Slap Noir

By James Bigboy Medlin

SLAP NOIR is a novel by James BigBoy Medlin that engages the principles of slapstick and noir and melds them into a single instrument to tell the story of a chaos that is no one's and everyone's fault, in a West Texas oil town where no one's all good, no one's all bad, everyone is serious, everyone is funny, everyone knows something and nobody know

• Language: English
• Publisher: LettersAt3amPress
• Release date: Feb 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9780991464814

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SLAP NOIR copyright by James BigBoy Medlin 2014

Publisher’s Preface copyright by Michael Ventura 2014

ISBN# 978-0-9914648-0-7 (trade paperback)

Published in 2014 by LettersAt3amPress: 6923 Indiana Ave. #266, Lubbock, TX, 79413. E-address: [e-mail]

Publisher/Editors: Jazmin Aminian, Michael Ventura

Editor-at-Large: Rebekah J. Morton

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the written permission of the publishers.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

to my wife

Lynn Landers Medlin

who showed me the way

and to my grandmother

Ada Medlin

who told everyone The young master is a writer

Humor comes from having seriousness of nature

and not giving way to it.

Sir F.C. Burnand

Publisher’s Preface

SLAP NOIR. Noir is a style of storytelling apt for murder, betrayal, and a particularly personal experience of doom. Slap is slapstick—raucous, Rube Goldberg, comedic machinations of antics by which one learns at one’s peril that everything really is connected and that the ballyhooed butterfly effect usually means trouble, so laugh while you may.

SLAP NOIR is a novel by James BigBoy Medlin that melds slapstick and noir into a single instrument to tell the harrowing, hilarious story of a chaos that is no one’s and everyone’s fault, in a West Texas oil town where no one’s all good, no one’s all bad, everyone is serious, everyone is funny, everyone knows something and nobody knows it all. (And I, personally, didn’t know who-done-it until BigBoy wanted me to know.)

Michael Ventura

PROLOGUE

The King lived. The Beatles ruled. Wires tethered telephones to walls. Dials changed channels. DNA and HIV were random groups of letters. Most automobiles were American. None had CD players or car alarms. Computers were huge and impersonal. The moon remained earthling-proof. A war between the United States and the Soviet Union was dangerously cold. A conflict between the United States and the Republic of Viet Nam was dangerously hot. John Fitzgerald Kennedy was dead, Lyndon Baines Johnson was bewildered, and Richard Milhous Nixon was lurking. The year may have marked a jumping off point from the comfortably familiar into the remarkably uneasy. But for many folks in the West Texas town of Achilles, 1966 would be remembered, not for its politics, culture, or science, but for a chain of events that began during the darkest hours of a Sunday morning.

2:59 A.M. JULY 31ST 1966

John Monkey Gibbons waved his apron in the air with reckless abandon. He opened the doors and windows of the Dixie Maid Spudnut Shop. The smoke quickly cleared. Monkey could not believe that on the last shift of his six-month employment as the overnight manager, he had burned his first batch of spudnuts. The six-foot-two, thin as a rail, twenty-year-old had been thinking ahead to this afternoon’s drive to Austin. Tomorrow he would pre-enroll at the University of Texas. His work in the oppressive heat of the oil patch and the kitchen of the Dixie Maid inspired Monkey to seek a higher education. That, and the need for a draft deferment.

Six blocks away, the blurry sepia tone of the former Mrs. Blackstock’s face corresponded with Police Chief Brady Blackstock’s mood. Chief Blackstock created the effect by staring through a glass of amber liquid at the last known photo of the long gone woman. Willing his bulk up from his couch, he wadded the photo into a ball and walked through the kitchen. Insects working the night shift lurked in the backyard just beyond the screen door. He opened it anyway. The photo came to rest in a pile of scrap metal surrounded by sticker-burrs. Blackstock entertained one thought only: It’s time!

Halfway across town, Big Jack Bateman failed to identify the sound of his own head colliding with the bottom of the Texaco sign. He was more concerned with the impossible hugeness of his fingers as he struggled to insert the key into the door of his pick-up. The set of keys, along with the two items clutched awkwardly in his left hand, fell into darkness. His unlit cigar remained in his mouth. He spotted the keys in a pool of liquid dimly reflecting the sign, still swaying from its encounter with his cranium. The slick liquid made no attempt to support his foot. When he fell, his butt initiated a minor tsunami, spreading the pool across the asphalt driveway. A squadron of beetles took flight. With considerable effort, he crawled under the old Chevy. Only twice did he bang his head. Splotches of gasoline joined the dark liquid on the front of his shirt. When he managed to return to an upright position, he had the two items, but not his keys. Can’t open door, probably can’t drive. As if on command, a taxi appeared from out of nowhere.

