh?”

“All he said was he wasn’t Catholic!”

“Shit,” Dirk uttered. He draped the rag back over Hutch’s face and put his hand on the faucet. Before it could be turned, Deputy Simpson stepped in. “Why don’t we give it a break, yeah?” he suggested to Dirk.

“What would that do?”

“It might give the man some time to, ya know, think things over.”

Dirk chuckled at the suggestion and nodded. He approached the deputy in a somewhat minacious manner and rested his hand on his shoulder. “Take him back to his cell,” the sheriff ordered. Then he patted Simpson on the cheek. Once when his superior was out of earshot, he removed the wet rag from Hutch’s face, undid the straps, and helped the prisoner to his feet.

“Thank you for that,” Hutch said.

“Shut the fuck up and let’s go.”

The deputy took him by the elbow and marched him up the stairs to the main cell block. First they stopped by a linen closet. The deputy gave him a stack of dry clothes and they continued their march, which ended in front of Hutch’s cell. Moses was already in his bunk. Simpson unlocked the cell and nudged Hutch inside. When he closed it and locked it, he rested his elbows on the bars and gave Hutch a stern glare. “You better tell him what he wants to hear,” the deputy warned. “Cuz I can almost promise you that something worse is coming down the pike.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 29)

He waltzed back into the empty parking lot and opened the rear window to the Gremlin. There wasn’t much inside. A few pornos and socks. The priest picked up a porno, the March issue of Penthouse, and thumbed through it. He nodded and rolled it up. After shutting the window, he eyeballed the poorly lit parking lot and saw an old Ford F-100 parked in the rear of the lobby. The priest presumed it was the old man’s. He walked up to it and dug through the rusted up bed and found a gas can and a garden hose. Then he took out a pocket knife, cut the hose, and stuck one end into the tank and the other in the gas can and siphoned the gas. When it was full, he capped the can and carried it to the other end of the motel directly to his room. The time was 11:37pm. The lights were out in the room next door.

The priest unlocked the door to his room and cut on the lights. The beds weren’t made and there were finger prints on the mirror and two mice were fighting on the bathroom sink. To the right was the adjoining door to the brothers’ room. He put his ear to the door and listened. Not a sound was heard. Were they sleeping? This was a little too easy, the priest thought. But not wasting the opportunity, he cut off the lights and began picking the lock with a hairpin. When the catch released, the knob turned smoothly and the priest readied the .38. Then he took the rolled up Penthouse and stuffed one end into the gas can. Cautiously, he peeked open the door. Through the dark, he squinted his eyes to see still lumps under the covers of each bed. Content, he lit the protruding end of the porno on fire and quickly rushed into the room and sat the gas can between the beds. Once back across the threshold, he lifted the .38 and shouted. “See you in hell!”. He fired the gun. The bullet pierced the gas can and the room erupted into an inferno.

But through the heat and deluge of fire, the priest realized he had been had by the oldest trick in the book. As the flames spread across the beds, no one was underneath the covers. It was only rolled up blankets and pillows. Recognizing the deception, the priest rushed back out to the Gremlin as fire overtook the motel. Once in the driver’s seat, his godly senses began tingling. Without a second to spare, he leapt out of the vehicle as his stolen death can exploded into a hellish mushroom. Laying face down on the pavement, half conscious and the Gremlin ablaze, the priest came to and climbed to his knees. Gunshots rang from the roof and ricochet around him. With the shotgun lassoed around his shoulder, he unloaded it in the direction of the gun blasts and hurried his way backward toward the treeline.

Interrupting this exchange, the old man busted out of the lobby with an automatic M16 and unleashed it. “Take that you cocksuckers!”

But both the brothers and the priest disappeared into the darkness.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 26)

It was sundown when the Priest rolled into Morehouse Parish. On the outskirts of Oak Ridge, he saw the abandoned Harley and sidecar off to the side of the lonesome highway. He pulled over and stepped out of the Gremlin with the Smith & Wesson ready. The engine ran with the front lights shining onto the bike. He walked around it. He checked the sidecar. Nothing. Then he looked up. Headed in his direction was a torrent of motorcycles roaring down the thoroughfare. The priest reholstered the .38 and calmly walked back to the vehicle. As the gaggle of motorbikes passed, a few of them stopped. There were maybe three dozen of them. One popped down the kickstand and dismounted. Sporting a half helmet and cutoff sleeves, the biker approached the abandoned Harley and looked it up and down. His compatriots all stopped. They had both the Harley and the Priest surrounded. Then the dismounted biker shook his head and spat. “Flat tire huh?” he said to the priest.

“It appears so.”

“Is it yours?”

“No sir.”

The biker stood with his hands on his hips. “Well shit,” he said. Then he whistled. “Hey Dirk! Get yur ass over here!”

