Laughed to Death

By Gary Sutherland

When the five members of the Jokers club make the mistake of playing a prank that backfires on Ruben, the toughest man in town, the free-for-all that erupts nearly demolishes the cherished B & C Café, and it opens the way for the group who has suffered longer and oftener than anybody else in the community to put their wishful thinking into action and begin meting out vigilante comeuppance. Set in a present day, small, farming town that failed stunt kick starts the page-turning action of this mystery novel which unfolds in an off-beat plot sprinkled with quirky characters reminiscent of Richard Prather’s Shell Scott series and the darkly humorous crime fiction of Elmore Leonard.

Each Joker, Red, Sonny, Buddy, Junior, and Mac, has a hand in digging his own grave by indulging himself in his own private hideaway, which includes a shed attached to a chicken coop brimming over with gags, novelties, and trinkets similar to those found in souvenir shops, a tree house storing an exotic porno collection, a tiny soda fountain and candy store called the Sweet Shoppe, a frontier style gun shop, and a Corvette logo exhibit and classic car museum. The Jokers’ individual passions dictate the vigilantes’ disguises as pastel chickens, hookers, sugarplum fairies, and Ninjas when they use symbolic methods to execute them. Only Red evades capture and seemingly escapes payback. The vigilantes’ super stealth secures them anonymity, but neither the police chief nor the townspeople care who did it: they all wanted them dead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gary Sutherland
• Release date: Jun 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9780989579605

Gary Sutherland

Writing has always been my passion. Although life has complicated things, I have always written short stories and novels. I taught creative writing and literature for twenty-five years in secondary schools, community college, and adult education. I have attended several writers’ conferences, and each time I won an award for fiction. The contest judges included Guy Owen, William Evans, Becky Weyrich, and Nelle McFather. I have written two other novels besides Nailing the Board. T'Whom it May Concern, and Laughed to Death are also on Smashwords. At present I am working on a fourth novel and gathering research for a fifth one.Writing instructor at the University of Wisconsin-Madison Division, Marshall J. Cook, Murder at Midnight, Twin Killing, The Great Wisconsin Man Manhunt of 1961, said, “Gary, you’re quite the story teller.”I am a former 82 Airborne paratrooper. I live in Sioux City,IA, my home town, with my wife and two cocker spaniels. I am extremely proud of my nephew Jon Beauchaine who has done such a marvelous job on my book covers.

Book preview

Laughed to Death

by

Gary Sutherland

Copyright 2001 Gary Sutherland

Smashwords Edition

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Chapter 1

Ask those guys at the next table to pass the syrup over.

Sonny started to turn in his chair, but he hesitated and looked back at Red.

What do we need their syrup for when we’ve got some on the. . . . His eyes searched the table top. Hey, where’d it go?

Don’t give me any static, Red said through clenched teeth. Just ask them for their syrup.

"Okay, okay. Hold your horses.

Pass the syrup over, please, Sonny asked the broad back of the man sitting closest to him.

Either he wasn’t heard over the muffled roar of men’s voices in the restaurant, or he was ignored. Sonny didn’t know which. He glanced at the man sitting closest to him.

He glanced at Red. Red gestured with his head impatiently.

Excuse me, Sonny persisted, tugging on the man’s sleeve, would you pass over the syrup?

The man snatched his arm away, but the syrup materialized above his shoulder. Alongside his head, the bottle looked about the size of a twenty-five watt light bulb in his fist. His grubby, one-size-fits-all billed cap was adjusted to the widest opening. Tufts of coarse hair jutted out from the gap above the plastic strap. The top of the head visible through the mesh was bald.

Hand it right back. The voice rumbled across the space like a Harley-Davidson passing under an overpass.

You bet! Sonny shouted out smartly.

Give it to me! Red snapped before Sonny even had a chance to turn around.

In an uncharacteristic show of defiance, Sonny clung stubbornly to the bottle.

What are you going to do? he said with a quake in his voice.

Never mind. Here. Pass this one to him, Red ordered, producing their dispenser from beneath the table where he had been futzing with it. He wiped some powder from his hand on to his shirt front.

Oh, no!

Do it! Red glared him down. Hurry up. Bonnie’s bringing his pancakes.

He’ll think I did whatever you done.

No, he won’t. I’ll fess up as soon as he finds out.

You promise?

You bet.