Nearby, a small figure moved cautiously from one hiding place to another. From a block away, the headlights of the slow-moving taxi stretched the shadow of eighth grader Rachel Hull across a yellowish-brown lawn. She ran toward darkness. Reaching out from nowhere, the tentacle of a rose bush entangled her backpack. Panic! Only momentarily. A thorn pricked her hand. Then she was free. I wish Scrappy would stop barking his fool head off. Mr. Green will wake up and look out his window. Would he see what people around town called the definition of cute? Right now the auburn-haired teen was the definition of terrified. Even with the morning temperature at ninety degrees, Rachel shivered. She took no notice of the trickle from the rose-wound as it brought new life to the stains on her hands. Her only thought was to get back to her house.

Leon Guthrie slowed his cab. He liked what he saw…wide, flat, empty roads…except for a tumbling tumbleweed. At 3:06 on this dusty Sunday morning, a thought caught him off-guard. I’m damn proud to be a Texan and not some kind’a communist or other foreigner.

Quick as a snake’s tongue, a hunting knife appeared from a makeshift holster in his boot. Leon parted his lips to reveal stalactites and stalagmites of black and yellow, punctuated by random vacancies where even decay was a forgotten interloper. He used the blade to remove an offending morsel lodged between molars. For three months he had transported the late, lost, lonely and intoxicated to their destinations in this Oil Town of 100 Churches and 200 Honky Tonks. Thirsty work. Scooping up a half pint of Old Crow from under the front seat, he prepared to take only his second, or maybe third, slug of the night. Instead, Leon hit the brakes. With wild, widening eyes he stared at something above the front of his cab.

When Leon pulled forward, he failed to see Big Jack Bateman holding items in each hand, waving for Leon to stop. The big man ran—or rather, shuffled hurriedly—toward the cab. Too late. Still unaware of the man’s presence, Leon drove away, leaving Bateman stranded beneath the omen that caused Leon’s concern…a woman with a head the size of a Buick. She said, Time for a Change. At least, that’s what the five-foot letters on the billboard said. In this frozen moment of her existence, the baby powder she promoted kept her smiling, even while changing a diaper.

At 1307 West Tenth Street, Mayor Tommy Woods ran his hand through his wavy black hair as he peeked through the Venetian blinds. The secretaries at City Hall said he had the finest pompadour since James Dean’s.

Unable to read the hands on his watch, he moved near the standing lamp with the pineapple shaped shade: 3:09!

Damn that driver! Why doesn’t somebody shut up that yapping dog? Tommy tried to recall why he had allowed Linda Sanchez to lure him to her house. True, it had seemed like a great idea until he realized he had to get his car from the Red Rooster Inn and get home before his wife woke up.

Several thoughts battled for supremacy in the mayor’s agitated brain. Here’s what won: I risked everything for a few hours with a body that transforms god-fearing men into mindless monkeys. Deja voodoo, deja-pure-delux-devil’s-voodoo. This kind of harmless dalliance being blown out of proportion is what ruined things in Amarillo. If I could just sell the damn dealership and move to Dallas in style, I could run with the big dogs. But if Sanchez causes a scandal…nasty divorce, alimony, the whole nine yards…Why do women always make life more complicated than it has to be?

Two houses down, Bob and Molly Green slept soundly in the bed they had shared for fifty years. The M1911 Colt .45 automatic pistol under Bob’s pillow brought him pleasant dreams.

Leon decided to have one more little sip to steady his nerves. Something moved across a lawn. A little girl? A cat? Then Leon finally saw him—the big man, waving frantically. The guns in his hands panicked Leon. He dropped his bottle. His cab hopped over the curb and slammed into a chinaberry tree. The dry, multicolored berries cascaded down on Leon’s windshield like a hailstorm from the mind of Walt Disney. The collision caused his radio to come on at full volume with Roger Miller singing:

Man of means, by no means—King of the Road

Under other circumstances, Leon would have loved to hear that song.

The racket brought the mayor back to the window. Who the hell is the big man banging on Bob Green’s door? Oh, no! That can’t be…did he drop something? A gun! Why does everything bad always happen to me?

