The Truth Stone

By CL Sumruld

A huge dodecagon shaped stone is found in a Tennessee quarry. Its symbolic shape and color draw clandestine Noah’s Ark seekers. The phenomena is simultaneously researched and feared as the characters become both controlled and healed by its out-of-this-world powers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: CL Sumruld
• Release date: Jul 22, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466035744

CL Sumruld

New Mexico born and raised, with stops along the way in Glenwood Springs, CO, Aspen, Ogden, UT, Denver & Sterling, CO and finally Nashville, actually Goodlettsville, TN. Retired from a career in Insurance and Finance, now Carl spends time "butchering wood, spinning yarns, pointing out the smartest, best looking grandkids around while, making music, enchiladas and trouble. "Writing is something I have to do" be it songs/poetry on scraps of paper left here and there or books lacking a few chapters or a real edit. I never run out of words.... written ones anyway. It's the ideas that count, and the story and characters from those idea's played out in prose. A beginning, a middle and an end, now that's the hard part. I love quirky characters, female heroines, good vs evil and animals. A few of my favorite authors and writers are; Charles Dickens,Fyodor Dostoevsky, J.R.R. Tolkien, Leo Tolstoy, Ernest Hemingway, Jane Austen, George Orwell John Steinbeck, Mark Twain. James Joyce. C.S. Lewis. And; Alexandre Dumas, Edgar Allan Poe, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Oscar Wilde, Kurt Vonnegut, Franz Kafka J.K. Rowling, William Faulkner, Stephen King, Stieg Larsson, John Locke, Sara Gruen, J. Carson Black, Gabriel Garcia Marquez ,,J.D. Salinger, Homer, Victor Hugo, Charlotte Bronte, Agatha Christie, Ayn Rand, Robert Louis Stevenson Virginia Woolf, Albert Camus, Douglas Adams, Thomas Hardy, Dean Koontz, Michael Crighton, Herman Melville Dante Alighieri, Harper Lee, Joseph Conrad, Jack Kerouac Emily Bronte, Marcel Proust, Jules Verne, W. Somerset Maugham, Roald Dahl, Philip Pullman, Aldous Huxley Anton Chekhov, Jack London, H. G. Wells, Arthur Conan Doyle, Terry Pratchett, Ray Bradbury, Paulo Coelho John Milton, Henry Miller, ....whew...Dr. Seuss, George Eliot Jodi Picoult, Khalid Hosseini, Hunter S. Thompson John Grisham, Henry David Thoreau, Ian McEwan Joseph Heller, John Irving, H.P. Lovecraft, Taylor Caldwell, Salman Rushdie, Plato, Isaac Asimov, Thomas Mann Nicholas Sparks, Rudyard Kipling, Bram Stoker Nathaniel Hawthorne, I think I'm repeating some, Graham Greene, D. H. Lawrence, Friedrich Nietzsche, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Dan Brown, Toni Morrison, Margaret Atwood Emily Dickinson, Maggie Osbourn, Zecharia Sitchin, Jean M. Auel, Clive Barker, and 100s more, I hope, before my eyes or my mind close.

Book preview

Introduction

The task was to write a clever yet interesting guide to commercial geological material sites. My focus was to be the mining and quarry operations utilized to extract raw materials for the construction industry. Let it be said, ones man’s rock can be another man’s religious awakening. The story within the story, brought about by my contacts with my sandstone expert, changed my task, my outlook and my inner sanctity.

The Cumberland Plateau, in middle Tennessee, is one of the most unique geological areas in the world. Once the bottom of a great sea, in what is now the Caribbean, as the great plates of the earth’s surface moved, shifted, split open and heaved, it became America’s premiere rock farm. The University of Tennessee’s official fight song, Rocky Top, written by Beaudalou Bryant, must have had tiny Crab Orchard in mind. Today the little village and its big sister city, Crossville, claim their fame with stone companies whose yards are filled with pallets of stacked rocks in every size, color and type imaginable. Mansions and tiny cabins alike stand on common footing as stone from Crab Orchard Tennessee makes its way across the country and literally around the world.

