The Inhabitants of the World

By Dimitris Apergis

A small Texas town divided into twenty Christian parishes. A greedy oil tycoon polluting the town's water with toxic waste. A tough sheriff and his neurotic wife. A relentless showdown where there is no place for losers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Okypus Publishing / Ωκύπους Εκδόσεις
• Release date: Aug 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9786188683402

Dimitris Apergis

Dimitris Apergis was born in Larisa, Greece, in 1978. He graduated in BA (Hons) Film Studies in the UK. He lives in Greece and owns the OKYPUS, an online rare books retail company.He publishes his books both in English and Greek languages.Dimitris has received multiple awards for his literary work.In 2018 he received the First Literature Award from the Panhellenic Association of Writers for his novel Gerard & the father.Additionally, in 2018 his novel Gerard & the father also received the First Literature Award at the 8th International Literature Contest held by E.P.O.C. (Hellenic Culture Association of Cyprus) under the aegis of UNESCO.In 2017 his novel ‘At the Whiskey County’ received the First Literature Award at the 7th International Literature Contest held by the Hellenic Culture Association of Cyprus under the aegis of UNESCO.In 2015 his novella ‘Jazz Room’ received the Second Literature Award from the Panhellenic Association of Writers.In 2013 he received a Praise from the Panhellenic Association of Writers for his short story LabyrinthIn 2012 he received the First Literature Award from the MONITOR Press for his short story Acid RainVisit Dimitris at his website: https://www.okypus.com/okypus-publisherWORKS:"Jazz Room & other stories" (2016)"At the Whiskey County" (2017)"Gerard & the father" (2018)"Lord Greywood, vampire" (2021)"The inhabitants of the world" (2023)---Ο Δημήτρης Απέργης γεννήθηκε στην Λάρισα το 1978. Σπούδασε Κινηματογράφο στο Πανεπιστήμιο Σόλεντ του Σάουθαμπτον στην Αγγλία. Ζει στην Λάρισα.Εκδίδει τα βιβλία του στην ελληνική και στην αγγλική γλώσσα.Ο Δημήτρης Απέργης έχει τιμηθεί αρκετές φορές με διακρίσεις για το λογοτεχνικό του έργο.Το 2018 απέσπασε το Α βραβείο Μυθιστορήματος για το μυθιστόρημα Ο Ζεράρ & ο πατέρας στον 36ο Λογοτεχνικό Διαγωνισμό της Πανελλήνιας Ένωσης Λογοτεχνων. Το ίδιο έργο απέσπασε το Α βραβείο Μυθιστορήματος στον 8ο Παγκόσμιο Λογοτεχνικό Διαγωνισμό του Ε.Π.Ο.Κ.Το 2017 απέσπασε το Α’ βραβείο Μυθιστορήματος για το μυθιστόρημα «Στην Κομητεία του Ουίσκι» στον 7ο Παγκόσμιο Λογοτεχνικό Διαγωνισμό του Ε.Π.Ο.Κ.Το 2015 τιμήθηκε με το Β’ βραβείο Νουβέλας για την νουβέλα «Jazz Room» από την Πανελλήνια Ένωση Λογοτεχνών.Το 2013 τιμήθηκε με Έπαινο Διηγήματος για το διήγημα «Λαβύρινθος» από την Πανελλήνια Ένωση Λογοτεχνών.Το 2012 απέσπασε το Α’ βραβείο Διηγήματος για το διήγημα «Όξινη βροχή» από την εφημερίδα ΜΟΝΙΤΟΡ.Ιστοσελίδα συγγραφέα: https://www.okypus.com/okypus-publisher

Book preview

the inhabitants of the world

Dimitris Apergis

ISBN 978-618-86834-0-2

CHAPTERS:

1. THE PRECIPITANT LAWYER

2. A SOCIAL VISIT TO HAWGARTH PETROLEUM

3. REGARDING SYLVIA

4. COACH PENDERGAST

5. THE UNVEILING OF THE FOUNTAIN

6. NIGHT TALK

7. BREAKFAST...!

8. THE EVIL PSEUDOMONAS

9. TILL DEATH DO US PART

10. THE BEGINNING OF A WONDERFUL PARTNERSHIP

11. THE WORLD WE ARE TRYING TO SAVE

12. THE GAY GROOMSMAN

13. CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

14. LESLIE'S IN PAIN

15. HAWGARTH'S BIRTHDAY PARTY

16. DISCUSSION BETWEEN MEN

17. EL GONZO

18. THE FOUR BISHOPS

19. TRIP TO LOUISVILLE

20. A PAST FULL OF LOTUS-EATERS

21. A TYPICAL WORKDAY

22. THE OTHER SYLVIA

23. CONFESSION TO A MADCAP PREACHER

24. OUT-OF-COURT HEARING

25. AT LESLIE'S FUNERAL

26. ANGRY MEN ON A HOT SATURDAY

27. THE RED CIRCLE

28. FOURTH OF JULY

29. WASP NEST

30. THE DEVIL'S HORN

31. A BARBECUE UNLIKE ANY OTHER

32. NOBODY WANTS THIS SHOWDOWN

33. SUNDAY PICNIC

1. THE PRECIPITANT LAWYER

There is a peculiar visual feature that strikes a first-time visitor to the town of Peekwi, Peekwi County, Texas. Speaking of which, there are many peculiar features in Peekwi, but the first one that undoubtedly makes an impression is the bishop oaks that sprout up scattered throughout the area.

Their Latin name is Quercus Virginiana, but betcha none of the permanent residents know that. They only refer to these trees as bishops, and there the matter ends.

These oaks do not have the shape of an average typical tree; elementary school kids would have a load of trouble drawing them on paper in art class. They resemble huge octopuses with tentacles made of wood and foliage, and their central trunk is mighty small to non-existent.

These devils, the bishops, grow everywhere in Peekwi like moss, they do not reckon special circumstances or care. They can grow out of the hot sand of the Texas desert or out of moist soil in a shady spot or even through rocks. Heck, they can even grow through asphalt, such is the strength of their roots that they even penetrate the pavement.

And this is -more or less- all one needs to know about the bishops of Peekwi.

It was under a bishop then Sheriff Colthorpe parked his patrol on that hot Tuesday afternoon in April. In the cool shade of the tree he remained staring at Interstate 350 while in the background dominated the dry plain of Llano Estacado with its thorny marshes and rocky outcrops and prickly pear cacti with the yellow flowers and the purple fruits.

Supposedly, Colthorpe parked under the bishop to inspect the Interstate and thus reminisce the good old days when he patrolled as a regular policeman with his speed radar and arrested offenders of all kinds, motorcyclists or motorists, drunk or sober, mad or sane. This, of course, was only a small aspect of the truth in this case.