A bike roared up from the rear and threw down the kickstand. Its rider stepped off and lowered the gaiter covering his face. The priest’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t recognize the name but the face triggered a faint memory. Dirk was huge. Maybe six foot four. He wore a denim vest with a bare chest underneath. The tattoo over his heart was hardly visible but it was clearly that of Aryan Nation. From underneath his smock, the Priest laid his hand on the butt of the .38. But the man, Dirk, approached the derelict Harley and nodded. “This is Oak Ridge’s problem,” he said. Then he turned to the priest who was seated on the hood of his stolen Gremlin. “Where are you off to, father?”

The priest shrugged and deflected. “Oh I was just wonderin up north.”

“Do you have any business in Morehouse Parish?”

“None that I’m aware of,” he lied.

Dirk glared at him something fierce which was followed by a long silence. “Well keep wonderin north. And stay the hell out of my parish,” he warned. Then he lifted the gaiter back over his face and climbed onto the bike. Dirk rode out in front of the herd and the army of hellraisers followed him northbound.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 24)

The priest put his ear to the frail wood panel wall and focused. After one of the brothers spoke, a muffled voice responded. “Who the fuck are you guys?”. Given the clarity of the brother’s voice, it indicated that they were facing the back wall the priest hid behind. The exchange continued.

“We’re looking for the spring. Where is it?”

“What fucking spring?”

“We’re not stupid, Mr. Fornier.”

“I don’t know of any goddamn spring.”

“And the water you sell?”

“Look, if you want any of that snake oil piss, I’m a little busy right now…”

A gunshot rang out followed by the sound of a body collapsing to the floor and the Fornier man cried out. “You dun shot my knee!” he yelped. Shaken, the priest holstered the Smith & Wesson and readied the 12 gauge Mossberg hidden under his smock. By now, voices were so heightened that there was no need to put an ear to the wall. The priest quietly mumbled his prayers.

“Who provides you with the water?” he heard a brother ask.

“I…I…it’s my cousin!”

“Where is he?”

“He’s a deputy with the Morehouse Parish Sheriff’s Department!”

“In Louisiana?”

“Yes!”

Another shot was fired and Fornier’s whimpering stopped. The priest kicked open the back door with the shotgun ready. In the brief flash of time before shots were fired, the priest noticed Fornier’s body draped in a barber’s cape with his jaw half covered in shaving cream while the panic stricken barber stood off to the side with his hands in the air. Thankfully, the priest was correct in where the brothers were standing. Without a second to spare, he unloaded the shotgun towards the brother standing on the right and the glass shattered behind him. It was apparent he missed the kill shot, yet the brother stumbled backwards and the other began ripping bullets from what appeared to be a Tommy gun. The priest leapt back behind the wall and the bullets tore through the wood. When he attempted to return fire, the brothers were already outside of the barbershop and one dispatched a Molotov cocktail. The flames roared through the shop, across Fornier’s body, and cutting off the main entrance. While the barber himself was on the floor desperately trying to escape the smoke, the priest reached out a hand. “Here!” he shouted. Yet another gun shot rang out and struck the barber in the back. The priest, now laying low to the ground, crawled back towards the rear entrance. Once outside, as smoke billowed from the building, he ran down the back alley and towards the front. When he got there, the brothers and their bike were long gone.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 23)

On the city outskirts, where the cliffs drop sharply, the motorbike pulled off into a gravel pit where a shanty ice cream shack overlooked the mighty Mississippi. The brothers dismounted the bike and joined the gaggle of denizens standing in line for a tasty summer treat. When their turn arrived, the server sporting a white soda jerk hat, removed the pencil behind his ear and put it to paper. “What can I get you boys?” he asked them. But the brothers only glared at him from behind their reflective shades, their faces as unflappable as a clear midnight moon. The man nodded. “Oh okay. I’ll just get y’all a vanilla cone,” the server said. He brought them the cones, already dripping from the excessive heat, and the brothers wandered off to a lonely corner of the pit and gazed upon the wide river below with the green flats on Louisiana on the other side.

This puzzled the Priest. There was something hauntingly serene about these two men as they shared their moment of solitude. It didn’t appear that they exchanged a word. But the priest watched them from afar. He tailed them stealthily in a nondescript beige Chrysler that he stole in a parking lot in Memphis. He’d occasionally break visual contact down Highway 3 to avoid detection. Yet the priest was beside himself when he discovered the charred remains of Deputy Ricketts and his squad car. He had only been minutes behind. Now he laid low. He looked to the backseat to check on the 12 gauge Mossberg and then he reached into his cossack to check the chamber of a Smith & Wesson .38/44.