In isolated hollows, where multiple football-field-size quarries stand amid geophysically produced cliffs, rock pickers delight in finds of richly colored hard sandstone layered in thickness from 1/2 inch to a foot or more. Crab Orchard Stone is a patented trade name that refers to uncharacteristically hard sandstone that contains a greater degree of silica than customary soft sandstone. This hard silica along with quartz, iron oxide, calcium carbonate, magnesium, and titanium became a special primordial soup that hardened over the eons, layer upon layer. The sedimentary stone takes on an array of colors from pinkish tan to blue gray with soft swirls of accent from yellow to brown. These naturally occurring iron stains and weathering effects made the stone a favorite building material for ancient Native American cultures and early settlers, forming the backbone of settlements as they moved their way across the country.

Its commercial value dates to the early 1900s and continues today as a unique building product. It has been used in such vaulted landmarks as the Vice Presidential mansion in Washington D.C, Rockefeller center in New York, The UAW headquarters in Detroit, Atlanta’s Cathedral of St. Philip and the recently completed Nintendo building in Honolulu. Even Elvis’ famed Graceland and FDR’s Hyde Park were built with Crab Orchard stone elements.

Stone is also the basis of the, yet to be infamous, inscribed wall at Chatata. A real life modern day mystery, it’s stones covered with strange hieroglyphs and graphics caused a national stir in the twenties. Its history is noted here from accounts written over the decades by writers, many like myself who probably never actually saw the wall. Only those early scientific speculators from the Smithsonian saw and touched the mysterious inscriptions. I did visit Tasso (modern renamed Chatata) and talked with old timers who knew of the wall. Today, it is protected by years of earth, plant growth and the landowner. Can its stones tell stories of ancient mysteries and unknown truths? Perhaps some day we will know. Archeologists and geologist tell us that stones show the history of our planet as nothing else can. Stones provide the truth about formation, destruction, and perseverance. For me and my favorite rock pickers a certain stone brought about an awaking of life changing proportions. This is the surreal story of how nice folks interact with incomprehensible events and unbelievable outcomes.

This work is dedicated to the maker and the movers of these stones. One is the creator, the others are those who worship at the all-inspiring awe of his Devine creation and exist on the economic fruits derived from it, the rock pickers.

Believe those who are seeking

the truth. Doubt those who find it.

– Andre Gide (1869 - 1951)

Chapter 1

Reverend Hollis Vandiver arrived at the south entrance of the WCS at his usual 9:30 a.m. The guard recognized the sleek silver Cadillac limo and nodded to the driver as he pressed the button to raise the gate. The limo started to roll but suddenly stopped. The shaded rear window lowered with a near silent whirr. The sentry, a part time security guard, part time fast food restaurant manager and full time student at the local junior college, stepped to the open window of the passenger compartment. He removed his uncomfortable police style hat and leaned toward the open window, wondering why the car had stopped and why he was being summoned.

Yes sir? He spoke to the dark sun-glassed figure inside the limo.

Is it not your assigned task to secure this gate from unauthorized entry? A raspy voice asked.

Yes sir. The guard started feeling uneasy.

You must not assume that just because this car comes through this gate every working day, that I or one of my staff is the occupant. Always, I repeat, always verify that the passenger is on your list. Do I make myself clear?

Yes sir, the guard responded as the mechanical window closed and the car moved away. The guard murmured a favorite expletive under his breath, angered at yet another silly confrontation.

He had overheard his fellow employees hushed conversations in the lunchroom the day before. Reverend Vandiver was getting worse. He’s becoming a psychotic disciplinarian. He’s berating, belittling and bad-mouthing almost every employee he comes in contact with. One of the department managers said, It’s so bad most of the staff feel their best day at work will be their last day on the job. He remembered the cute blond from personnel saying, The stress experienced by those of us who work here is as thick as an ominous fog.

The young guard, like other employees was filled with paranoia and fear of reprisal for the smallest error. As he resumed his position at the gate, he shrugged. At least the money’s good. The top rate compensation in the otherwise low paying market was the only reason he stayed on board.

In the office of the Executive Director, the Reverend, who had thus far called to task the guard, the receptionist, the janitor, and his own personal secretary, picked up the phone and dialed his Chief of Security.

Wilson, when are you going to get with the program and make your people follow proper procedure? I want every car checked and every person’s identity verified. That is what security means doesn’t it? If I ever have to make another call to you on this subject I’ll find another Chief of Security. He hung up before he heard a response and turned his attention to the neatly stacked folders in the middle of the huge marble-topped desk.

Each folder contained a log that indicated any new documents that have been added to each specific file and an area to notify his secretary of distribution to other staff members. On top of this morning’s stack was a copy of a magazine article. Its bold headline doubled the Reverend’s blood pressure.