Because that afternoon Sheriff Colthorpe was accompanied by a bottle of Jack Daniel's tucked into a paper bag in the passenger seat. And every now and then he gave it furtive glances, sometimes he unscrewed the cap and screwed it back on, sometimes he stripped it of the paper bag and admired its dark golden color in the sunlight formed by the mirrors of the patrol car. To take a sip or not to take a sip? That's the question.

Hold on, Vern. Discipline. Never on duty. One sip ain't enough anyway. We both know that mighty well.

This he mentally whispered to himself as he flirted with the bottle. And that's when a scaly colubrid popped up crawling its tail on a bishop's branch and approaching curious the sheriff's window. Colthorpe sighed bitterly, not relishing the sight of it. He therefore opened the glove box, took out the heavy Smith & Wesson nine-millimeter, blew the ill-fated snake's brains out, and put the gun back in its place.

After the powerful bang of the gun, the silence of the desert prevailed again. Silence broken only by the faint sound of the patrol car's radio. The radio was tuned to Peekwi's local station, PBC (Peekwi Broadcasting Company), which was constantly playing country music from upstart bands with female singers squealing like rabid cats. And as for the lyrics? Same more or less, complaining, all concerning bums. Someone's truck was broken down, someone else's wife left him, someone else's house was seized by the bank. The station's repertoire was karaoke level but Colthorpe didn't really care. On the contrary, he was amused. Still, his mind was in the bottle.

No motherfucker, you ain't gonna hustle me. I know what you're askin' me to do. I hear you loud and clear. You want me to open your lid and take you down my throat all at once. That's what you're furourly barkin' for. Well that ain't gonna happen. I ain't fallin' under your spells.

He opened the cap and took a strong whiff of the nozzle. Rye and alcohol. Begging to be consumed.

Maybe a tiny sip. Maybe. Two drops to wash my mouth off. As an antiseptic. To get rid of gum bacteria. Maybe.

That's what he thought. And then, he brought the nozzle close to his lips. Too close.

Vrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmm...!!!

Bastard...! hissed Colthorpe through his teeth and looked at the speedometer on the patrol car's dashboard.

A hundred miles an hour, flashed the indicator. Whereas the limit is sixty. He didn't even get to see the vehicle, so fast it passed in front of him. All he could see now was the dust left behind by the ride.

He didn't think too much about it. He stepped on the gas pedal and entered the 350 with fury, on the hunt for the sinful vehicle. The dust trailing the vehicle obscured the vision, so Colthorpe geared into fifth and the engine obeyed with groans the sheriff's commands.

The wheels were spinning screechingly on the asphalt and soon he felt in his nostrils the violent friction of the tires. Of course, he didn't care. He was determined to catch the offender, even if that meant the patrol car going up in flames.

He finally reached the furious car. It was a polished blue Chevrolet. Colthorpe pressed the siren switch. The driver slowed down and pulled the Chevrolet off the side of the road. Under a bishop, incidentally. Colthorpe parked the patrol car about sixteen feet behind. He put on his wide-brimmed hat and the fake rayban sunglasses, and got out:

Put both hands out the window so I can see them!

Two hands with open palms protruded from the window of the Chevrolet. Ecru sleeves.

Good. Put them back in now!

The hands got back in. Colthorpe approached the driver. A man in his forties with a long, narrow face, thinning auburn hair on his forehead and a parting that formed an unsavory fringe above his right eye. He wore an off-white shirt with sweat around his armpits. He had his beige jacket hanging on the passenger side window.

A lawyer, no doubt. Three to one, bet. Slimy physiognomy. The type of man who would pay generous monthly fees to Chinese masseuses to pat his backside with their bare feet.

What's up, buddy? Why the rush? Whom are you after?

The American Dream.

Huh. Funny. Let's see that driver's license.

Driving license. Name: Hugh Berrycloth. Residence: 2120 Old Main Street, Wakare Township.

Is this your vehicle?

Pardon me?

The occasional pardon me? which the sheriff often received in his conversations with people he met for the first time. Colthorpe's voice was high-pitched, mumbled with a nasal intonation, sometimes melodious and borderline babbling. It sounded like the voice of an infant that struggled to be heard through his entrails. This was why it took a long time for many people to get used to his mumbling and understand what he was saying. Even his wife mocked him for this strange muttering.

Is this your vehicle?

Indeed, officer.

Profession?

Lawyer.

(Bingo)

Have you had any alcohol, Mr. Berrycloth?

No. Just coffee. Loads of it.

Colthorpe continued to scrutinize the car in and out. There was nothing suspicious.

Officer, with all due respect, but I happen to be in a bit of a hurry.

Yes, I know that. You were drivin' at a hundred miles an hour.

I'm just late to a meetin'. I've never driven that fast before. And I've never gotten a ticket before. You can check that for yourself.

I believe you.

I would therefore be grateful if we could expedite the proceedings. I will bear a ticket. Or a warnin', even better.

Could you please exit the vehicle and open the trunk?

What for?

I wanna see what's inside.

Oh yes, I forgot to tell you, officer. I have my wife's dismembered corpse stashed in the trunk. I prefer not to expose it to the sun.

Could we do without the wisecracks please?

Berrycloth grunted and got out of the car, keys in hand. Opened the trunk. There was only a can of gasoline inside.

What is this?

That's a can of petrol, officer.

Why is it there?

Because I often forget myself and run out of gas. Two or three times I've run out of gas in the middle of the desert. That's why I always keep a spare can.

Ain't it dangerous to carry a can of petrol in the trunk in this heat?

No, officer. My car's air conditionin' works great.

Okay. Close the trunk.

Berrycloth did accordingly. But noticing Colthorpe pacing lazily around the car, he glanced anxiously at his watch.

Officer, is all this necessary? As I told you, I'm in a hurry for a meetin' and…-

A hundred miles an hour is reason enough to arrest you and take you to the precinct, Mr. Berrycloth.

Oh for God's sake... What else do you want me to do? Breathalyzer?

No, I don't wanna breathalyze you.

How come?

You ain't no drunk.

How do you know?

I can tell when someone is drunk and when they ain't. Trust me on this one.

Really? Well then, officer. How about we settle the matter with a quick fare? How much do you need?

That's what Berrycloth said, and he fumbled for his wallet in his back pocket. Bribing a police officer...? Here's another one. One too many. Colthorpe beat him to it:

Hey, don't trouble yourself. I ain't the tippin' type.