Sonny tapped the hulk gently on the shoulder. Meanwhile, Red winked at the other two sitting at their table. A paw, palm backwards, loomed up. Sonny timidly placed the bottle into the hand. He cringed as he let go, especially when his fingertips were tickled by the man’s ear hair.

There better not be any dribbles on the glass, came the exhaust sound rumble again, which carried clearly through the dull roar of the all-male, peak, rush hour breakfast trade of the B & C Cafe.

Bonnie, with orders stacked up to her armpits, slapped the platters down at the hulk’s table.

Didn’t leave it under the light too long, did you? the hulk growled.

"Shut-up and eat your food. Fat lot you know. That light’s been burned out for months. Where do you think you’re at, Happy Chef? I been ragging at Clyde every day to get a new

one," and she trounced off scratching at her underarm with a hand inside the sleeve of her T-shirt.

Bonnie was the only one in town who was not intimidated by the Hulk, which was what everyone called him behind his back but never to his face. His real name was Reuben, which no one dared address him to his face, either, except Sinclair, the police chief, who wore a gun. It made for uneasiness on what to call him, so no one ever addressed him first. They just caught his attention with deference.

The B & C Cafe started out originally as the Bonnie & Clyde Cafe, but someone tipped off the husband and wife team that it lacked couth, and some potential customers might be turned away. No one could even remember if those were the actual names of the owners even though on the sign which stretched across the front were these large gaps where onnie and lyde were still faintly visible under the faded paint. Some argued that the present cafe operators were the notorious Bonnie and Clyde and that two innocents were ambushed and blown away beyond recognition. Others argued the present Bonnie was the daughter of the gangster Clyde because on their crime spree they stopped here for some carryout, and he had grabbed a quickie. Thinking people claimed that Bonnie’s age didn’t fit. A few thought the two outlaws never got this far north. Whatever the case, no one ever looked it up, but they all agreed on one thing: Bonnie sure was ugly and mean enough to be their kin although Clyde lacked moxie.

Maybe he didn’t order pancakes, Sonny said hopefully.

Don’t you ever pay attention to anything that goes on around you that doesn’t concern yourself? Red shook his head disgustedly.

Well, yeah, I thought I did, but what’s that got to do with it?

How many years we been coming in here?

Sonny’s brow furrowed as he mentally calculated, and then he concluded, A whole bunch, I guess.

How many years has he been coming in here?

Sonny tried hard to come up with the answer he thought Red wanted. ’Bout the same, I guess

Exactly.

Sonny glowed for a moment, forgetting his other trouble.

And you mean to tell me, Red went on, that you never noticed he orders the same double breakfast day in and day out, the Cattleman’s Spread and a stack of pancakes?

Well, no. Sonny was getting a little huffy. And why should I? What difference does it make to me what he eats for breakfast? And, besides, that’s not the point here. The point is what’d you have to go and pick on him for?

Because I don’t like the . . . Oops, here it comes. Watch this.

Red had the advantage from where he was sitting to observe the circular, syruping motion of the hulk’s arm. An even better perspective was enjoyed by the guy at their table who occupied the three o’clock position to Red’s right, and he instinctively hunkered his head turtle-wise into his shoulders as he watched the first forkful of dripping, swollen pancakes climb to hulk’s mouth. Then they watched the fat around hulk’s ears wiggle while he chewed the bite- all except Sonny who could only see the three of them watching the hulk at his back.

Aagh!

The roar caused everyone in the B & C to lose hold of whatever he held in his hand. It was like hundreds of wind chimes were whipped by a sudden gust as knives and forks and spoons and glasses and cups clinked against the table tops and slid and shattered on the floor. One final cymbal-like crescendo topped it all off as Bonnie dropped her arm load of orders. Sonny, who

had a hold of nothing, lost his bladder and bowel control, but it didn’t make him slippery enough.

As if his elbow were guided by radar, hulk swung around and cracked Sonny alongside the head. The force drove his opposite jowl into the table, splitting his ear on the edge. Hulk pinned Sonny to his chair with his monstrous thighs as he got his feet under him while Red shoved the table against him from the other side scrambling out of the way. The only body part Sonny could move was to raise he head slightly and swivel it toward open space just in time to meet hulk’s hoof of a fist. His nose snapped like a celery stalk and burst like a water balloon. He hit the floor on his haunches, covering his face with both hands. Blood gushed over his fingers. Through the peepholes, he made out this mountain of a demon knocking aside chairs and customers and tables to get to him. He slithered backwards on his slippery claws and scuffing heels, tangling up in people’s legs and table posts.