Molly Green couldn’t shake off the sleep. She felt the familiar touch of her husband’s hand. Oh Bob, it’s late honey bear. She knew she had put on some pounds, but Molly still saw herself as sexy, in a wholesome Christian sort of way, and she felt Bob did too. Then she saw Bob was merely getting his pistol. Is someone breaking into our house?

Bob flipped off the safety and hollered at his dog. Quiet, Scrappy! What kind of madman turns up his radio when robbing a home? Well, this thug picked the wrong hombre to mess with. Bob opened the door and aimed his pistol. The big man on the porch stared at him wide-eyed, his shirt covered in blood. All dead, were the blood covered man’s last words. When he raised his gun to point back where he had come from, Bob panicked and shot the big man in the head.

Leon got out of his cab and started to cross the street. He froze when the geezer in his pajamas shot the big man with the gun on his front porch. Almost immediately after the shot, the world exploded. Suddenly, this moved to number one on the list of scariest moments in Leon’s life. The excruciating light came in waves. He thought he saw smoke. Then nothing. Leon tried to figure out what could cause such a blinding catastrophe. Thinking had never been Leon’s strength. He found it even more difficult when blind and deaf.

The see-through nightgown revealing the eyeball-popping figure of Linda Sanchez may have been the only one in town. But Mayor Tommy Woods didn’t even notice it, or what it so slightly covered. Just as she walked into the living room, the black of night turned bright hot yellow.

Linda wasn’t sure if she heard the two booms before or after the front window shattered. All she was certain about was the mayor’s collapsing back from the flying glass, turning and looking at her with the eyes of a trapped rodent, and then throwing up all over her mother’s new carpet. Can I get it cleaned before Momma gets back? What was I thinking when I took this pompous pig home with me? Been drinking more than thinking.

Leon’s vision returned in tiny increments. He could make out his cab outlined by a murky cloud. Then he saw the big man sprawled across the geezer’s porch. Then came police cars racing through the smoke. His hearing kicked back in. The ringing in his ears competed with the shrieking of sirens.

Years of conditioning forced him to run. Three burly officers caught him in an alley and convinced him he had made the wrong move.

Tricia Polanski closed the back door as quietly as possible. She tiptoed through the house without disturbing her parents. The sudden flash of light made her jump. Then thunder? No, the undeniable roar of heartbreak. The flow of her streaming tears followed the ruts formed by the scars on her otherwise flawless face. Her fingers traced the jagged lines that altered her destiny. Tricia knelt on the floor. She prayed no one had been hurt. Then, after scurrying to her bedroom and crawling between the sheets, she thought about Claude Hull for maybe the thousandth time that night.

Half blinded by the flash from the explosion, Bob Green shook his head to clear the ringing in his ears. Did I really shoot somebody? When Molly touched him from behind he jumped and turned, firing his pistol wildly, narrowly missing his terrified wife. His shot hit the javelina head mounted on his wall, sending it crashing to the floor. Bob joined it there when the shock of almost killing Molly triggered a heart attack.

Twenty-year-old Cole Bateman, son of Big Jack Bateman, was parked a few blocks north of the gas fire at Frank Hull’s Texaco. Even those who feared him agreed that Cole was handsome enough to be a movie star. At that moment, zombie was a more accurate description. He stared wide-eyed and trance-like, mesmerized by the reflection on the hood of his shiny new red Corvette. Cole saw Pterodactyls escaping from their human captors to soar again for the first time in ten millenniums, mocking the modern and proving that dinosaurs remained the most powerful creatures on the planet. What would it be like to hunt a Pterodactyl? Or would it be hunting me? Either way, what truth would be revealed in the eyes of the creature?

A hunk of red hot metal launched from the inferno just missed his windshield, awakening him from his reverie. Cole pondered the word Armageddon and wondered if it could be appropriately applied to what was happening around him.

He slumped down in his car seat and watched a blue, late model Buick emerge from the smoke and speed past him.

Using both hands to tap a beat on his steering wheel, he joined the popping and the booming of the burning and the zooming as a rhythmical counterpoint to the screaming and the howling of the incessant sirens. Cole debated with himself whether the sounds were more jazz-like or rock ‘n’ roll. He glanced in his rearview mirror to see if official vehicles were approaching from behind. Instead, the last thing he expected to see appeared clearly in the reflection. He moved the index finger of his right hand to the corner of his right eye and wiped away the solitary teardrop.