Well, I'll be damned...! Heck, for a cop you're a real gem. Hey! Wait a minute!... Holy Jesus...!

Holy Jesus. Those were the first words that flashed spontaneously into Berrycloth's mind as he beheld the gilded star on Colthorpe's lapel:

You're the new sheriff!... The new sheriff of Peekwi, right?

It took you a while to find out, didn't it?

Vernon Colthorpe, right? You're the son of Nathan Colthorpe, the Texas Ranger, ain't you?

That's right.

Vernon Colthorpe! I saw your picture with the mayor on the front page of the Peekwi Post. Damn me! What are you doin' out here in that godawful heat, Sheriff?

I'm patrollin' the Interstate.

Don't you have deputies for this job?

I like patrols, Berrycloth.

Oh hell...! You are strange... How long have you been here in Peekwi?

Two months. Give or take.

Two months... phew!... Well, I do assure you of one thang, Sheriff: You chose the worst part of the world.

I didn't choose it, Berrycloth. I was transferred in a rush and got elected sheriff with brief procedures. So, I asked no questions.

Are you acclimated at all or not yet?

I'm still tryin'. I'm doin' better than my wife though, that's for sure.

You'll need a strong stomach to get used to Peekwi. In Peekwi you'll see all kinds of strange things.

I'm a natural born Texan, Berrycloth. I was born in Washburn, Armstrong County. I grew up amongst cowboys, oxen, hogs, dung, and rodeos. What the hell am I gonna see in Peekwi that's gonna impress me?

A lot of what you already know, and more. What's your opinion of Mayor Coby?

I have no opinion. I don't know him that well.

Once you start with Mayor Coby, you'll get a general idea of the minds folks carry in here. Thank God I don't live here or I'd go mad. Peekwi is like an outdoor nuthouse. I live in Wakare, fifteen miles from here.

Colthorpe's attention was already elsewhere. He had approached the bishop and was observing - as if enchanted - one of its branches. From the branch came a muffled chirp, extremely meager in its frequency. Berrycloth glanced at his watch:

Fuck them... Let them wait for another hour. I'm already way too late anyway.

He went towards the sheriff to see what it was that'd captivated him. Perched on the branch was a tiny yellow bird with a plume and gray wings. He didn't know much about birds. Apparently, the sheriff possessed some knowledge:

Yellow cardinal. Fairly rare.

Ah... Really?... Do you like birds, Sheriff?

Yes, I have a weak spot for them.

Mmm. I prefer dogs. I have two at home.

I didn't mean as pets, Berrycloth. I just love birds. Period.

I see.

The cardinal left the branch and flew away, until his figure was lost in the circle of the Texan sun. Colthorpe took out the reybans and hung them in the collar of his shirt:

Fuck them, who?

Excuse me?

Fuck them, who?

I don't follow you, Sheriff.

"You said earlier fuck them, let them wait for another hour. Who did you mean?"

Ah! I meant the Pentecostal Mission of John the Baptist. They've already been waitin' for me at their church for an hour.

Is the church on the main square?

No, sheriff. That's the Methodist church. The Pentecostal church is on Andrews Street. You don't even know the churches in your county.

I've never been the churchgoin' type, Berrycloth.

Well, churches will be the first strange thing you'll have to get used to in Peekwi. You've got twenty of them in a town of twenty thousand. And each of them belongs to a different Christian denomination. You've got the Pentecostals, the Methodists, Baptists, Anabaptists, Anglicans, Calvinists, Mormons, Jehovahs, Christian Scientists, Evangelicals, Lutherans, Catholics, Adventists, Moravians and so on. All gathered in one place, each in their own parish. Unbelievable, yet true.

Colthorpe chuckled:

Yeah... It's kinda weird, truth be said. I didn't know all that and now I'm kinda freakin' out. Anyway. And what's your business with the Pentecostals? Or is it classified?

I've no business with the Pentecostals. That's exactly what I'm gonna make clear to them, and that's why I'm drivin' at a hundred miles an hour. It all started when I was doin' an interview with DJ Frankie Dee last week, at Peekwi's radio station. It was more of a promotional interview for my law firm, and Frankie Dee kept praisin' me for my big trial wins and all that. Until, we started doin' live phone calls from listeners on the air. Everyone was askin' me for legal advice, and I referred them to my office, and ev'thang was goin' like clockwork, and then a bitch from the Pentecostal Mission comes up and starts complainin' that I ignored the fifteen letters they sent me to represent them in the lawsuit they wanna file over the water case. I therefore arranged on the spot on the air a meetin' with all their members at their church so I go and tell them to stop botherin' me once and for all.

What's the water case?

Jesus Christ Almighty! You don't even know the Peekwi water case? What the hell have you been doin' here two months, sheriff?

Not much, apparently. So? What's up with Peekwi's water?

Well, that's the second weirdness you'll have to get used to in Peekwi, Sheriff. All the folks in Peekwi are complainin' that their water is bein' contaminated with toxic waste. Not just the Pentecostals. Everyone's complainin'. They just don't ever deign to unite and get organized all together between themselves. Each parish follows their own legal path, and that is all.

Whose toxic waste is the water supposed to be contaminated with?

Hawgarth Petroleum's, of course. Who else's?

Is this really true? Is Hawgarth Petroleum contaminatin' the water?

I'm a lawyer, a sheriff. In my world there ain't no truth nor lies. There's only hard evidence and a favorable jury.

Don't you have a personal opinion on the matter?

Yes, I do have an opinion. My opinion is that Hawgarth Petroleum is indeed doin' somethin' nasty. Somehow they are dumpin' their waste in Lake Paa. But it don't make one bit of darn difference. It's a lost cause. And that's exactly what I wish to explain to the dear Pentecostals.

I don't understand you, Berrycloth. Why is it a lost cause? It's about the goddamn water, ain't it? ain't that a serious offense?

Totally irrelevant, Sheriff. A lost cause, I tell you. The reason? The money. Hawgarth Petroleum makes an annual appearance on the Fortune 500 list. It's also one of the Texas Five, the five most profitable Texas oil and gas companies in the United States. In other words, they have the money. The Pentecostals do not have enough money to support the costs of the trial plus my fee. Hawgarth Petroleum will bankrupt them to death. The companies of Texas Five spend half a billion a year on legal cases. You reckon Hawgarth Petroleum will be itchin' if they're sued by a bunch of Pentecostals? They'll throw us all down the toilet and flush us before you can even say apple pie.

How about the Water Records? Don't they have public archives?

Of course they do.

And what do their measurements show?

Pure drinkin' water with a piddlee'o dose of toluene, enough to make you high. Or turn you into an idiot for good. Idiot just like the folks of Peekwi.

