I am still practicing my writing skills. This is my most recent attempt at a short story. Let me know what you think.

SCG

The Money Shot

The sky stretched blue and clean from one end of the horizon to the other uninterrupted by clouds, power lines or treetops. I was laying on my back in tall crisp green grass, with the fragrance of summer strong in my nostrils, and bright red blood streaming down my face.

Each time that my eyes blinked it seemed as if they remained closed for long moments, and during that time I kept seeing the same scene play out over and over again, The bright yellow ’67 Mustang convertible skidded to a stop, grass and dirt tossed into the air, the driver’s door swung open and the most beautiful, the most exquisitely shaped, richly tanned legs emerged, attached to a women of comparable description. She slammed the door and stared directly at me in anger.

This scene repeated itself until one of the times I blinked she walked toward me yelling.

Then she shot me.

I was thinking and breathing so counted that as encouraging signs, even though I felt a stinging pain along the left side of my forehead, and yeah, the thing about the blood concerned me.

“Don’t move or I’ll shoot you again!” I heard the leggy woman yell at me.

“Shit.” I thought to myself. What was I going to do? My mind felt crystal clear, but only because it was empty of any thoughts. You know, all those constant thoughts such as who you are, where you are, what you are doing as well as what’s on cable later that evening. I was coherent enough to realize that my mind was not functioning well and that a crazy women had just shot me in the head and neither of those things were necessarily good.

“I’m dead, go away.” I heard myself shout. Damn, that was a silly thing to say I thought to myself. But under the circumstances I guess it was the best I can manage. I had just been shot in the head after all.

I continued staring straight up into the sky, marveling at the blueness of the expanse until I saw those bronze legs standing above me, stretching tall and curvaceously into a tight red mini-dress. Gloria wore no panties, and while I was shot in the head and laid bleeding on my back with her standing over me pointing a pistol at my face, a small little part of me registered that fact. It occurred to me that men are truly pigs. How could I notice that she wasn’t wearing underwear and focus on that fact when in all probability I would be dead soon?

“Why not?” A voice inside me replied. “You don’t see legs like that just any day!”

I remember starring and being amazed by the legs, the red dress, and the blue sky. Yet, I was somewhat concerned about the fact I had very little else going on inside my head. I wasn’t even sure who I was.

“You aren’t wearing underwear Gloria.” I heard myself say. “And may I say, you are one really, really hot babe!”

“What!” She shouted and leaned down over me and screamed at me in Spanish using multiple syllable words, tongue rolling words and a substantial amount of spittle.

She had long thick black hair that flowed in the wind as she moved. Her face was gorgeous with thick red lips and sparkling perfect teeth. I don’t think she was happy though as she continued to curse me.

I turned my ears off so I could watch Gloria’s rich, thick lips and perfect white teeth dance erotically above me with the deep blue sky framing that beautiful face. I heard nothing, only observed the images my eyes saw and my mind allowed. Gloria was waving her arms about now, and I did note the pistol still in her left hand. That’s right, Gloria was left-handed!

Images of the bright yellow ’67 Mustang convertible came back to me and drifted through my empty mind, and eventually I felt myself passing out, slowly, ever so slowly drifting away, further and further away from the blue sky, the screaming Brazilian lips and those wonderful legs. This time I was out cold, for at least a few minutes, maybe longer.

My eyes snapped open. I was sitting up and there were flashing lights EMTs and cops all over the place. A young medical technician asked me how I was feeling. I didn’t answer, as I wasn’t sure where I was. I did know who I was, so that was an improvement of sorts. But the fire rescue trucks, the police, the EMTs and everything was confusing. And I didn’t see Gloria or the bright yellow ’67 Ford Mustang convertible.

“Where’s Gloria?” I asked, looking about.

“Officer Gloria Lopez?” The EMT replied.

“No, the girl in the red dress driving the yellow Mustang convertible.” I said slowly.

“Sir, look at me please.” The EMT said, shining a bright penlight into my eyes.

“You were grazed by the bullet, and when you fell you banged the back of your head. That gave you a slight concussion,” He said, putting equipment away in what looked like a big green fishing tackle box.

“We are going to give you a free ride to the hospital just to be sure,” He said.

“No, I’m fine.” I answered, touching the side of my head, feeling the bandage.