Rachel Hull covered her ears. With the explosion, some sort of disturbance over at the Green’s, and the crashed taxi in Mrs. Morgan’s front yard, nobody noticed Rachel running to her house next door. A side window was unlocked. Just as she started to climb in, two huge hands lifted her with ease. Before she could scream one of the hands covered her mouth. She looked wide-eyed at her big brother Claude. What’s he doing up this late? Fully dressed?

Staring at her little blue dress with the little yellow sunflowers made Claude Hull’s tired eyes grow sadder. He wished the dark smears were icing from a chocolate cake. He wished he could calm her quavering hands. He wondered why their father, Frank Hull, wasn’t home yet. Only after he set her down on the sofa with the gentleness reserved for a giant, did she allow herself to cry. Hugging her backpack like it—not she—was the frightened child, Rachel peered up into two tunnels emitting deep blue, unfathomable light. Riding on the soft glow from her brother’s eyes was a silent and ancient lullaby. She knew Claude wouldn’t say anything. He hadn’t in years.

AND SO IT BEGAN

At 4:13 AM, Police Chief Brady Blackstock left the scene of the explosion, Hull’s Texaco, and followed a trail of blood. Thanks to the light from the burning gas pumps, he had no need for a flashlight. The Chief’s imperialistic belly attempted to claim territory beyond his concho belt. His biceps also seemed to require more space than his white t-shirt could provide. Because he was so big and hairy, the town wits called Blackstock King Kong. Not to his face.

A whirlwind escaped from an alley. The spinning sand stung the lawman’s face. The Chief held on to his beat up old straw cowboy hat. Blackstock hated whirlwinds. They were the proverbial ill wind stirring things up. Blowing no good. He understood why the Comanche called them Dust Devils. At least he’d been told they called them that. As far as he knew, he’d never actually met a Comanche.

When the mini-tornado passed, a scene of loosely organized chaos unfolded before him. Bob Green being loaded into an ambulance; Molly Green crying hysterically; the cab driver bleeding all over the back of a patrol car; the taxi cab sitting in Mrs. Morgan’s front yard, where two uniformed officers were disconnecting the battery in order to stop Lefty Frizzell mid-chorus in Long Black Veil; the Medical Examiner taking the temperature of a corpse; Detective Marsh and Sergeant Crane standing on the Green’s front porch trying to look confident; Officer Wilson escorting the very sheepish-looking Mayor Woods toward Blackstock, while a very attractive Mexican woman cursed at His Honor in Spanish.

Blackstock stared for a moment at the woman’s outfit. After staring straight back at him with a look that said wear your eyes out, fat boy, you’ll never get another chance, she pulled her red robe tightly around her.

When the call came, Blackstock was on the verge of starting his long-postponed project. He had no illusions concerning what people thought of him. Not a one of them would believe he had the imagination to pursue something unique. He hadn’t told anyone he was going to start his creation; he might not show it to anyone when he finished. He just had to learn how to deal with these distractions.

So, what the hell happened here, Detective Marsh? Chief Blackstock glanced at the dead man. Oh crap, that’s Big Jack Bateman!

Good call, Chief. The missing features from Bateman’s face had prevented Marsh from identifying him. Sergeant Crane was first on the scene, drawled Marsh. He figures the fellow who lives here came home unexpectedly in that taxi and caught his wife with another man.

Crane butted in. Fortunately, the mayor was in the neighborhood comforting a constituent or the situation could have been even worse.

The Chief looked once again at the end of the trail of rapidly drying blood, hoping the scene had miraculously improved. It had not. He noted that, in addition to the fatal head wound, Bateman had two smaller wounds in his torso. Perfect for creating a blood trail.

No comfort came from turning his head back toward the station where the anarchistic flames taunted him like wiseass spirits who knew they were far above the law and could perform their obscene gyrations to mock and torment anyone who dared to watch. What bothered Chief Blackstock most was not the knowledge that Detective Marsh and Sergeant Crane had no idea what happened. It was the assumption they never would.

What the Chief wanted to say was, My Department is filled with nincompoops. You, Mr. Mayor, are an adulterer who needs his perfect pearly whites knocked clean down his throat. And this whole town can kiss my big fat white bee-hind.

What the Chief said was, Good evening, Mr. Mayor. I guess all us public servants are working overtime.

Have you noticed how the fire has chased off all the mosquitoes? Mayor Tommy Woods’ face looked ten years younger the instant he spotted the Channel 2 News van. Always look for the silver lining, Chief, always look for the silver lining.