Toluene? What the hell is that?

Colorless hydrocarbon liquid. Kind of like the benzine that little kids sniff to get giddy. The Water Authority claims it's within the permissible limits in the water and all the unsafe ingredients in it are filtered out. Bullshit, if you want my opinion.

Is this toluene a carcinogen?

"Well, here's the kicker. The EPA (=Environmental Protection Agency) states that the carcinogenic potential of toluene cannot be assessed due to insufficient information. Unfortunately, science ain't progressed far enough on this issue, Sheriff. And since the EPA states that, that's exactly what TCEQ, the Texas Commission on Environmental Quality, is adoptin'. Which means - in simple words - that in a possible trial, I will appear before the judge with only my dick in my hands. Get the point?"

Ain't there no cancer patients in Peekwi?

"Darn tootin' there are cancer patients in Peekwi! In Peekwi you have all kinds. Cancers, leukemias, Hodgkin's lymphomas, fibromyxomatous sarcomas... Take your pick. However, can you legally link them to toluene? The answer is no. But whatever the answer be, how do you prove with hard evidence that these cancers are related to Hawgarth Petroleum? You can get cancer from anythin', from smokin', from drinkin', from hair spray, from processed foods... Hell, even from healthy livin' you can get cancer...! In tort law, sheriff, even the most ignorant lawyer can add cancer to the chance occurences, what we legals call casus fortuitus. An Act of God. There ain't no substantial blame or malice for cancer, cancer is decided by God. And God is the big boss."

Colthorpe became suddenly gloomy and sat on the bishop's root tip. Berrycloth was onto him. This one has lost someone of his own to cancer. I better stop talkin' about it, he thought. And he did accordingly:

Anyway, fuck cancer. It is what it is. The bottom line is that you have no hope with Hawgarth Petroleum. It's futile to try to connect them to the water contamination. But even if things reach their limits, they will claim the obvious: That the toluene comes from underground and that they have nothin' to do with it.

Where does Mayor Coby stand on the whole matter?

He claims the water is safe. That's the one thing you're never gonna find out about Coby. You'll never find out whether he's in on the scam, or he's just bein' manipulated by the powers that be. Sly or just dumb? You ain't never gonna find out.

How far is the Hawgarth Petroleum complex from Lake Paa?

Half a mile. Thereabouts.

Couldn't they be usin' some secret pipeline? Underground?

Yes, perhaps, they could. Why? Are you fixin' to search for it?

You're goddamn right that's exactly what I'm gonna do.

Berrycloth looked the sheriff in the eyes. Colthorpe's dark gaze, brooding beneath his straight temples, caused him to sneer. He went and sat down beside him on the ledge:

My dear sheriff... Can you keep a secret?

Sure. Go on.

Have you ever heard of the Red Circle?

It don't ring a bell. What is the Red Circle?

"The Red Circle is the secret consortium of the five companies of Texas Five. They call it the Red Circle but of course they never refer to it as such publicly. It's like a secret code between them, top secret. You've never heard of it?"

Nope.

Needless to tell you, of course, you didn't hear this information from me. When one of the five companies is in some serious danger, the other four are automatically at risk of bein' exposed, one way or another. So they arrange a council, they sit around a table, they put aside any rivalry they have amongst each other, and discuss the issue at hand. This council is called the Red Circle. In the Red Circle, the big decisions are bein' made. For example, does a public agency discover criminal negligence? Grease them. They don't get greased? Threaten them. They don't get threatened? Wipe them out. Simple as that.

You don't say.

I do say. Another example. An insider is aspirin' to become a whistleblower? Kill him. How many whistleblowers have you heard testifyin' against an oil company in the last ten years?

I can't think of anyone.

I'll tell you. None. Zero. Nada. So we're led to believe that the oil companies—and especially the Texas Five—operate perfectly within the letter of the law? I don't buy it, sheriff.

So I'm riskin' my life? Is that what you're tryin' to tell me?

Even if you clear all hurdles and catch them by the balls, do you really believe they're gonna sit by calm? You reckon they're gonna lose the billions they make annually because an eco-sensitive small town sheriff steps up? Or because some poor bastard died of leukemia and the world got smaller? They'll stomp on you like a bug, sheriff. And they won't even bother to clean the sole of their shoe.

Sounds like mob.

That's what it is. Mob. Worse than mob. They're corporate behemoths. They command the entire planet, they ain't content with a few piddlee'o neighborhoods.

Colthorpe sighed, fingering his forehead. He got migraines:

We're in the goddamn twenty-first century... Ain't we done with all these bigshots yet? When are we finally gonna get rid of them?

It's greed, Sheriff... Human greed reckons no centuries...

A small ladybug landed on the sheriff's wrist. He let her walk up his palm, examining the crimson color and black spots of her elytra. She, as she reached his fingertips, opened her tiny wings and flew away in the mirages of Llano Estacado.

Berrycloth looked at his watch:

I really enjoyed our conversation Sheriff... But now I have to git.

Okay.

So what's gonna happen? . . . Ticket or warnin'?

Warnin'. A strict one.

Dang, I like you Sheriff. You're a classy guy. I owe you a favor.

Goddamn straight you owe me a favor. And you'll repay me right now.

Okay. I'm listenin'.

You're gonna take the Pentecostal lawsuit. And you're gonna take it as far as they can afford it. After that, we'll see what we do.

No. I can't do you that favor, sheriff. I'm sorry. Pick some other denomination and I'll consider it. But not the Pentecostals.

Why not the Pentecostals?

Three reasons. First, they will force me to be baptized in their church if I cooperate with them. I do not wish to be baptized. Second, you cannot trust them in court. They are capable of bringin' poisonous snakes for rites into the courtroom or even swallow strychnine to convert the judge. I don't need that shit in my career, thank you very much. And third, if you put them on the stand to testify, they'll talk about anythin' but the water contamination. They will begin recountin' their visions of Armageddon or hellfire or eternal damnation or even speak in tongues. There ain't no sane jury on the planet that will take these folks seriously. Get the point, sheriff?

Yeah, you were clear.

Still—as I said—I ain't ungrateful. I always return favors, Sheriff. But forget the Pentecostals.

Okay, Berrycloth. Roger that. No Pentecostals.

Berrycloth headed to his Chevrolet and got inside. Colthorpe followed him with the raybans on his eyes. Some question was eating Berrycloth:

Sheriff, can I ask you a question?

Shoot.

I've seen you twice so far. Once on the front page of the Peekwi Post and once today. I noticed both times that you don't carry the gun in your belt holster. Is there a reason for that?