The EMT insisted I go to the hospital, and I insisted I wasn’t going. This argument carried on for a few minutes until I asked him why the beautiful Brazilian woman in the red dress had shot me, and if they had captured her.  That’s when he stopped arguing with me and nodded for a plain clothes police officer to come over.

“I’m Captain Carlos Daniel.” The tall middle aged cop said, introducing himself. He wore a tan suit, light blue shirt with a conservative tie.

“Did you catch her?” I asked, slowly standing up, the EMT holding my elbow just in case.

“Catch who?” Daniel asked me.

“Gloria, the Brazilian girl in the bright yellow 67 Mustang convertible.” I replied, rubbing my face. “The one who shot me”.

Captain Daniel’s eyes darted to the EMT for a moment, then returned to me.

“Mr. Milner, you were fleeing from a police officer, refused a lawful order, spun about and pointed what appeared to be a gun at the officer, who, fearing for her personal safety, discharged her weapon. Luckily the bullet just scraped the side of your head.”

I looked at the Captain and laughed. “Which bar did you stop at on your way here Captain?”

What ensued was a pretty lengthy and heated discussion. I was looking for the woman who shot me, and they were telling me it was one of their officers who shot me, that there was no babe in a red dress, nor was there a bright yellow ’67 Mustang convertible. I insisted, and Captain Daniel insisted right back at me.

Someone brought me water, and I pushed it away and requested coffee. I don’t know where they obtained it, but coffee I had a few moments later. After several more confusing minutes, helped along by half a cup of coffee, I understood what they said happened.

There was a school lock down as three armed bank robbers were fleeing police after shooting a bank guard. I’m a free lance news photographer and I had left my car to run on foot trying to get to the elementary school where one of the robbers was supposed to be located.  My camera in hand, I had heard the call come over the police scanner I carried in my back pocket, earphones plugged into my ears.  Apparently, as I ran toward the school across the grass field, a police officer mistook me for one of the robbers and pulled up behind me and yelled at me to freeze and raise my hands. I had the police scanner earplugs in and didn’t hear anything until apparently the officer, a woman, screamed at me for the third time. I turned quickly, and instinctively pointed my lens at the officer, who mistook that for a gun and fired at me, grazing my head, but knocking me backward with my head landing hard on the ground. That gave me a slight concussion.

The EMT explained that while unconscious I must have dreamt about the bright yellow ’67 Mustang convertible as well as the long legged babe.

“Who shot me?” I asked the Captain.

“Officer Lopez.” He replied. “A full investigation will take place, and I would like to have a statement from you as soon as you are well enough.”

“What’s her first name?” I asked.

“Gloria.” The captain replied. “Gloria Lopez.”

“Why, Gloria is the name of the Brazilian who shot me!” I shouted. “Is office Lopez Brazilian?”

Captain Daniel rubbed his face. “She is Hispanic but I don’t know what country she is from, and besides 90% of Miami is Hispanic these days!

“She wouldn’t be wearing a red dress would she?” I asked quietly.

“No. She wasn’t and isn’t and if you haven’t noticed, there isn’t any bright yellow ’67 Mustang convertible, and no skid marks in the grass either!”

I looked toward the spot where the car or the skid marks should have been. Neither were present.

“Am I under arrest?” I asked, staring into Captain Daniel’s eyes.

“Not exactly.” He responded slowly.

“Where is my camera?” I asked forcefully. I was feeling like myself again. “And did they catch the three bank robbers yet?”

“Your camera is evidence in an ongoing investigation and yes, they just caught them.”

That was it. That was the last push I needed to become totally awake.

“I want my camera immediately!” I said loudly.

Captain Daniel hesitated. I step close to him and in my most assertiveness voice explained the situation to him.

“First, you had no right to stop me, second, your officer shot me, and third you are holding my camera as evidence to delete any incriminating evidence! I want my camera in 30 seconds or I’m calling a law firm and the television producer I know right this instant!!” I shouted, poking my finger into the face of the captain with each point.

“They warned me about you.” He said.

“Yeah, well you better listen them buster. This isn’t my first pony ride with the department!”

“Yeah they told me you are one of those radical photographer rights nuts. Been arrested five times, sued us each time.”