I dihint dwho hit! I dihint dwho hit! he bawled, spewing blood.

Do what? Reuben roared at him in full throttle. He lunged at Sonny and got a hold of his shirt front, but his grip squirted loose from the scarlet goo that drenched it.

Do what, then sucker? How do you know what you’re talking about?

Red and the other two had retreated against the wall. They were grateful when Sonny managed to swivel over on to his hands and knees and gather speed because it carried the action farther away from them. He had reached the back end of the room and like a bumper toy switched in the direction of least obstruction. That carried him between the free-standing counter shaped like a horseshoe and the grill where Clyde did the cooking. Clyde, who up to this time was pretty much in the dark about what was going on, now found himself boiled up in the chase.

Sonny jammed up against him at near knee level. In the dimness of the windowless rear of the cafe and Clyde’s overhanging three hundred pound bulk, Sonny thought his lights had been put out. He flailed around blindly trying to gain handholds to haul himself to his feet and gather more speed, but, in the process, he groped Clyde’s sensitive areas both back and front. Clyde got in some good licks with his spatula, poured a pitcher of pancake batter on Sonny’s back, and scored a few good boots from his Red Wings before hulk knocked him out of the way into the aisle. His sprawling foot struck Sonny solidly under the chin.

Sonny had no recourse but to flee down the middle of the counter. Clyde had constructed a wooden walkway in the space out of two by twos nailed two inches apart to spare his and Bonnie’s varicose veins and give their feet space to breathe. Some said his real motivation was to make himself look taller. The boards on top were worn smooth as pebbles on the beach, but in between they were still as rough as if they just came off the ripsaw. Sonny’s splayed and grappling fingers didn't fit the two inch widths just like walking on railroad ties, and they wedged between the grooves. His knuckles cracked, his nails broke, and splinters pricked his flesh. In his pain, he wobbled from side to side flapping one hand in the air and then the other, going, Aww, Aww! He crashed off balance back and forth into the shelving lining the inside of the counter facings where Clyde stored his non-perishables and cooking utensils and Bonnie stashed her supplies for the counter and tables along with the coffee cans where she dumped the ashtrays.

Salt, pepper, sugar, catsup, mustard, flour, pancake mix, cooking oil, napkins, butt cans, pickle juice showered down on Sonny. Smoke rose from above the counter, chuffing up like a steam locomotive passing through a draw. Clanging and banging, he slipped and slithered upon the dislodged pots and pans. Bonnie’s scummy wipe water and putrid counter rag spilled into his face. Customers poured and shoved whatever came to hand inside the crevice. Most of their

aims were accurate as coffee, orange juice, water, tea, milk, tomato juice drenched his head and back. They pitched in the remnants of their breakfast plates and dumped out their cereal bowls and then tossed in the dishes and cups and glasses and saucers for good measure.

I dihint dwho hit. I dihint dwho hit! echoed from out or the chasm.

Luckily for Sonny, the debris slowed his pursuer barely enough to evade him. Hulk crashed up the corridor like he was walking on peanut shells, swaying with each step. What the customers hadn’t tossed into the opening, he sent flying as they ducked for cover.

Head down, Sonny smacked into the dead end of the counter. He still retained enough of his wits about him to know the only way out was up and over. Just as he flopped his belly upon the counter top, hulk caught up. Hulk grabbed for him, but his hands slipped loose on the streak of yellow pancake batter. Still, he managed to catch hold of Sonny’s thrashing legs and flip him for all he was worth.

I dihint dwho hit! Sonny bawled while he was upside down in the air.

He nailed his landing with his back a foot from the door. All had never seen a collage the composition and colors of what hunched there before them. Its face was horribly bloodied and swollen, and not recognizable as anybody anyone ever knew. The primary colors were red and beige, which all ran together, but brown and green and yellow and gray and orange and white were splattered and daubed everywhere. Bacon strips, grapefruit segments, cigarette butts, globs of oatmeal, cereal flakes, butter patties, scrambled eggs, fried eggs, coffee grounds, ashes, milk, flour, sugar, salt, pepper, whole pieces of toast, and napkins stuck to it.