On Highway 80 just out of town, the frantic squealing of a dozen hogs in the back of a dilapidated truck held together by bailing wire and duct tape was enough to wake the dead. It was not enough to wake the young girl in the passenger seat.

The driver, Joey Rund, slowed down to watch the flames, which he judged to be no more than two or three miles away. No doubt The Blesseds be’a’feeling riled up and the rest’a us be’a’taking blame. Like always.

An empty coffee can sat on the floor. He picked it up and spit his chaw into it. Then he grabbed a polystyrene cup from his homemade cup holder. After pouring half of the lukewarm coffee past his tobacco stained stubble and his chapped lips into his catfish mouth, he gargled before spitting once again into the can. Satisfied with the taste on his purplish-black tongue, Rund pulled a long black pill from his shirt pocket. The remaining coffee was used to wash it down. He looked at the girl. Born to The Blesseds? No matter, you be with The Rest now. Dream, sweet little doll. He knew that by next nightfall her dreams would never be the same. This made Rund a little sad.

THROUGH THE SMOKE BRIGHTLY

Most of the time Chief Blackstock was in awe of how Nature’s palette can be infinitely expanded by manmade smoke and chemicals. Today he barely noticed the sunrise with its aurora borealis display on the infinite horizon. He leaned against his car, waiting patiently for Monkey Gibbons to open Dixie Maid Spudnuts. The Chief knew you couldn’t hurry excellence. Any old spudnut is more scrumptious than the finest donut. He also knew he should be back at the crime scene. A patrolman could have fetched the spudnuts. But after a night in hell, he wanted to experience the heavenly aroma of fresh baked pastries as they came straight out of the oven. A cop at a donut-spudnut shop…whatever, yeah, yeah, yeah, world’s biggest cliché, just wish some wiseass would come along and mention it so I could come up side his head with a closed fist.

Monkey Gibbons spotted Blackstock milling around outside the shop. He watched him sifting through the garbage. Why is he taking that old baking pan and charred eggbeater?

The Chief’s mood lifted when Monkey opened the door and he caught a whiff of the hot potato flour. No matter the time, the youngster was one of the few citizens of Achilles who always seemed glad to see him. Morning King Kong…I mean Chief Blackstock. Got a batch of chocolate ones fresh out of the oven.

The Chief stared at Monkey. He vaguely remembered his first night of drunken passion with the kid’s mom on the side of a sand hill. Eighteen, 20 years ago? How old is this kid? No, forget it. Monkey don’t look nuthin’ like a Blackstock.

Monkey, you know I’m allergic to chocolate.

Oh, right. How could I forget? Me, too.

The Chief shivered. Just give me two dozen chocolate for the boys and a dozen glazed for me.

The spudnut experience was as sensually pleasing as the Chief had hoped. Maybe things would work out after all. He didn’t even mind what he guessed was Beatles music blaring on the radio. It did beat the hell out of him why anyone would want to sing a song about wood from Norway. Blackstock stared in awe at the endless variety of color in the donut cases. No museum in New York City or Paris can present a more dazzling display of creativity. Ruby red, sage purple, coconut blue, a sparkle more cosmic than the desert stars, a green more vivid than the most fertilized lawn, a…

So what was all the big commotion earlier? Monkey shouted over the music. Did every siren in West Texas go off at once, or what?

Hull’s Texaco blew up. Let me have one of them bearclaws while you’re at it.

Hull’s? Hot Damn! What happened?

About to head back over there and find out. One big mother of an explosion! We’re getting calls from as far away as Midland and No Trees.

Monkey’s voice wavered. Chief, I was there earlier.

What? Why?

The big poker game. You know, with Mr. Hull, Big Jack and them. Every Saturday night. I drop off a box’a day-olds on my way in to do the baking. They tip damn fine.

Blackstock got very serious. They still play at the station?

Every Saturday. One of Achilles’ great traditions. Right up there with the Oil Show and Homecoming. Or are they rituals? Anyway, they must have been long gone before—

Most likely. Who all was there?

Let’s see, last night Bobby Simmons wanted sparklies, like always. Beau Byers, cream-filled. And Reverend Clees was already feeling the spirits…not the kind he preaches about.

The Chief grabbed his donuts and threw a wad of bills on the counter. Monkey flipped the open sign over to closed.

Hey Chief, mind if I use you as a police escort? If Hull’s is able to open, my jalopy could sure use an oil change before I head out to Austin.