“Right. And did they tell you how many times I won?” I said. “By the way, 20 second are gone, 10 more to go.”

The captain waved to uniformed officer who brought my Canon 1D to me. I had sold my boat to purchase it. I took it and immediately opened the film card slot. It was empty.

I starred at Captain Daniel. He hesitated briefly and then nodded his head at the officer, who pulled the film card out of his shirt pocket. I mark all of my film cards so knew it was mine. I slid it inside the camera slot and pulled up the images. It wasn’t formatted  as the first few images that I had taken earlier appeared on the screen. At least I knew I had the right card back. Granted, they could have individually deleted some photos, but that’s OK. It is easy to undelete them, and it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to do that after an encounter with the police.

“Sir, I really think you should go to the hospital to be checked out.” The EMT said.

“Thanks, but I’m fine.”

“I need you to come back to the office to make a statement so we can clear up this incident.” Captain Danial said.

“Your needs are not my concerned.” I said. “Unless you are placing me under arrest, I am leaving now. You will be hearing from my attorney.” I said, and walked away.

My car was about a block away and I walked straight toward it not even looking back once.

Upon entering my car I sat back and breathed a sigh of relief. Wow, what an afternoon. Missed the story, got shot, a concussion, almost arrested for being shot, and those weird delusions about those beautiful legs and the bright yellow ’67 Mustang convertible. Man, they seemed so vivid.

I started my car, turned the AC to blast, and started driving slowly down the alley. My camera was in my lap, as it usually is. One never knows when something important will run in front of you. I turned right and sped down the highway about a mile before I felt safe. At a long traffic light I started flipping through the captured images. Before being shot I know I had obtained some pretty good shots of the police helicopter, the SWAT team, several police cars racing down the road, lights flashing.

Then it hit me. What if I snapped a photo of the officer who shot me? They said I had turned and pointed the camera at her, and that is what she mistook for a gun! Man, if I got a clear shot of her firing at me it would not only make my case but maybe get me published on the wire services. That would be my money shot! I quickly flipped through the images until I knew I was getting close to the end, when what popped up on my screen suddenly make me freeze.

“Holy shiiitt….” I said slowly. The light turned green and horns blew behind me. I quickly pulled through the intersection and then pulled off the road into a convenience store parking lot. I turned off the key and looked again at the image.

“Holy……shit.” I said once more.

I had photographed her. Clearly. Sharply focused, perfectly light balanced. And it seems I was right. . .

She wasn’t wearing any underwear…..

—- the end —-

I finished this short story this morning, In fact, just a few moments ago. It is rough and needs fine tuning.

SCG

—————————

TARGETED REVENGED

The dust on the rifle’s scope didn’t bother the sniper, who easily picked off the man as he left the coffee shop. He saw his head snap back and the body fall over an empty outdoor table then tumble onto the sidewalk on his back. Dead.

Just as easily he folded up his sniper rifle and stuffed it into an over the shoulder bag. Standing up he carefully scanned the parking garage and was certain he was the only human being on the 8th level. Positioned between the gray wall and a commercial trash bin, he wold not have been observed even if someone was near. He walked lazily down the parking garage stairs to the subway entrance.

An hour later he was playing with his small children in the suburbs.

It takes a special sort of individual to be capable of murder in the afternoon and chutes and ladders in the evening. Jack Manners was that individual. Strong, tall, pleasant appearing with features that can turn to steel in a heartbeat. And the disposition that allows him to internally justify killing people whom he feels no longer should walk the earth.

Pedophiles.

Jack Manners kills pedophiles.

At the dinner table with his dark haired wife Joan and his two small children, he laughed and chatted easily.

“How was your day today?” Joan asked.

“Usual.” Jack replied, between spoonfuls of mash potatoes and gravy. “The flower shop did some great business. I think the arrangement Sam created for the holiday is really catching on.’

Jack Manners owned a florist shop.

His wife took a napkin and dabbed some gravy from her younger daughter’s face, commenting that she could not wait for the time when she could quit her job and split time between the children and the shop. Jack smiled, and told her it would be very soon, as the business just signed an agreement with a large upscale hotel chain to provide fresh flowers for them nationwide.

“Really?” She asked, her eyes wide.