Meanwhile, the brothers took their sweet ass time munching down the cones. But when they finished, one climbed back on the bike and one into the sidecar and they roared their way on into Vicksburg. The priest trailed behind. A couple of miles later, the brothers entered the nearly deserted downtown area and the priest pulled off into an alleyway and readied his weapons. A block away, the brothers stopped by a lonely barbershop and dismounted. With a shotgun under his smock, the priest sauntered over to mainstreet and saw the deserted motorbike. Not wishing to attack them head on, he continued towards the alley behind the barbershop and picked its lock. Once inside, he held the Smith & Wesson and tiptoed his way through the back end of the shop. He could hear the brothers on the other side of the wall.

“Are you Fornier?” a voice asked.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 23)

The screeching cicadas pierced through the cold silence as the sweat built up on the deputy’s neck. Not a peep was uttered by the suspicious duo. Not even a slight movement. They sat there hard and still like marble statues. The deputy stepped toward the grass and spat out the last remaining hulls between his teeth. “Well boys, are you gonna show me some identification?”

Nothing changed. He looked them up and down but couldn’t make heads or tails on what they might be hiding. They didn’t seem nervous. Not even a bead of sweat was apparent under all that leather. The deputy nearly asked them to step off the bike but before he did, a rickety pickup rounded the corner and sounded the horn. “Evening deputy!” the driver shouted. It was Hopper returning to his farm. The deputy turned his back and waved before resuming his duties. And when he did, the duo was gone. Vanished. Only the bike and the puny sidecar remained.

Ricketts drew his service revolver and searched the treeline. When he came up with nothing, he charged across the road and looked there. Out of options, he returned to the squad car and radioed in. “This is Ricketts. I’m out here on Highway Three and I urgently need another deputy…”

Before he could finish the request, a gigantic fireball exploded underneath his vehicle, lifting it a foot or two in the air before crashing back down. Then, out of the shadows, the brothers reappeared and assessed the carnage. The flames flashed brilliantly through their reflective shades. Satisfied with the destruction, they boarded the bike and kickstarted the engine. But clinging on to dear life, Ricketts pushed the drivers side door off its hinges and fell face first onto the pavement with revolver still in hand. His legs were blown off below the knees, left arm mangled, and his hair and clothes were burning into black carbon. “I’ll kill you!” he screamed with his dying breath. And in his final act, he emptied the revolver in the duo’s direction. Befuddled, the brothers flattened themselves to the ground and drew their weapons. But they watched the deputy pitiably claw his way across the road before the patches of fire spread and consumed him whole in the middle of the asphalt.

The brothers stood up and straightened themselves out and they faced each other for a hot moment. One nodded and the other returned it. Then they climbed on the bike and roared on into Vicksburg.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 22)

The putrid and rank possum’s corpse laid on the southbound lane headed into Vicksburg. For three days it festered under the sweltering August heat, with red guts spattered on both sides of the road before spoiling and flattening into a pancake with a few scant shit flies picking at its remains. On the northbound side, Deputy Gene Ricketts rested his squad car underneath the large sweetgum lined up on the left side entrance to the old Hopper farm by the lonesome highway. With the driver’s side door open, he spat countless sunflower seed hulls into the unkempt grass while Don Williams softly played. But when the sunflower seeds couldn’t keep his mind off the spittin tobacco, he turned to the 100 proof Jack in the concealed thermos on the passenger’s side floor. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the heat ratcheted up ten degrees every hour. As the time slowly passed, the deputy would dab a rag across his forehead. Eventually, the song faded out and the radio station transitioned to the latest country hit. And as it did, the deputy looked down the road towards the north. A mile or two ahead, through the unbearable Mississippi heat and mirage waves, a small motor vehicle came barreling towards him—an easy speeding ticket, likely his only for the day. He squinted his eyes. It was a motorcycle clearly, but with something peculiar. It had a sidecar. The deputy closed the door and cut on the engine and waited for the bike to roar past him. And when it did, the siren blared and the Warren County squad car sped away from the dirt patch on the side of the road and left a cloud of red dust lingering behind.

The bike didn’t put up much of a fight. Upon noticing the deputy behind, the driver pulled over and braked. The squad car stopped two or three meters away. Deputy Ricketts climbed out, shades concealing his eyes, and he slowly sauntered towards the offending vehicle. There were two men—one on the bike and one in the side car. Neither turned around. Neither made a sound. “Well boys,” the deputy said, “that’s one helluva knucklehead ya got there. Not sure if the sidecar is street legal. But I might let it slide.”

The two men—decked out in black leather, mud washed denim, and wearing German-made half helmets—remained silent. The deputy looked at the license plate. “Ontario?” the deputy beamed. “Canadian, eh?”

They said nothing.