World Times Exclusive

Religious Organization Feeds

Egos, Ignores Hungry

The building complex and grounds covers over 200 acres in rural upstate New York. The high fences and guarded gates that surround the property make it appear to be a top secret Government installation instead of the religious organization that it is. An unassuming brass plaque attached to the brick pillars at each of the four entries announces the occupants in raised letters. WCS are the initials that many locals can neither cipher nor understand when they learn it means World Creationist Society. The various limousines and luxury automobiles that enter and leave the compound give the appearance of the wealth and privilege usually associated with entertainers, heads of state, and corporate tycoons.

Those who know say the cars carry religious leaders from every part of the world. European Catholics, Jews and Russian Orthodox; Eastern Buddhist, Muslims and Taoists, and American, Asian, Japanese, and English Christians from every convention were regular visitors. The various Baptist, Methodist, Mormon, Jehovah Witness, Lutheran, Episcopalian, Catholic and lesser-known sects all visit the site for one universal purpose, to verify and validate the basis of their beliefs; a creationist God.

Unnamed high-level sources inside WSC have recently released financial information that shows the expenditure of almost one billion dollars in the last twenty years. We could feed several third world countries with this money. The unnamed WSC source said in a secret meeting with this reporter. Some of the projects have been in progress for decades and have cost millions of dollars. The WCS operates under an annual budget of over fifty million dollars and their success has been reported as minimal. WSC’s quest to discover the Garden of Eden, Noah’s Ark, the Arc of the Covenant, The Tomb, The Tablets, and any other solid proofs of God’s interaction with man have all come up short. Many of these projects receive special funding not included in WSC’s normal operating budget.

An executive office on the top floor of the twelve-story tower is the center of a sprawling collection of brick and glass structures. Reverend Hollis Vandiver oversees a complex organization of two thousand employees, hundreds of field offices and dozens of ongoing projects. Current projects underway in Turkey, Peru, Argentina, Iraq, North Africa, and Mexico are reportedly funded by donations meant for humanitarian needs. In a telephone interview with Bishop Fernando Chavez of the Central American Dioceses located in San Jose’, Costa Rica he said, We can say with absolute certainty that at least twenty million US dollars meant for The Catholic Relief of the America’s was diverted to WSC. The Bishop claimed a United Protestant Charities pledge was reversed and funds intended for Central American relief were channeled to WCS. Reverend Vandiver could not be reached for comment. WSC senior staff would only say through a written response; WSC does not control the actions of independent benefactors, Bishop Chavez’s claim should be addressed to United Protestant Charities. Gloria Minford, media spokesperson for the Protestant charity said, Our records do not indicate that we have ever made an irrevocable pledge of funds to any charitable entity. Our board will be completing an overall investigation of all donations and funds allocations.

The Reverend’s head fell back against the rich leather of his executive chair. He ran his fingers through his fine pure white hair as considered this latest assault on his organization. He remembered other times in his life, times when he actually wondered if it was worth the effort. His personal losses caused heartache; his ambition had annihilated relationships with two wives and three children. They had all but deserted him. His current wife was loyal, although as old and tarnished as an old hymnal. The level of support he provided defined her loyalty. Shaking his head, he tore his attention to the present. Once again, he would overcome the obstacles that threatened his life’s work. He was resolute in his decision; he would fulfill his quest before he died.

He whispered a little prayer he’d said thousands of times over the last eighteen years. Lately his frustration and anger had made the prayer an edict.

God, the sight of your face can change the world and save mine. Give me a clue, a wink, a sign, a nod. Restore my faith, and restore my name. Show the doubters I’m not crazy and I’m not a charlatan. God help me or damn me as I will damn you if I fail.

He picked up the phone and pushed a speed dial number ignoring the blinking button that signaled an incoming call. The number was a direct connection to William Stratford, his oldest friend and legal advisor.

"Bill, this is Hollis. I’ve got more problems. No, it’s not Truman this time, although he may be involved in some way. I just read an article in World Times…Oh, so you’ve seen it."

Reverend Vandiver picked up the copy of the article and started to wad it up, changed his mind and dropped it on the desk in disgust. He listened as his attorney provided his legal advice and cautioned against retribution.

These things are best left to mold with time Hollis. Even the truth is often slanted in such a way as to make you the villain. Don’t try to fight ‘um.