“Really.” Jack replied. “In fact, I am going to need your help at the shop. You may have to be full-time for the first six months!”

Joan kissed her husband, and he returned the love.

Their two young daughters said “eeeeeeww” together then broke out into giggles.

They say God works in unusual ways. Jack Manners knew that to be true. His skill as a florist and as a sniper were both acquired in Afghanistan.

Three years later, he was successful at both endeavors.

The next morning the parking garage was swarming with crime scene technicians, detectives and uniform officers.  The day was overcast, gray and colder than it should be for early fall. On the tenth level a cluster of detectives were talking. A tall thin woman with a firm face and elegant bone structure asked for a report.

“Nada.” Wayne Johnson reported. “No shell casings, no nothing.”

“Are you sure we have the right location?” She asked.

“Yes Lieutenant.” Johnson replied. “Computer analysis of the murder pointed clearly to this parking garage. The team found several cameras at the street level that filmed the impact. Based on that and the analysis the doc gave us, this is the only structure at approximately the right distance and height.

“Yet, no evidence.”

“No. Nothing.”

The lieutenant walked about looking at the cold gray concrete, ask if a clue could be extracted from its rough surface.

“Parking garages don’t make for good crime scenes.” She said, wrapping her overcoat about her a little snugger. She was freezing, but wasn’t about to let the men know.

“Cameras?” She asked, making notes on her IPad.

“Yeah, plenty of cameras; not one working.” Garcia, the other detective answered. “The giant big box electronics store closed about eight months ago, so the property management cut off the cameras.” He said.

“They did what?” The Lieutenant asked.

“No one was parking here, the garage was closed. They didn’t want to spend money filming empty concrete.”

“Damn.” The lieutenant said as she walked over to the wall and tried to look out toward the coffee shop. Similar to many busy downtown areas, the street consisted of a collection of professional office buildings, stores, restaurants, bookshops and coffee shops.

“I can’t even see the shop from here, much less make out people!” She said. “What is the range from here?”

Garcia flipped through the pages of a small notebook.

“About 232 yards” He said. Johnson whistled.

“What kind of perp are we talking about that can hit a target in the forehead at that range?”

“Garcia, you want to answer that one?” Johnson said. Garcia was happy to.

“I was a sniper in the Marines in Iraq.” Garcia replied.  “Two tours. Used M14 mostly.”

“Could you hit the target from this distance?”

Garcia stepped to the wall and looked out.

“Easily.  A well trained sniper could easily hit the target at 300 yards. Some could be accurate at 400 or more.” He said.

“Really?” The lieutenant said, impressed. She stepped closer to a concrete post hoping the maneuver would block some of the wind.

“And with the wars in the Middle East, there are hundreds if not thousands of trained snipers, and at least as many rifles floating about.  And some of the new sniper rifles are accurate to 500 yards or further.”

“Damn.” She said.     ”Well, have the technicians do their best. Pick up cigarette butts, gum wrappers, fingerprint anything that might hold a print, the works.”

“C’mon Lieutenant, they’ve been at it for hours. They aren’t going to find anything. This guy was a pro.” Johnson said.

“Besides, ” Garcia said. “The guy took out a pedophile who has been indicated as a prime suspect in the deaths of three children over the last ten years. I say of we find the perp we give him a medal.”

That did not sit well with his boss. She walked up close to him and stared into his eyes before she slowly and clearly said, “Never, ever let me hear you say something like that again.”

“I can’t promise that.” Garcia said, staring back. “He’s doing us a favor and you know it.”

“This is the fourth sniper attack in two years. This person is a cold blooded murderer.”

“Not as much as me.” Garcia said. “I killed over a dozen Iraqis.”

“That’s not the same.” She said, realizing she had inadvertently opened up some old psychological wounds.

“Yeah, you’re right Lieutenant.” Garcia snapped back. “I don’t know anything about the people I killed. This guy knows he is killing child molesters and murderers.”

“So what happens when he gets tired of pedophiles and starts killing bank robbers or tax evaders? You comfortable letting him serve as judge and jury?”

“Guys, come on, we are on the same team!” Johnson said, stepping between the two of them.

Garcia walked away.

“You OK lieutenant?” Johnson asked.

“Yeah. I”m OK.” She said. “I just hope no one from the media ever hears Garcia talk like that.”