Can you keep a secret?

Sure.

I get fired up mighty easy. And if I've got a gun handy, I'll probably use it. That means trouble. That's why I avoid carryin' it around, as much as I can.

I see.

Drive carefully now, Berrycloth.

2. SOCIAL VISIT TO HAWGARTH PETROLEUM

The chapter's title says it all. That's exactly what Sheriff Colthorpe set out to do immediately after his conversation with Berrycloth. A social visit to Hawgarth Petroleum.

He parked his patrol car outside the unit and gazed at its grandiose facilities. Hundreds of acres scattered with the giant pumps that, with reciprocating movements, milked the earth of its oil. Beside, the towers of the refineries with the huge cylindrical tanks and the smokestacks that spewed gray smoke into the sky. The place hummed industrial noises into the desert of Llano Estacado, noises at tolerable decibels but paranoidly persistent.

At the entrance gate stood the horizontal bar and the guard's cubicle. On the wall to the right, the gilded plaque: Hawgarth Petroleum, member of PROFECTUS CORPORATION. Below, the red sign: ENTRY ALLOWED TO AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Typical stuff.

Before driving to the front gate of the unit in his patrol car, Colthorpe radioed the Peekwi Police Department. It was a precautionary call, nothing more.

In his department, Colthorpe had two deputies, Randall and Buzz. Randall was a demure and calculative guy while Buzz was spontaneous and loud. Neither of them was distinguished for his intelligence, but - for God's sake - the men were no clodhoppers. Together they formed a perfect mind with which Colthorpe became admirably attuned during those two months of his tenure as sheriff. If you took them apart, they were both duller than an electric pencil sharpener.

Randall answered the call. A fact that suited Colthorpe in this case:

Randall. Colthorpe here.

I'm listenin', Sheriff.

Right now I'm outside Hawgarth Petroleum in my patrol car.

And?

I'm fixin' to pay them a visit.

What for?

Oh, just a social visit, that's all.

What are you up to, Sheriff?

Nothin'. Nothin' special. I just wanna know more about this water case.

Hmm, let me guess. You just found out about the water case.

Don't get started on me now, Randall. I do admit it though. I just found out.

And what are you fixin' to do now? Are you fixin' to go into the unit and investigate the matter?

Yeah... Sort of... The idea did cross my mind.

You wanna inspect the place? Interrogate the staff?

Right on. On an informal level, of course.

I would advise against it, Sheriff.

Why?

It's out of your jurisdiction.

Out of my jurisdiction? Take it easy, boy.

Hawgarth Petroleum is under the jurisdiction of the Glasscock County. It's in a different administrative district.

What the hell are you talkin' about, boy!? What does Glasscock County got to do with it? Glasscock County is two hundred miles away from where I am standin'.

I know, it sounds crazy. But it's the truth. It's one of them shyster quacks of lawyers. Legally, as soon as you set foot in the Hawgarth Petroleum facility, you're automatically on Glasscock County territory. So you've got absolutely no jurisdiction there.

Are you workin' me, boy? Have you been boozin' and you're now servin' me horseshit?

No, no, Sheriff. I'm sober, don't worry about it. You ain't met Hawgarth yet?

No. I neither met him nor introduced ourselves. Should I?

Hmm, strange. Old Angus is usually quick to get on good terms with the Peekwi sheriffs. Anyway. He's a thick-skinned, typical oilman. He's got a bulldog, Jeff Dunkworth. You ain't met him either?

No, I don't know him either.

He's his lawyer. Sneaky scumbag. They might get you in trouble if you step on their turf, Sheriff.

Is that so? Well, I'm goin' in anyway.

Good luck. Don't say I didn't warn you.

As he hung the transceiver back on the dashboard of the patrol car, Colthorpe was so flushed that even the hairs on his head stood on end. He thanked the Lord for enlightening him not to drink those two damned tiny sips of Jack Daniel's. If he had, his nervous system would have already collapsed and his mouth would be foaming.

He stepped on the gas and reached the main entrance gate. He braked just inches from the lowered bar. The guard's face emerged from the cubicle to his left. A late-fifties dude with baggy eyes and a protruding lower lip. He was wearing a hat with a brim on his head, and sweat was running in rivers from the hat all over his face. All the gate guards had the same face, even in movies. Were they all cloned in the same test tube?

Colthorpe took his ID out of his pocket and showed it to the guard:

Vernon Colthorpe, Sheriff of Peekwi. Open the gate, please.

The security guard took out the board with the list of registered visitors and searched through it with his pen. Of course, he couldn't find the sheriff's name:

I don't see your name on the list, Sheriff. Are you sure you have an appointment?

What appointment and hogwash you're blubberin' about, oldtimer!? I'm the sheriff of Peekwi. I just showed you my ID. Raise the goddamn bar.

I can't let you in if you ain't on the list, Sheriff.

Raise the fuckin' bar right now before I knock it down and arrest your ass!

One moment, Sheriff. Hold on a second while I call the headquarters.

The security guard grabbed the receiver of the wall-mounted intercom and started talking to someone (from headquarters, presumably). This was enough to infuriate Colthorpe. He abruptly reversed the patrol car and then sped toward the bar. A clang was heard. Ugly clang.

Raise the fuckin' bar, old man! I swear to God, I'll knock it down and break your neck!

Calm down, sheriff! Calm down, please. I don't wanna to lose my job. I have responsibilities in this position.

Colthorpe reversed again. Apparently, that nasty clang came from the front bumper being torn off. The gate bar seemed unharmed. He flared up with rage and gassed it harder. This time he managed to damage it without knocking it down completely. He reversed again.

Relax, Sheriff! You're free to pass! I'm raisin' the bar! Calm down!

The bar was bent from the blows and rose with a snarl. Colthorpe passed through the gate looking at the stunned guard:

Old fuck.

He drove the patrol car into the forecourt parking lot and stopped it in a shady spot. A thirtysomething toff in a pink shirt ran towards him:

Officer! Not here, sir. These parkin' spaces are reserved for company managers.

The parking lot attendant, no doubt. Colthorpe of course ignored him. He got out of the patrol car and headed straight for the glass entrance of the main building. The toff followed him from behind:

Officer! You can't park here!

Sue me, kid.

Colthorpe entered the building. Minimalist architecture of steel, glass and reinforced concrete. Ergonomic decoration characterized by polygonal lines and obtuse angles. Everywhere he looked, he saw yuppies walking up and down the lacquered floor carrying briefcases. In the large semicircular glass window in front of him posed the industrial facilities.