Everyone expected the conglomeration to spin around and sprint out the door, but as hulk vaulted the counter, it took off along the wall, trailing a cloud of sundry motes. It ran to the first booth, jumped to the seat, bounced to the tabletop, and began leaping along the row. Tables were spilled, knuckles were trounced, and heads whacked before customers could get out of the way. In response, those already intruded upon proceeded to pelt his retreating back with any restaurant accouterment that was handy while those in his path prepared to defend themselves. Meanwhile, hulk thundered down the space occupied by tables between the booth and counter. He swatted people and chairs and tables aside as if they were gnats.

A hail of salt shakers, pepper shakers, ashtrays, napkin holders, catsup bottles, mustard containers, silverware, sugar dispensers struck their mark. People jabbed at his oncoming front with butter knives and forks and even spoons while dashing coffee, milk, water, and juice into his face.

Everyone in the B & C who was momentarily not part of the action was in awe that Sonny stayed beyond the reach of Hulk. That is until he jumped into the last booth against the wall. Now, they anticipated his pulverization with relish.

Sonny bounced from the seat to the floor. Clyde, wielding a Silex coffee carafe, blocked the path between the counter and the grill. Hulk dove at Sonny, and Sonny dove in the direction of Clyde who swung the Silex jug in slow motion at Sonny. All of Clyde’s movements were in slow motion because of his blubber.

Sonny fooled everyone with his gutsiness, though, or brainlessness, depending upon the point of view. He flung himself upon the griddle. His palms, knees, and boot tips sizzled across the surface.

Ow, oo, ow, oo, ow, oo!

The smell of scorching rubber gagged Clyde. Sonny pitched off headfirst onto the floor with his pants on fire. Hulk, who came up empty-handed, straightened in time to receive the Silex in his face. He unclogged Clyde from the bottleneck he caused as easily as Roto-Rooter and as gently and coughed into his ear, I’ll get back to you later.

The impediment created just enough of a delay that Sonny needed, and he was really cooking now. He ran right up into the last booth and stirred up the same kind of pandemonium he had on the other side and caught the same kind of flak in return. No one ever figured out why he didn’t take the floor. Most speculated that the closer he hugged the mopboard the more secure he felt.

The trial by fire gave him just the additional spark he needed, and he outdistanced most of the objects thrown at him while his broken field running deflected most of the pokes and jabs harmlessly off him. This time he knew where the door was even though it was partially obscured by the flurry of missiles that buzzed the interior of the B & C. Smoking, he barreled through the door which had at just the precise and necessary split second swung open before him to run roughshod over Sinclair.

The police chief had time for only a glimpse of the abomination which he deduced must either be wearing some type of hippie costume or be the object of a psychedelic tar and feathering. From the clamor resounding within the B & C, he figured a robbery was in progress. Drawing his gun, he spun around leaving his backside unprotected only to be bowled over by the Hulk.

Blam! The revolver went off accidentally.

Hold it, you two! Sinclair shouted.

Hulk ground to a halt. Even he didn’t think he was invulnerable to bullets. Sonny tangled up in his own feet, fell into the street, and rolled in the dirt thinking he’d been either shot by Hulk, Clyde, or somebody.

Reuben, there was no mistaking him from any angle, what the hell’s going on here? But it was a complete mystery to Sinclair who the person groveling in the dirt was.

By now, everyone had boiled out of the B & C, forming a semicircle around Sinclair. They had all cringed at his pronouncement of Reuben, but they froze stock-still because he had his gun out.

He messed with my food! Reuben bellowed.

I dihint dwho hit, Sonny bawled. His whine was unmistakable to Sinclair.

*****

At that moment, Red and the other guys sauntered around the side of the building from where they had lit out the back door at the first opportunity to the edge of the crowd.

Sinclair, arrest him! Red demanded pointing at Reuben.

A protest went up from the crowd in favor of Reuben. Though no one knew exactly what had gone on, he was the lesser of the evils.

For what? Sinclair shot back.

He beat up on Sonny, Red yelled.

He messed with my pancake syrup, Reuben growled. And besides, I barely even touched him.

I dihint dwho hit, Sonny slurred. Rolling on the ground had put out the fire in the knees of his pants, and the dirt gave him an overall brown cast. With each baby step, he stubbed his toes because the ends of his boots had melted away.

"All of you