Bags of Rock

By Mark Haugen

In this second of the Bags Morton series the retired cop is called upon by his former boss, now governor, to help with a blackmailing scheme involving nude photos of the governor's guitar-playing daughter. With her band, The Itch, scheduled to perform in a make-or-break contest, the band is in disarray, missing a drummer. Bags looks to solve all their problems as the road to stardom proves bumpy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Haugen
• Release date: Dec 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005219994

Mark Haugen

A fifth-generation South Dakotan, Haugen is a recovering journalist living in the Black Hills of South Dakota with his wife and two dogs: Huckleberry and Finn. Haugen is a former newspaper reporter, editor, sportswriter, publisher and award-winning columnist. He has lived throughout South Dakota - in Montrose, Canton, Sioux Falls and Valley Springs. He's worked at the Sioux Falls Argus Leader, Tri-State Neighbor and owned the Tea & Harisburg Champion newspaper in Tea. In addition to several free-lance writing gigs, he also had brief forays across state lines and worked at newspapers in Windom and Luverne, Minn., and Rock Valley, Iowa. Haugen is also an avid runner and gardener.

Book preview

Bags of Rock

By Mark Haugen

Copyright 2020 Mark Haugen

Smashwords Edition

BAGS OF ROCK

I nursed a Bloody Mary and stared at the gallon jar on the shelf behind the bar. The worn label said it previously contained pickled eggs for a certain clientele who considered them a delicacy. The eggs were gone. In their place was a human foot.

My conundrum at the moment was trying to decide if it was a real foot put there by a deranged lunatic with a twisted sense of humor or if it was a fake foot put there by a deranged lunatic with a twisted sense of humor.

It was cut off just above the ankle. The skin looked to be sutured together at that cut to keep the contents from spilling out into whatever liquid in which it was soaking. It had to be fake. I was almost certain. But, wow, I thought, what a tremendous amount of detail had been put into it. There were toenails, dirty, long, almost curled over a couple of the toes. There was hair on top of the foot and above the ankle. The veins even looked real.

All other more important thoughts of life, my upcoming appointment, the demise of the country’s moral fiber, the Twins pitching staff, and whether Kim was going to divorce Kanye evaded me. The foot had invaded my consciousness, lingered like toenail fungus, and I wrestled with its possible story.

I pondered it for a good twenty minutes before only the emptiness of my glass stirred me to action.

Sir? I tapped the brim and nodded to the bartender at the end of the bar, giving the universal sign for empty, need another. I knew many members of the Black Lords biker gang, but didn’t recognize this one. Probably a noob and didn’t know me either. I have a history with the bunch and always like to stop in their joint when going past, just to make them nervous.

The heavy-set tattooed dude, doing nothing but watching Dr. Phil on the television, grunted at the interruption and refilled the glass from a jug he’d mixed earlier that morning. He stuck a dill pickle spear inside. He was probably pissed that a big-bad biker like him was relegated to bartender duty at the bar owned by the Black Lords. Members need to earn their way, though.

Question for you, I said. The man looked at me like he didn’t hanker to census-takers much.

What?

Is that a real foot? I pointed to the jar, feeling silly that I was even considering the possibility.

Yeah, the 300-pound lug-head said and turned away.

Really?

Yeah. Then the man with long black hair and beard to the middle of his chest bent over behind the bar.

I considered the fact that the bartender was so annoyed with the question that he was reaching under the bar for a gun or, best case scenario, just a baseball bat. So I reached inside my sport coat and fingered my .45 just in case.

But the barkeep didn’t do any of that. Instead, he rolled up his pant leg and swung his left leg up on the beer cooler behind the bar and showcased a prosthetic leg attached to the stump just below his knee. He pulled off his boot and pounded it three times against the fake foot to prove the point.

I felt the rare feeling of my face flush with embarrassment. I removed my black fedora and scratched my head in bemusement.

Well, who’d a thunk it? I said.

The guy didn’t answer, just put his boot back on, rolled his blue jean pants leg over it and returned to his stool at the end of the bar.

That only served to give me a bevy of new questions to consider while I finished my drink and left, vowing to return another day for the answers.

The bar was the only working building in the ghost town an hour east of Sturgis, South Dakota. The parking lot was a combination of dirt and gravel. My dog, Doc, named after my favorite lawman of all time, slid over from the driver’s seat and into the passenger side of the Miata convertible with the top down as I approached. I tossed him the final inch of the jerky stick I’d been gnawing on. Doc swallowed it whole.

Chew it, man, I said. Gonna get a stomach ache. Kisses? I leaned over and Doc licked my cheek. He’s a Golden Retriever/Labrador cross. They called it a Goldador when I bought him as a pup so they could charge me an extra fifty bucks instead of just calling him a mutt. He’s yellowish brown. He’s smart and funny and I like him better than most people I know.

I revved the engine to life and was about to back up when three Harleys grumbled slowly into the gravel parking lot. One pulled up on each side of me and the third stopped inches from my rear bumper.

They turned off their motors and the one next to my door pulled up his black goggles and stared. Straddling his bike he looked to be about six-foot-five, 250 pounds, long-hair and beard and evidently lost the battle with teenage acne and had the scars to prove it.

Well I’ll be. If it ain’t the stinky ass pig Bags Morton.

Doc growled. The biker ignored him.

It’s former stinky ass pig to you, Little Dicky.

Nobody can get under the skin of somebody better than me. It’s a childhood vice I turned into a professional virtue. Even if they were big, tough, outlaw biker gang leaders named Big Dick, I knew the buttons to push and none of them liked having their manhood mocked. So I did just that. And didn’t let up.

You still dealing Viagra and skimming off the top to keep it up?

It was Big Dick’s turn to growl now. What you doing in Black Lord country? This is our bar.

This is the United Fucking States of America. I go where I want.

So where’s that?

Just stopped by to see if your old lady still got the herps. And to shoot some prairie dogs.

With those enlightened words I pulled out my .45 and fired three shots into the air. When the echo cleared the prairie sky, I added Now tell your boyfriend to move his scooter or I’ll run it and him over.

Big Dick nodded to his compadre, who pushed his bike to the side, and said Dude, you’re one crazy asshole.

Words hurt, Little Dicky. Words hurt.

I unnecessarily spun a cat ass in the parking lot and showered dust and rocks on the Black Lords and their bikes, cementing my status as Public Enemy and Asshole No. 1 in their black book.

If it is better to be feared than loved, Bags Morton is winning.

Two hours later I was crossing the Missouri River bridge into the capital city of Pierre. You could chalk the hastened time up to the 65 mile per hour speed limit, which had been raised from 55 a few years prior, but it wasn’t that. I drove 90 either way.

I wound a few miles north to a semi-popular but out of the way boat ramp. Pulled into the gravel parking lot across the road and parked next to a maroon F-350 truck with an empty boat trailer hooked to it. Doc hopped out and looked to the sky with me.

Doubt it’s going to rain, but those clouds look like they could spit something, I said. Better put the top up.

I did and we wandered