Bill, hold on. I’m seventy-four years old. I’m out of time when it comes to fighting the press. You know as well as I do that this is a bogus attempt to discredit WSC and me, but this is just the opening salvo. I’ve got to initiate some plans now. The faith that was the foundation of my belief as a child and later as a newly ordained minister has been replaced by an almost perverse psychotic obsession to succeed. My health and fortitude has been reduced by years of pernicious field conditions. I’ve endured freezing mountaintops, disease infested villages, insects, and vermin. They have taken their toll on my physical being.

Come on Hollis, that sounds like one of the platitudes that’s reserved for potential donors. I know better that anyone what you’ve been through. Stratford knew that the lack of discovery and the potential loss of credibility had brought about his friend’s angry petulant demeanor.

No Bill it’s not about my financing becoming more and more difficult to obtain. The religious donors have already cooled their interest. I’ve spent most of my own inheritance, almost ten million from oil royalties. But, I’ll spend my last dime if I have to.

His lawyer again offered hope and calming reassurance at the other end of phone line.

Not even the possibility of a scandal. You remember back when I was leading expeditions to Mt. Arayt? Those were the glory days. I was convinced, and I persuaded others, that the Ark was there. The satellite photos and scientific evidences were compelling. However, after almost a half a billion in funding, sixteen expeditions and countless thousands of man-hours and millions in payoffs, my dream was never realized. The bowl was not unlike others where blowing snow would make the rocky mountainside appear to be the resting place of Noah’s big boat. You’ve seen the slides Bill. I didn’t just invent some foolish reason to play in the snow.

His demoralized mind conjured up a repeating image of Satan smiling and shaking his hand, as William Stratford again tried to bolster his friend’s mood.

Bill, I’m not just depressed. I’m trying to be a realist. There’s a mole here that’s giving this stuff to the reporter, I think it’s one of my board members. The stuff is about to hit the fan around here and I want you to make sure that what I have left can’t and won’t be affected when this thing starts falling apart.

I’ve got your instructions, Hollis, and I will follow through when you tell me to do so.

Vandiver opened the file drawer in his desk and removed a folder marked Contingency Financial Plan. He opened the folder and removed a document.

Start the ball rolling then. The timing is critical. I’ll tell Quigley after everything is in place. You watch out for Truman, there’s no telling what he’ll do when he finds out. OK, I’ll call you later.

He dropped his head onto his desk for a moment then quickly regained his composure as the phone rang. His morbid spell was broken quickly as, Phyllis, his personal secretary, announced the arrival of his first appointment. Yeah he said, looking at his watch. He’s already four minutes late. Send him in and hold my calls. But, get Peterson on the line first. He hung up the phone as Norton Quigley, his project coordinator, walked into the office through the oversized walnut panel doors. He held a handkerchief to his nose in a circumspect attempt to clear the congestion from his sinuses. His normal high-energy frame moved in a slow drag. His red-rimmed eyes were magnified through his thick-as-bottle glasses. Below his receding hairline, his forehead and scalp glistened with beads of sweat.

Sorry I’m late. I went by the clinic to get a shot. This sinus infection is about to get me. His voice was hoarse and choked. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead, cradling his aching head in his hand as he tried his best to focus.

I’ve told you before, be sick on your own time. Vandiver replied as Quigley fell weakly into one of the tall wingback Corinthian leather chairs that faced the marble top desk.

You see this? He held up the news article that still made his blood boil with silent rage.

Yes Sir. I can’t believe the media sometimes, what are we going to do?

We? Absolutely nothing. I want you to continue with your current project analysis. I’ll take care of this. He wadded the article up and rolled it in his hands as if he was killing a pest.

Now what’s the latest on the Tennessee acquisition? Is this something else I’m going to have to handle myself? What have you heard from that stupid realtor out there?

Quigley barked a short cough. The old man won’t sell, trade, lease or even let us explore the property. The realtor said Mr. Whitaker forced them off the property with a twelve gauge last week. He supposedly told him he wouldn’t let one of his goats piss on them if they were on fire. Maybe Truman could go out as your personal representative for WCS. Quigley used every opportunity to rid his world of Truman Vandiver, the old man’s son.

Truman couldn’t negotiate his way into an empty outhouse. I can’t believe he’s my own flesh and blood. The boy has no backbone. He’s weak like his mother was. You know I only keep him employed because he is the only child I have that speaks to me, or even slightly appreciates my existence as a father. The Reverend spit out the words like a bad taste in his mouth.