Johnson nodded and walked away while Lieutenant Manners turned back to the edge and looked out toward the cafe where the pedophile was shot. Automatically she reminded herself that she should refer to him as the alleged pedophile. Her face became stern and her shoulders tensed as she mentally blocked the images from her childhood. In this case, she didn’t feel the need to utilize the word “alleged”.

She turned from the wall and started walking down the parking garage, the cold wind blowing her overcoat behind her as she raised her cellphone to her ear and dialed her husband at the florist shop.

“Miss Manners Florist” Jack’s voice picked up right way.

“It’s me.” She said as she vanished down the ramp surrounded by concrete gray.

“Thank you.” She said quietly, tears gently rolling down her cheeks.

THE END

This is kind of an experimental story. Not something I would publish, but just a writing exercise for me.  Enjoy it, skip it, or laugh at it. No charge for any of that.

SCG

———

God walked into the forest and sat down at the head of the long crystal table. His twelve Engineering Angels were seated along both sides. Vern was the only one wearing a hat.

“I kicked the Humans out of the Garden.” God said.

“You did what?!” shouted several angels, as all learned forward with expressions of shock on their Engineering Angel faces. Vern smacked his palm against his forehead. His hat fell off.

“Kicked the bastards out.” God grumbled.

“Ah sir, it took us 47 eons to construct the Garden.” Vern complained softly.

“Yeah, well, see if you can sell it on Ebay. Ain’t using it for those ungrateful Humans!”

The angels looked at each other, their faces in shock and dismay. A few leaned their heads close to one another and whispered.

“Hey, nitwits! I’m God, remember? You can’t hide your whispers from me. I am omnipresent.”

The two angels turned beet red and sat still.

“Excuse me Sir, May I ask what you did with the Humans?” Vern, his hat now firmly on top of his head again, asked the All Mighty.

‘You know, I told those idiots, eat from any stinking tree in the Garden, except one! How many fruit bearing trees are there for them to choose from!?”

“2,242 if you count Tomatoes” Vern replied.

God rolled his eyes skyward.

“Look Vern, the tomato is a freaking vegetable!”

“Well, if I may Sir, it is used as a vegetable, but scientifically it develops from the ovary in the base of the flower, and contain the seeds of the plant which technically makes it a fruit.”

God stared at Vern. Clouds formed over the forest.

“One more word about tomatoes and I’m going to turn you into an ovary at the base of a flower!”

“Yes sir. Not counting tomatoes, we have 2,241 fruit bearing plants in the Garden.” Vern relied.

“2,241 fruit bearing plants, and all I asked them to do is to not eat of the tree of good and evil! That’s it, just one stinking plant to stay away from! Could they do that one little thing? Noooooooo the idiots had to scarf down half the fruit from the tree!!!”

“Sir, please, remember your blood pressure.” Vern soothed.

“I’m freaking GOD! I don’t have to worry about my blood pressure!” God screamed.

“Well, technically, yes, but the author of this story felt that if you had a slight blood pressure issue that you would seem more accessible, more, how should I say this…approachable.”

“What?” God asked, sitting back, confused.

“I am NOT confused! Hey you , Mr Writer Wannabe! Stop anthropomorphizing me!”

“Look it up nitwit!” God yelled at the handsome author.

“Handsome? Hell if I had a pet Ass Weasel with your face I would shave his ass and teach him to walk backwards!”

&% nnn22222ge wooba wooba rauf! Nibit slock fever scat dog.

“Hmmmm…I see you can’t type very well with weasel paws now, eh?!”

“Excuse me Sir” Vern interrupted. “What did you do with the Humans?”

“Weren’t you listening Vern? I kicked those brainless disloyal ass weasels out of the Garden!  Gosh Vern, you better get your ears checked or something.”

“Yes sir, I know you kicked them out, but where did you kick them to?”

“Earth.”

Once again all of the Engineering Angels shouted “What?!”

“Will you cut that out!!!” God shouted!

Vern stood up and paced about in a circle. Finally he stopped and stared at God.

“Earth?”

“You betcha.” God replied, smiling. “Let those Bastards see how they like walking about along the side of a spinning ball of dirt blasting around a fiery sun with the whole kit and caboodle flying through deep space at Warp Factor a Billion!”