The deputy strolled up to the front of the bike to gander at their faces. His brow furrowed. Like him, the two men had their eyes concealed behind reflecting shades. Their faces looked cut from stone, each sporting a dark chevron mustache. If the deputy had to have guessed, he would have reckoned they were twins. “My my,” Ricketts spoke, “don’t you two make quite a pair.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 21)

Oren lifted his head back as the smoke of freshly lit tobacco filled his eyes. He squinted a tad as he glared at the priest. He exhaled. Then he waved away the smoke. “I’ve heard the name before,” he told the priest..

The priest nodded. “You should have. He was a famous conquistador.”

Oren smirked, spat on the floor, and took another drag. “So you’re saying he shares a name with a famous conquistador?”

“No. I’m saying he is Hernando De Soto.”

Oren failed to contain his disbelief. He quickly guffawed then shook away his doubt momentarily. But before he said anything, he took the jug of shine. He drank of it and tried to work through the priest’s logic. “Let me get this straight,” he said, “Hernando De Soto is still alive because he found the fountain of youth. Now he’s hoarding it and pretending to be a judge of some city in the armpit of America. Did I get this right?”

“That’s a pretty asinine way of putting it. But yes.”

“It’s asinine. But that’s what you’re telling me.”

“Look son. I ain’t asking you to believe me. But I am asking you for your help. This fountain is the last of its kind. We destroy it, save your brother, and this curse on mankind is over with.”

“Last of its kind?”

“Yes. There were other fountains all around the world. I was a part of a holy order sworn to destroy all of them. Now I’m the last of that order. I destroy this fountain and my life’s mission is complete.”

“Uh huh. So, uh, how do you propose we destroy this fountain?”

The priest leaned back and stroked his long white beard. Then he gazed out past the shit smeared windows to the tall, scraggly grass outside and thought. “I haven’t thought that far ahead,” he said. “As I’m sure you can imagine, it ain’t gonna be easy. Of course, it doesn’t help that we ain’t the only ones lookin for it either. The Nine boys seem to have gotten a head start.”

Oren’s headache was starting up again. “Oh for fucks sake, who are the Nine boys?”

“Well, really they’re just called the Nine. But there’s only two of them.”

“Are they out to destroy the fountain too?”

“No. They aimin to take it.”

While struggling to understand this convoluted quandary, Oren thought it best to start pounding the shine. And in the midst of lingering between inebriation and a full blown concussion, it occurred to him that his objective remained—retrieve his brother and get the hell out of Louisiana. If he could find those stolen vacuum cleaners, that would be nice too. He kicked the tires with the priest. Maybe there was a solution in all this nonsense. “So are you gonna let em take it?” Oren asked.

“Shit. I don’t know which is worse—the Nine boys or Moorhouse Parish Sheriff’s Department.”

“How fuckin bad could it be? You said there were only two of them!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 20)

The priest took out a pack of matches and struck one. He lit his cigarette and then Oren’s and flicked his wrist a few times to snuff out the flame. And like all the other crap he had owned, he tossed the discarded match onto the floor. His eyes narrowed as the smoke rose. He took a drag and then another and leaned forward as his voice lowered to a haunting gist. “Mer Rouge is a sinister place,” he spoke.

Oren, non plexed, looked the priest dead in the eye. “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”

“I mean, the sheriff. The mayor. The judge. They ain’t what they seem.”

“Uh huh”

The priest dabbed on the cigarette and let the ash fall to the floor. “They come from a cursed past that should be buried under the sands of time. No man hailing from this age should ever utter their names. Their conquests. The things they discovered here. Humanity should have never of found.”

Oren, slightly irked, rubbed his forehead with the cigarette dangling between his fingers. “I’m not following,” he said.

“Here. Have some more shine,” the priest said. He handed him the jug and Oren took a small swig. The priest tapped on his cigarette again and continued. “No man was meant to live forever,” he warned. “I’ve been around the world and if there’s one lesson I’ve learned is that death is as vital as the air we breathe. Despite our instincts, immortality is a curse. It’s damnation. It chains us to an inescapable and abominable past that must be castigated.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

The priest slapped the cigarette out of Oren’s hands. “Listen to me goddamnit! There’s something here! In Mer Rouge! Something that needs to be destroyed and sent back to Hell!”

“Well spit it out damnit!”

“Alright alright.” The priest calmed himself and picked up the shine jug. “It’s the fountain of youth,” he said. “Judge Castor controls the fountain of youth.”

Despite his instinct to laugh, Oren entertained this story. “I thought that was in Florida.”

“No. It’s here in Louisiana.”

“That’s even worse.”

Oren reached for the priest’s smock and took out the pack of cigarettes along with the book of matches. He took one out and put it to his lips. “So uh, how did this Judge Castor come to control the fountain of youth?”

“Cuz he ain’t Judge Castor.”

“Is that right?” Oren asked with a shade of snark. Then he waved out the match.

“That’s right,” the priest nodded. “His real name is Hernando De Soto.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

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…