If Blackstock heard him, he did not show it. He was heading west as fast as he could drive. Monkey followed.

The temperature already exceeded uncomfortable. The closer Monkey got to the fire at Hull’s Texaco the higher it climbed. Once again the cooling system in Monkey’s car was making only a half-hearted attempt at battling the heat. After parking behind Jack Bateman’s old pick-up, he stepped out into a blast furnace. He instantly embraced a new appreciation for the humble efforts of his vehicle’s outgunned air conditioner. He surveyed the calamity. Me and my Olds are on our own.

He spotted Chief Blackstock carrying two boxes of his favorite pastry. Blackstock shouted back at Monkey to remain outside the yellow tape surrounding the station.

Monkey almost hit his head on the charred Texaco sign. He pulled up the tail of his t-shirt to wipe sweat from eyes gazing forlornly at the advertisement for Regular 28¢ a Gallon. Assembled past the sign was the biggest crowd the town of Achilles could provide, at least until the next Friday night high school football game. He spotted the young woman who sat in front of him in the eighth grade. She looked better than ever. Before a word could escape his open mouth, a behemoth in a hard hat put his arm around her. C‘est la vie.

Many of the firemen wore heat resistant suits. Since this was the oil patch, the department had plenty of foamy chemicals to spray about in an effort to retard the appetite of the ravenous beast. Monkey marveled at what a great sci-fi movie set this would make. He assumed the film crews from the three regional TV stations would ignore that angle.

The assembled civilians never considered the toxic quality of the air. Gathered before Monkey were the citizens of his community, the very people he planned to leave behind. He knew the town could boast of several scholars. He hoped a chess master, a beat poet, or a flamenco dancer lived anonymously among them. He assumed they would not reveal themselves today.

Rowdy roughnecks crowded into the back of pickup trucks hurling insults and taunts back and forth, overjoyed about any excuse to be late to work, especially on a Sunday. Somebody go fetch some gol’danged marshmallows!

You call that piece’a’sheet a truck? Looks like a ree-jeck from the dee-mo-lition derby.

Heard you gonna be a daddy, any idea who the mother is?

Hey, this blaze is intense enough to execute Joan of Arc.

Joan of what? Who the hell are you and what the hell you doing in the back’a my truck?

A load of kids who had been on their way to Vacation Bible School shouted from the windows of their yellow bus.

This fire’s hotter’n Annette Funicello. It snot. No, you’re snot. Your Mother got a butt bigger’n Dallas. Your Ma’s fatter’n the Pillsbury Dough Boy. You’re snot.

Early church goers, young wives, older wives, men glancing at their watches, nonchalant cowboys, concerned citizens, unconcerned citizens, the curious, the titillated and the frightened joined together as one white-faced organism absorbing the show, sharing a momentous event they could boast about for the rest of their lives. Monkey figured that finding an attractive woman in the mob would be easy. The tough part was finding one who might feel the same about a gawky, goofy, poor kid like him.

Locals of Spanish and African heritage looked on from the edge of the crowd. For a split second, Monkey noted how the brown and black faces framed a portrait of the beige mob. A tamale cart did a booming business.

He took it in. There you are. Good and bad. Rich and poor. For better or for worse, my people, till death do us part. Love it or leave it? Some of you may hate what you do not know, but you know me, and ever’ one of you would stand beside me when my back’s against the wall. But if I don’t leave, I’ll be trapped in your universe forever. He walked back through the smoke to his Oldsmobile. It started on the third try. Monkey drove off toward his new life.

Blackstock did not recognize the troll of a man leaning against a beat up old truck filled with unhappy hogs. They locked eyes for an instant.

Blackstock decided the man was trying too hard to act casual as he got back in his truck. The Chief moved toward the vehicle and saw the top of a small head raise up in the passenger seat.

Hey, Chief. Over here.

Blackstock looked back at long, lean Sergeant Crane striding past the school bus. At that moment the horrific odor of burning gasoline and melting tires finally got to the kids. One barfed, setting off a chain reaction.

When Sergeant Crane saw the Chief staring at him, the left side of his face twitched. It always did when he was in trouble with Blackstock. He swallowed hard and spit out an order. Get that school bus outta here ‘fore all them kids is sicker’n a green goose! Did my voice crack? Too high pitched? At least it got results. The bus is moving. Crane saluted the Chief.

Blackstock turned back toward the man with the hogs.