Vern sat down, both hands rubbing his face wearily. All the other Engineering Angels stared at Vern with worried expressions.

“What’s the big deal?” God asked.

Vern sucked in a deep breath, exhaled slowly.

“Well, Sir….The Garden existed in a flat, limitless dimension. The Earth exists in a weaker dimension, and the nature of the planet is such that it is totally limited and finite.”

“So that’s all they deserve.” God said. “I’m not wasting limitless dimensions on those disobedient slobs!”

“But….eh…..well….”

“Spit it out Vern. I made you my Chief Engineering Angel for a reason you know.”

“OK, well…” Vern said. “We are going to have to re-engineer everything. First off, the Humans can’t live forever. There isn’t enough room on the planet. Neither can any of the animals. Whales, wolfs, birds, everything is going to have to be reprogrammed to degrade and eventually die after a certain period of time. Otherwise the entire planet will be unlivable in a century. Less even.”

“Even the giant tortoise?” God asked.

“Yes. Even the giant tortoise.” Vern replied.

“Damn, I like them. Well, make them live longer than anything else.”

“Yes sir.” Vern relied. “But we are going to have to reprogram everything!”

The Engineering Angels all smacked their foreheads with their palms, stressed at the immensity of work before them. Vern pulled an Apple Ipad from his robe and started his calculus program up. The engineering Angels all pulled out their IPads too, except for Seymour who pulled out  a yellow lined paper pad. After a few moments Vern looked up.

“That’s not going to be enough. We have to find some other way to reduce the animal population.” He said, his glasses sliding down to the tip of his nose. “I’ve already got the butterflies and moths living just a few weeks, and the Humans less than a hundred years. Unless I cut their life expectancy down to a week and a half, we still have issues. The animals have the same problem. The earth is just too small of an area. It isn’t like the Garden, with no end, no limits!”

“Hmmm…OK, I’ll invent war, hurricanes, illness, traffic accidents, earthquakes and vending machine accidents.” God said.

“That helps, thank you Sir.”

“What about the giant tortoise?” God asked.

“I got them living 50 years.” Vern answered.

“Oh heck Vern, I really like them. Can you push it to a thousand?”

Vern looked up at God. “How about 150 years?”

God crunched up his face. “250.” He commanded.

Vern signed. “Ok, but that means I’ll have to cut the lifespan of dragonflies to two months.”

“Sure, OK.” God said. “Who cares about them anyway!”

“But we still have a problem keeping the planet from being overpopulated.” Vern said, taping on his Ipad.

“Ah Sir?”Another Engineering Angel raised his hand.

“Yes Seymour?” Vern said.

“I might have a solution.” Seymour said quietly.

“Go on.” Vern encouraged. Seymour was the new kid.

“Currently, every human and animal are vegetarians.”

“Vegetarians?” Asked Vern. “What are vegetarians?”

“Well, Sir, Vegetarians eat only vegetables and fruit. No meat.”

“Yes, God set up the Garden so that all the Humans and every animal received nutrition by consuming fruits and vegetables. What does that have to do with this?” Vern said.

God leaned forward, observing the Engineering Angels work out this challenge. Even He wanted to hear where Seymour was going with this.

“What is meat?” Vern asked.

“Animals.” Seymour said quietly.

Vern thought about that. The other Engineering Angels thought about that. God scratched His head, confused once more.

“Hey! I’m God, I DON’T get confused!!! Want me to turn you into a Miami-Dade County Commissioner?”

God, the all knowing and caring benevolent Supreme Being, snapped His fingers and smiled.

“Yes, you are right Seymour!” God congratulated. “That will be just enough to allow the balance of nature to exist. Good job Seymour!”

The other Engineering Angels looked at Seymour, and then it hit them too.

“Ewwwwweeeehhhhh that’s gross!” They said in unison.

After more calculations, Vern confirmed that reprogramming most of all life to hunt, kill and consume other animals as nourishment would be the only way to keep the earth from being overpopulated on the extremely limited space the planet allowed.

But what a reprogramming task at hand!!! Spiders had to be programmed to spin webs to catch flying bugs, which had to be programmed to eat smaller critters. Birds were reprogrammed to grab fish right out of the lakes and eat them, while hawks hunted smaller birds.