He moved to the reception desk. Three beautiful young ladies were sitting there. He chose the one in the middle:

Good afternoon, sugarpie. My name is Vernon Colthorpe. I am the sheriff of Peekwi. I would like to see Mr. Hawgarth.

You mean Mr. Angus Hawgarth?

That's right.

Mr. Angus Hawgarth is the owner and president of the company, Sheriff Colthorpe. He usually comes to the unit on Fridays.

I see. And who is in overall command over here since Mr. Hawgarth is usually away?

I understand that the man you wanna see is Mr. Alan Greenberg. He is the CEO of the company.

Right on, sugarpie. That's exactly who I wanna see. Where's his office?

I'll need to schedule an appointment for you. Just gimme half a minute to check his schedule.

No, sugarpie. You don't understand. I wanna see him right now. Where is his office?

Sheriff... Sir... The only way to see Mr. Greenberg is by appointment.

Where's his office sugarpie?

Sir... I can't let you...

His office, sugarpie! Now!

It's on the third floor.

Thank you, sugarpie.

He moved towards the elevator. His ear caught the name Albius! exclaimed by the cute receptionist from behind him. Albius appeared before him. Security officer with a metal badge on his chest. A six-foot-tall corn-fed negro from Detroit. Basically, not exactly corn-fed. Obese would be a more appropriate description. Four hundred pounds of moving mass. Colthorpe fixed him with his gaze:

Touch me, buffalo boy, and I'll bite your balls off.

He entered the elevator and pressed button three. As the elevator shaft was made almost entirely of glass, Colthorpe could see the relative commotion caused by his arrival. Suited penpushers came and went in bewilderment here and there. Spineless bimbos he thought and chuckled.

Third floor. Colthorpe exited the elevator and began to check the corridor's doors. They were all made of mustard-colored linden wood with wavy patterns. He found the one he was looking for. Metallic letters: ALAN GREENBERG - CEO. He knocked on the door twice and opened it without waiting for the 'come in'.

He stood before Greenberg's secretary in the small waiting office. She was a middle-aged lady with a refined figure. She had her blonde hair held at the back of her head in a butterfly clip. She reminded him of his teacher at elementary school. This calmed him somewhat.

Good afternoon. Sheriff Colthorpe, I presume?

Yes, Madam.

Mr. Greenberg will be with you in less than two minutes. Please sit on the couch.

Colthorpe acted accordingly. He sat on the plush sofa by Greenberg's door and studied the secretary tapping her slim fingers on the computer's keyboard. Both her hair clip and the ring on the finger of her left hand were of turquoise mineral. Colthorpe's mind flashed back to his elementary school days. Sweet images of carefreeness and fooling around. Hell, were there really such memories in Colthorpe's head? Even he wondered at himself.

Would you like me to fetch you somethin' to drink, Sheriff?

No, ma'am. Thank you.

Are you sure? An iced water, maybe? Or an iced lemonade? It's really hot today.

No, ma'am. I'm fine. Thank you very much.

I've never been able to get used to the heat of Peekwi. All these years, and it's the only thang I ain't been able to stomach. If there weren't air conditioners installed in the buildin', I would have quit this job a long time ago.

Yes, indeed, you are right. The buildin' is mighty cool inside. The air conditioners do a dandy job.

When I think of you policemen who are forced to do outdoor work, it drives me crazy. How do you stand this heat, honestly!... You have my sympathy, Sheriff.

Colthorpe smiled gracefully. One word, however, was already troubling his mind. It was a word that the lady mouthed towards him. Water:

Come to think of it, I wouldn't mind a glass of cold water. If it ain't so much trouble, of course.

Sure, Sheriff. Are you sure you don't prefer iced lemonade? Surprisingly, here at the unit we have the best lemonade in Texas. It's fantastic, even better than my dear mother used to make.

No, ma'am. A glass of cold water will do for me. Thank you.

The secretary got up from her seat and went to the two and a half liter bottle cooler. She filled a glass with water by opening the cannula and then offered it to Colthorpe:

To your health, Sheriff.

Thank you. Thank you very much, ma'am.

Colthorpe brought the glass to his lips and took two small sips. He wasn't thirsty. He kept glancing at the secretary. He wanted to fish her for information:

You don't drink tap water inside the buildin'?

Mmm, no... No, Sheriff... Each office has a cooler... We don't need tap water.

Are you sayin' there ain't no taps inside the buildin'?

For drinkin' water, no, there ain't no taps. We only have the coolers.

And the toilets? No taps in there either?

The toilets have faucets in the sinks, Sheriff. But I don't suppose you'd like me to fetch you water from the toilets.

No, no, ma'am. For God's sake. I'm just askin' dumb questions every now and then. Habits of the profession. Don't take me seriously.

Before the secretary would even smile politely, Greenberg's door opened. A Jew no doubt, the real deal. A long, narrow face with joined eyebrows, a hooked nose, and a sparse moustache. Put a fedora on him with two long curls and a goatee, and you've got yourself a regular rabbi.

They exchanged the formal handshakes:

Sheriff Colthorpe! Alan Greenberg, CEO. Nice to meet you.

Nice to meet you too, Mr. Greenberg.

I imagine Carol pampered you while you were waitin'?

Yes, Carol is a real peach of a lady. I wish I had a lady like that in my office.

Without Carol, I'd already be dead in this place. And that ain't an overstatement, I can assure you. Please come in.

The two men entered Greenberg's office while the secretary was blushing at their compliments. From Greenberg's glass vantage point, Colthorpe had a bird's-eye view of the facility. Cyclopean machines that worked non-stop in a vast expanse of sand and sun. Before the pumps and refineries, workers in monochrome uniforms seemed like ants heading here and there, sometimes in order and sometimes in disarray. The sight seemed divinely conceived, and Colthorpe was justifiably in awe. And this, of course, did not escape Greenberg's attention:

Impressive, ain't it?

Really impressive. I'm shiverin' all over.

Everyone shivers when they first walk into my office. Please sit down.

The two men sat across each other, Greenberg in the oval armchair of his office, Colthorpe in the anatomical chair with the handles. Greenberg's table was large and stacked with piles of papers. Greenberg noticed the glass of water in Colthorpe's hand:

What are you drinkin'? Plain water?

Yes. Water is just fine.

Are you sure you don't want an iced lemonade? You know, we have the best lemonade in all of Texas.

No thanks. I ain't too thirsty anyway.

Colthorpe rested his glass on a leather desk coaster. Greenberg began the discussion as Colthorpe was not yet laying his cards on the table:

I... I understand you had a slight conniption with the gate guard.

Yeah. A slight one.