Quigley’s mind flashed on Truman’s fat, sloppy, disheveled appearance. He recalled the many instances of Truman’s lazy, buck-passing work habits. The buck usually stopped with Quigley having to complete whatever insignificant task Truman had been assigned.

His reverie was broken by Vandiver’s rant. Can we buy his mortgage? Does he have a weakness or a family member we can take advantage of?

No mortgage, no family, no weakness. The old man lives alone with his goats; he seldom leaves the farm. He doesn’t want or need anything.

You’re absolutely sure your coordinates are right? The satellite image is of his property?

Yes sir, we’ve checked and rechecked, the geological anomaly is right smack in the middle of his land. The shape, the measurements, the electromagnetic field, everything indicates there is something very special there. His voice rasped the last word as a deep series of coughs overcame him.

The Reverend frowned as he opened a desk drawer and removed a can of disinfectant. He sprayed it toward the ill guest. Keep buying the space surveillance and tell me if anything changes. See if you can find out about a will and his religious affiliation. Now get out of here before you make me sick, and tell Phyllis I want to talk to Peterson now, not later, now.

Quigley pulled himself out of the chair and shuffled toward the door. He stopped and faced the Reverend, Sir, I am very ill. I wonder if I could leave early today.

Quigley you’ve just got a little cold. Hard work makes you get well sooner. In all my years, I’ve found the best medicine is work. Besides, I need to talk to you later. Now get to it, and tell Phyllis if I have to get Peterson on the phone myself I don’t need her. The phone rang as Quigley moved dejectedly out of the office.

The Reverend snatched up the receiver like it was a weapon. Yeah, put him on and Phyllis, next time remember: now means now, not after while. The Reverend sighed and shook his head in dismay. He made a mental reminder that a memo reiterating to his staff what dedication to duty meant was certainly in order.

He punched the button to intercept the tardy call. Peterson, when will the seismographs of the Tennessee site be ready? I told you I needed them yesterday. What’s the hold-up?

As he listened to the excuses: weather, slow transmission, computer readout glitches, and programming problems, he removed his 24 carat gold pills box from his top desk drawer. He opened the lid and studied the various colors of his illegal drug supply as his mind flashed on tiny pebbles taken from a soothing creek. Deciding randomly, he pulled out a Valium and then picked another as he responded.

Peterson, I pay you over sixty thousand a year to get me what I want when I want it. I want those reports on my desk by two o’clock today. Is that clear? He didn’t wait to hear the reply from Peterson. He hung up the receiver and let the tiny magic stones soothe his angry spirit.

All truth passes through three stages.

First, it is ridiculed. Second, it is

violently opposed. Third, it is

accepted as being self-evident.

– Arthur Schopenhauer (1788 - 1860)

Chapter 2

Billy Ray Scott was doing all he could to steer the big deuce and a half military-surplus transport truck through the maze of oak, hickory and pine trees that stood between him and payday. Feeling like an anxious Evel Knievel, he dodged tree stumps and outcroppings at daredevil speeds. Even with a gnat buzzing in his beard, he couldn’t risk taking a hand off the wheel.

The big truck was loaded with prime Crab Orchard, Tennessee sandstone. Billy Ray knew the county road was still four miles away and noticed that the gas gage read empty. Then he reminded himself that the gas gage always read empty. His primary concern was getting the eleven-ton load of stone to a waiting semi in the town of Crab Orchard without kissing a tree or rolling down the mountain.

The insect buzzed away as he maintained his death grip on the wheel. As he neared the old logging trail that would take him to the county road, he mulled over figures in his head, sixty dollars a ton, times eleven tons, equals six hundred and sixty dollars.

Squirrel, one of his rock picking partners, was riding in the shotgun seat beside him. Wearing his usual dirty bib overalls with straps hanging and t-shirt spilling over his belly, he was keeping a beat with the song playing on the radio. He was using a Peter Pan peanut butter jar and a half empty nacho flavored Doritos bag as percussion instruments.

The music blaring from the radio reached a crescendo as the chorus began amid a synchronization of fiddles, steel guitar and booming drums. Billy Ray shook his head as the nasal voice sang with harmonizing backup singers, screeching the words in a backwoods symphony.

"He came out of the closet. Then she came up with triplets

I’m amazed that he bought it, But, I ain’t one to slip it...."

What in the Sam hill is that? Billy Ray asked, pointing at the crudely installed dash radio that had been resurrected from a Toyota Corolla, then quickly grabbing the steering wheel.