After several Heavenly days had passed, they finished the job. Vern dismissed his Engineering Angels and walked back to the cabin with God.

“Did you really have to kick them out of the Garden?” Vern asked.

“Yeah, I really had to.” God said.

“Well, at least we are finally finished with the reprogramming. I am so tired! I feel as if I was rode hard and hung out to dry!”

“You all did an excellent Job Vern.” God complemented.

“Thank you, I am just glad it’s over with. I don’t think I could have retained my sanity if I had to reprogram one more thing!”

“Oh oh”. God said softly.

“God?” Vern asked.

“I gotta go now, got another twelve universes to create.”

“What do you mean ‘oh oh’”?

“Oh, its nothing. Nothing at all.” God mumbled walking away quickly.

“God! God! What are you not telling me!?”

“Not telling you?” God asked. “Well, ah…..You mean I didn’t tell you about the argument I had with Satan and a third of the Angels?”

Vern stopped in his tracks and smacked his palm against his forehead, knocking his hat off again.

The end

This short story I first wrote several years ago, and I have been touching it up and playing around with it ever since. It starts out pretty good, and the story has a twist to it, but it still seems to be lacking a solid ending. Also, the last scene after the action seems silly. I think I am going to find a way to change the ending entirely.

SCG.

========================================

She walked into the County Line Diner and every man’s eyes snapped to stare at her as if their eyes were iron nuggets and the woman was one giant magnet. Despite being very happily married for fourteen years, I found my own my eyes developing a will of their own; and that will was to examine every single pore of this woman. Where a moment earlier there had been the jumbled noise of miscellaneous conversations and the clatter of dishes, now there was a silence so all encompassing that I could actually hear the blades of the ceiling fan lazily slice through the summer air. Whoosh…whoosh….whoosh.

Jo Anne, the chatterbox waitress at the County Line Diner, was frozen in mid stride, a plate of fried eggs and sausage in one hand and a mug of steaming black coffee in the other. She stood over Fred Montgomery’s table, while Fred’s jaw hung open so wide you could have stuffed a bowling pin into it. I doubt that he would have noticed.

The stranger who had generated all of this excitement was standing just inside the entrance to the County Line, pulling dark designer sunglasses from her face, her eyes acclimating to the interior lighting. The fierce Georgia sun eagerly chased her into the restaurant and filled her blue chevron dress with golden light, revealing to all that besides a few freckles, she wore nothing else.

Her hair was auburn, full and long. Her mouth was small but cute like, with red lips thick and shapely enough to make my mitral prolapse valve stutter. She gracefully stuffed her sunglasses into a shiny black purse that was hardly big enough to carry a thought, then surveyed the restaurant with the most frivolously blue eyes that I have ever seen. The kind of eyes that grab men’s souls and shake them like a pit bull playing with a chew toy. Every man in the County Line Diner that morning desperately wanted to be that chew toy.

Her eyes now adjusted, she spotted an empty booth. She walked over, sitting down only after pulling a few paper napkins out of the metal holder on the table and wiping the green vinyl seat clean. Well, as clean as you could get the booths in the County Line. After all, some of those stains dated back to the Carter Administration. Nevertheless, the stranger sat down and with thumb and finger she gingerly pulled the worn plastic menu from its holder.

Gradually, we began to emerge from the trance she had generated by her entrance. Fred Montgomery closed his jaw and Jo Anne dropped his eggs and coffee on the table. She bent over and whispered something to Fred about him being old enough to be her grandfather.

Jack McIntyre, my younger deputy, leaned across the table and in his deep Georgia drawl told me he would die to have a chance to Mirandaized her.

“Down boy”, I said. “She’ll chew you up and spit you out like wasted boiled peanut shells. “

“Yeah, but it would be worth it, John.” He said, gazing back at her.

Slowly the conversations in the diner returned to near normal, although many of them in hushed tones. Jo Anne and Maribel huddled behind the counter in their pale pink waitress uniforms, arguing over who would wait on the newcomer. Before they could reach a consensus, Larry Beauford sailed passed them and walked right up to the table. Larry owned a third interest in the diner, and his contribution to the partnership was to serve as the accountant and generally stay out of the way of the other two working partners. It was pure coincidence that he was behind the counter that day conducting his monthly inventory. Of course, my grandmother Beulah never believed in coincidences. “Everything happens for a reason, whether we can see it or not.” she would always say. Right before she died, she said that about a cow that got struck by lightning.