I apologize for that. I must inform you though that the guard was simply followin' company protocol. And Hawgarth Petroleum's protocol is particularly strict in matters of security. Don't forget that this is an industrial zone that handles oil. The slightest deviation from the rules may prove fatal.

Do you provide basic trainin' to your staff?

Pardon me?

(The second pardon me? of the day)

Do you subject your employees to a trainin' period before they work in the unit?

Oh, yes, of course. All legal procedures are followed. People employed at Hawgarth Petroleum undergo extensive trainin' in the field they are undertakin'. The trainin' lasts from weeks to months. As a company, we are required by law to train the staff in advance. As I told you, this is an industrial zone that handles oil. Workin' inside the facility is dangerous for everyone involved, none excepted.

So, since you're doin' basic trainin' to your employees, the first thang you should be teachin' them is to respect officers of the law. By all means. That should be the #1 rule in the manuals you hand out.

Oh don't worry about that, Sheriff. They are given clear instructions to do just that, as you described it. However - with all due respect and in all fairness - the guard acted perfectly within the law in preventin' you from enterin'. In case you don't know it, I must inform you that Hawgarth Petroleum is under the jurisdiction of the Glasscock County. As such, you have no jurisdiction within the premises whatsoever.

Yes, I was already informed about this and I must admit it kinda shocked me. Strange, ain't it?

Strange but true. Lawyer tricks. I've never bothered my mind with such things. You shouldn't either.

Maybe I should be bothered after all because I already feel accountable in here.

Accountable? Oh no, for God's sake, Sheriff. We don't intend to file any charges against you. On the contrary, we do like a bit of turmoil around here every now and then. A little brawl every now and then gets the blood goin' and breaks the routine. So you're safe there. No worries.

That's mighty kind of you. Question: What will you do if - God forbid - there's an armed robbery in the place? Or if terrorists come in and take hostages? Or if there's a fire on the premises? Will you call the Glasscock police and fire department and wait for them for four hours?

Oh no. In case of emergency, we reserve the right to call the Peekwi Fire Department. And the Peekwi Police, of course.

Well, ain't that a dandy, don't you reckon!? In other words, we're only friends when you need us. Otherwise, we're nothin' to you.

Don't take it to heart, Sheriff. All jobs have their downsides, you know that. If I told you the crap I take here on a daily basis, you'd be surprised by the title of CEO they've given me. Chief Executive jerk, would be a more accurate designation.

Actually, I'm glad you brung it up Mr. Greenberg. Because that's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. I'd like to ask you a few questions about the work you personally do here in the unit.

Please, Sheriff. Feel free to ask. What is it you wanna know about my work?

First of all, since Mr. Hawgarth don't run the unit himself and rarely sets foot over here, I can only assume that every procedure performed within the unit requires your approval. Correct?

Mmmmmm... Yes... Mainly...

Mainly...?

Okay, forget it. Yes, you're right. Every procedure that takes place requires my signature on the relevant document first.

And of course, as the CEO, you also have the responsibility to validate the end of each process.

Yes... Yes... In summarizin' it, I put the initial and final signature on ev'thang that happens. What's your point, Sheriff?

I suppose you know about the Peekwi water case.

Yes, I know about it. It's a case that's been goin' on for years now.

So you know there are citizen complaints allegin' that Hawgarth Petroleum is dumpin' their waste into Lake Paa.

Yes, I do know about the complaints. But they 've all been dismissed by the courts as unfounded.

So what you're tellin' me is that you, in your tenure as CEO, never signed a document authorizin' the dumpin' of waste into Lake Paa.

Correct.

Therefore, you state to me unequivocally that Hawgarth Petroleum is doin' absolutely nothin' illegal in this matter.

Absolutely no illegal action... As far as I know...

"Oops! As far as I know sounds like evasion, Mr. Greenberg."

Sheriff Colthorpe, Hawgarth Petroleum employs five thousand people. Fifty of them are managers of different departments and another two hundred and fifty are assistant managers. So we ought to consider the human factor whether we like it or not.

Colthorpe shook his head uncomfortably:

Now, this ain't no conversation between men, Greenberg. The questions I ask you are simple, and you stubbornly refuse to give straight answers.

A sardonic smile formed on Greenberg's lips:

Am I bein' interrogated, Sheriff?

No. Not officially. But if I do establish illegal actions by Hawgarth Petroleum in relation to Lake Paa, you as CEO will be the first to stick your neck out. Your position is extremely precarious, Greenberg.

You're wrong, Sheriff.

Am I now?

I have absolutely no legal responsibility.

Really? How is that possible? You're the CEO. You're the boss of everyone in here. The way I see it, you're even more in charge than Hawgarth himself.

My contract with the company lists in detail all of my responsibilities and duties, Sheriff. The purpose of my work here is to oversee the day-to-day operations of the unit as well as to ensure that all the departments work together smoothly.

Okay. Continue.

In regards to the subject you are concerned with, namely Hawgarth Petroleum's toxic waste, I simply sign on a weekly basis the necessary documents that come to me from the Waste Management Sector. In these documents I give my approval for this waste to be sent by convoy of Hawgarth trucks from said Sector to the Industrial Waste Disposal Company in Taylor County. It is a private company. Its name is Safety-Kleen Systems and it is located in Abilene. I can give you their full address and phone number if you wish.

So what?

So, beyond this particular procedure, I know nothin' at all.

You are rushin', Greenberg. If there is illegal activity goin' on in the Waste Management Sector, then you as the CEO of the entire unit are bein' charged with criminal negligence. Pleadin' ignorance of what's goin' on in that Sector ain't gonna save you in a court of law.

It'll save me just fine, Sheriff.

Well, how?

Because my contract with the company clearly states that my physical access to said Sector is prohibited. Therefore, I have no right to know what goes on in there. I simply sign the documents they give me. That is, I simply authorize the transfer of the waste from here to Abilene.

Excuse me? Come again?

You heard me right. I am not authorized to set foot in said Sector. The Waste Management Sector falls under category F of corporate protocol and is therefore subject to the Corporate Data Protection Act. So no one has the right to enter this particular Sector other than the few authorized employees. And Mr. Hawgarth of course.

So you're tellin' me you've never set foot in this place?

That's right. I ain't allowed to.

Have you been given any reason for this?

No. I didn't bother to ask anyway. I have no legal interest in it.

Colthorpe needed some time to recover. He realized that he got screwed like a simpleton. And by a Jew no less:

Who is the manager of this Waste Management Sector?

Oswald Hawgarth. Mr. Hawgarth's son.

Could I speak to him?