You talking about that little spot of jelly from the donut this morning? Squirrel asked."

No Squirrel, I’m talking about that stupid song on the radio. Damn, do you ever listen to the words?

Squirrel paused in the middle of this 1- 1- 3, 1- 1- 3 beat with Peter Pan against Nacho Doritos and lifted the peanut butter jar to his temple. After a 30 second interlude, he responded.

No, can’t say as I do. I just like the beat and those steel guitars and fiddles. You know wa-wa-wa-ehe- ehe-ehe. He attempted to imitate the sliding steel and country fiddle sound.

Billy Ray turned down the radio in disgust. This one is about a queer feller that went straight ‘cause his wife’s expecting triplets.

Hell you say? Squirrel replied, looking excitedly at the radio, the concept filling him with new interest.

Billy Ray glanced at Squirrel and realized he was still contemplating the radio and its contents. He chuckled, and then returned his concentration to his driving. As he steered through the trees and crashed over brush and bramble, his mind raced through Squirrel’s tragic mental history.

Squirrel had never been quite right. Billy Ray remembered that even when they were kids he had a look that told you he was off kilter by about an inch, like a seesaw that never balances. His schoolteachers and counselors never found his center of gravity, and Billy Ray always played the role of protector through their school years. He had never stopped blaming himself for his lapse in protection that resulted in a simple and directionless Squirrel suddenly deciding to join the army. After his abbreviated sojourn with the military, he was even worse. He was verified mentally incompetent after a 13 month tour of duty in and out of the brig at Fort Bliss in El Paso, Texas.

Billy Ray glanced at his friend as he recalled how most who new him wondered why he was even inducted; others could easily understand why he should receive disability benefits. However, few knew about the strange untested drugs that were injected into his veins when all else failed and superiors resorted to any means to maintain discipline.

Billy Ray? Squirrel was still considering the songs lyrics.

Yeah, Billy Ray answered without looking while he eased the truck into a lower gear.

Are those triplets boys are girls?

Billy Ray gave him a quick perplexed look. Hell Squirrel, I don’t know. The song doesn’t say. What difference does it make?

I think if I had triplets they’d be boys. Why don’t you and Susan have some triplets?

A smile and a wink was all Billy Ray offered, thinking to himself, if life could only be that simple.

Silence overcame the two as they bounced, banged and barged their way on to Crab Orchard. After managing to make it down the rutted, muddy logging trail, Billy Ray turned east on State Highway 70. He pushed the big green army monster to its maximum speed of 52 MPH. He knew anything faster would evolve into serious shaking as tie rods and steering arms did their own version of the Maca Renia.

Crab Orchard, population 840, came into view as Billy Ray ground the ancient gears, down shifting to save the brake shoes, which were hard to find and harder to replace. He cranked the wheel hard left through the gate that held a faded sign marked CERTIFIED SCALES. He followed the worn drive that led the old truck up the ramp. It stopped with a shudder on the rusted scale’s platform.

Billy Ray released the big steering wheel, flexed his tired hands and expelled his breath in an audible sigh. He knew Squirrel was waiting for the beginning lines of the singsong dialogue he always had to repeat at the end of each day’s work.

Well little buddy, here we are at the rock pickers’ proof source.

Yep, Billy Ray it’s like you always say; the scales never lie. A hard day’s labor, a gallon of sweat, two inches of calluses, tired aching muscles, a sun burn and a dull head ache don’t mean nothing if it don’t show up on the weigh slip. Squirrel smiled with satisfaction that he had once again remembered his lines.

Tons Dugan, the obese weigh master, slid open the small window in the little shack with peeling paint that set beside the scales. The little house seemed to fit him like a tight shoe.

Hey shit for brains, what we got here? Load of slick? His four chins waddled like an old sea lion when he laughed. He pulled the printed gross weight from the scales automated printer. Billy Ray nodded; hiding the resentment, he felt when anyone made fun of Squirrel. Squirrel strained to see the watermelon- sized face of the old man operating the scale unaware of the jeer.

Hey Tons, I guessed eleven two fifty, what we got? Squirrel inquired.

The weigh master never missed an opportunity to tease. Ten nine eighty two Squirrel, you missed it again. Always high ain’t ya? His bulbous fingers passed the ticket through the dust-covered window to Billy Ray.

He gets near three ton to a pallet and wants more. Billy Ray answered with pride.

"Yes sir, he kinda reminds me of your