Of course! But he won't tell you anythin' different from what I've told you. If he agrees to speak to you, that is. Young Oswald has a strong dislike for cops—um—officers of the law.

What if I ask him mighty politely to come into the Sector for five minutes and have a look at the facilities? You reckon he'll let me?

Not by a long shot. He will refuse flat out.

What if I force my way in?

Greenberg laughed through his nostrils:

I'm afraid this case is not like the guard's in the main gate. There are no bars there to knock down, Sheriff. You need a warrant to get in there. And not just any warrant. You need a warrant specifically from the FBI. A violent break in down there is prosecuted as a felony.

What if I bust in there and reveal somethin' that's in the public interest?

Even if you uncover a group of Islam extremists assemblin' a nuclear bomb to wipe the United States off the map, you'll serve at least five years in prison. You might get decorated first, but then you'll be thrown straight into the joint. It's that simple. It's the law. Now, you do know a few things about the law, don't you, sheriff?

Colthorpe sighed, raising his eyebrows. He glanced at the circular clock on the wall. The time was past. He got up from the chair:

All right. Well, I don't wanna take up any more of your time. I better git.

I hope I was of some help, Sheriff.

Damn you, Greenberg. Talkin' to you was worse than an epinephrine injection.

Greenberg chuckled again, louder this time. He rose from his armchair to walk Colthorpe out. He wanted to break the ice with him:

Besides all that, Sheriff... How is your stay in Peekwi so far?

Indifferent I'd say.

Strange... I've never seen you in the Ecapitu district... You don't live at the sheriffs' house?

Ecapitu District. It was the district of the elite on Ecapitu hill a few hundred feet higher than the rest of Peekwi. It was the neighborhood of the rich. And the high-ranking. The Municipality offered a free detached house to the respective sheriff of Peekwi, on Ecapitu Hill. Colthorpe had no issues with either the neighborhood or the house. In fact, he kinda liked them. But another person had a different opinion. And this person's opinion counted more than his own.

I don't live in the Ecapitu district. My wife didn't like it. She found the district too outdated, too sparse and too postmodern. She preferred the middle-class aesthetic conveyed by the lowland. She liked the densely populated neighborhoods, the low-rise houses with backyards. She was more used to that kind of environment.

Your wife preferred the lowland to the hill!? Man...! You have a strange wife, Sheriff. No offense, of course.

None taken. Yes... Sylvia is a bit... eccentric. That's usually the word I use for her. I had to look it up in the dictionary first to find out exactly what it means. But I guess it's the most appropriate word.

Better eccentric than a spendthrift like my wife. You know, I live and breathe so I can pay off credit cards.

We ain't too much different there, Greenberg. Sylvia uses credit cards too, and with admirable ease. Besides, I pay rent on the house we live in.

Ah! Really? don't the Municipality provide it for you?

'Unfortunately no. The Municipality provides only the specific house on the Ecapitu district. Anythin' else, I pay out of my own pocket."

Hmm, I see... Even so, you could rent out Ecapitu's house and collect the rents. Right?

No, I can't do that, Greenberg. The Municipality is providin' me with this particular house for accommodation only. They don't allow me to use it for any other purpose.

Oh! Too bad... Do you have kids, Sheriff?

No.

Newlywed then!

No. I've been married to Sylvia for ten years.

Ten years married!? And no kids!? You're in the wrongest place in the world, Sheriff. In Peekwi, a married couple with no kids equals leprosy. Get ready for it.

I already noticed that, thanks. Well, fuck it. I don't care about that.

Colthorpe grabbed the doorknob. Before turning it, a thought flashed through his mind. He decided to share it with Greenberg:

Hey Greenberg... May I ask you a question?

Shoot.

You ain't at all concerned about the water thang? I mean, you ain't at all concerned that the water you're drinkin' is contaminated with that toluene or whatever the hell it's called?

No, Sheriff. The case don't concern me.

How come?

I live on Ecapitu Hill. The water we use on the hill does not come from Lake Paa. The Ecapitu district has its own water system. The Ecapitu system receives water from the rain and from the Rio Grande River.

Another thunderbolt. The Jew was full of surprises. From his magic hat he produced more rabbits than a rabbit farm. Colthorpe looked at him with his eyes half-shut:

Really...?

Yes. The water tank was first built by Angus Hawgarth's grandfather. About a hundred and fifty years ago. It has since been upgraded by descendants of the family.

I see. Mighty convenient. Don't you reckon, Greenberg?

Greenberg looked down:

Yes. Mighty convenient indeed.

3. REGARDING SYLVIA

Eccentric. Indeed, Vernon had to look the word up in the dictionary as by then had a very vague idea of what it meant. A person whose behavior is different from what is generally accepted and usual. Yes, that was Sylvia.

He looked at other words that might more accurately describe her but this is not a matter worth dilating upon. The bottom line was that Sylvia was burdened with all sorts of quirks and whims.

Sylvia was extremely thin and without curves, yet she carried a wiry sexuality in her physique, she gave the impression of a female who would cling tightly with her thighs to the man, rendering him unable to move during the act of sex. A fact which, of course, Vernon would unhesitatingly confirm from his own experience.

Her eyes sparkled their deep green like blowtorches on steel, and the ringlets in her copper-red hair seemed formed more by emotional charge than by genetic dictate. Her beauty was neurotic, a beauty that made her look like a human bomb whose fuse was permanently on its last.

She was an artist. Or at least that's what she wanted to believe. In her youth, she left her hometown of Louisville, Kentucky, and traveled to Paris to study Fine Arts. Because of her maladjustment, however, she only managed to make it through the year. In the end she gave up her studies and returned to her homeland. She however insisted on dealing with art systematically, not for self-psychotherapy like the bored housewives she saw around her, but because artistic expression was for her a function as necessary as breathing itself. Of course, this was not without its unfortunate side effects.

Because the artwork Sylvia had recently tackled was grand in both its vision and the trouble it entailed: A collection of statues, each made of a different material and depicting women from different cultures. Title of the collection: The concept of woman within established cultural environments.

The first statue in the collection represented a geisha, made entirely of hashi, that is, Japanese chopsticks. And since Sylvia wanted genuine Japanese bamboo chopsticks, she placed huge orders on the Internet and received large boxes from Japan every now and then. Said chopsticks were very expensive and had already eaten into the couple's budget, yet Vernon did not dare get on her case because he knew full well that if he deprived her of this occupation her mental health would deteriorate and then they'd both go straight to hell.

On that hot Tuesday afternoon in April, while Vernon had his own dealings with the water case and Hawgarth Petroleum, she was squatting on the back lawn meditating in accordance to the instructions of a Zen