Larry stood leaning over the table with that big Jerry Lewis smile of his. With his gray slacks and a white dress shirt and thin red suspenders, he didn’t look like a waiter so the stranger looked up at him with a slightly bewildered expression on her enchanting face. We could just barely hear Larry introduce himself as “the owner” and welcome her to the County Line Diner. She thanked him with a smile that was as luscious as home churned chocolate ice cream on a hot August night.

“Look at old Larry,” David, my other deputy said laughing, “He looks like a deer out on Route 40 with a semi’s headlights bearing down on him!”

“Yeah, looks like he forgot how to speak English!” Jack piped in, snickering as well.

“Blue dress, blue eyes, whoa-weee!” Whispered Earl Stone at the booth behind us. Earl used to own the town’s hardware store before the Wal Mart opened out on Route 12 and put him out of business. Now he collects social security checks and makes bird feeders that he sells on the Internet.

“Yeah, a real Blue Dream.” Jack said, starring so hard he hadn’t blinked in three minutes.

“Don’t forget to breathe, Jack,” I laughed.

Larry had rushed out from behind the counter so quickly that he had forgotten to grab an order book. So he wrote the Blue Dream’s order (black coffee and a blueberry muffin) on the palm of his hand. I’m not sure if he thought that impressed her or not. More than likely his brain wasn’t even activated at the moment. He was thinking with something a bit further south than his brain. He staggered back behind the counter where he caught the red-hot glares of Jo Anne and Maribel. They were sharp enough to cut stone. He smiled lamely and held his palm up for Jo Anne to read. She turned her back on him in a huff, so he walked his palm over to the kitchen and read the order to Murphy Clemson, the only full-time cook that the County Line had ever had. He was also one of the other owners of the County Line, along with Jo Anne. He smiled at Larry, shaking his head. Murphy was a damn good cook, but not much of a conversationalist. You could talk to Murphy for twenty minutes straight and the most you would get back was a , “Hmmm, you don’t say?” People all over town think he’s such a terrific listener. One afternoon in ’08 I asked Murphy what goes on inside his head when people are talking at him for twenty, thirty minutes. He had one Jack Daniels too many that day and confided in me with one word, “Birds”. I never asked exactly what that meant.

“Wonder what in the world brings a woman like that to the County Line” Jo Anne remarked to us as she stopped over to top off our coffee. Even though all of our cups were full.

“I would guess that brand new red BMW convertible parked next to Murphy’s truck.” Jack said, a fork full of eggs on it’s way to his mouth. He laughed at his own weak attempt at humor while nodding out the plate glass window to the parking lot.

“El wrongo, Sherlock,” Jo Anne said, shaking her head. “That little beauty belongs to that computer geek at the corner table.” She nodded toward a lanky thirtyish kid with thinning hair and cheap glasses. He was hunched over his Apple Tablet pounding the keys like a deranged concert pianist, utilizing every finger and both thumbs. I think I even saw an elbow hit the keyboard once. He wore faded ripped blue jeans, a Saint Louis Rams T- shirt and a Rolex watch.

“Works out at the computer factory five miles down the road.” Jo Anne continued, unasked. “I hear he earns $100 grand a year.”

“So, which car is hers?” Jack asked, bringing us back to the subject at hand. Jack is my most focused deputy.

“Like, who cares?” Jo Anne remarked, obviously caring. “She’s just some snazzied up bimbo. Probably a hooker from Tallahassee that got lost out on the highway coming across the state line.”

“Now Jo Anne, remember the golden rule, “ I said softly with a smile in my voice, “If you can’t say something nice about somebody, don’t say anything.”

“Actually, that’s not the Golden Rule,” David corrected me. “The Golden Rule is, ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

“David, how many times have I told you that New York City born Jewish police officers shouldn’t go around quoting Jesus from the New Testament.” Jack said.

“Screw you, you red neck illiterate inbred southern yahoo.” David replied calmly, as was customary. Those two spent all day jawing back and forth at each other. It was their own off the wall version of male bonding. Despite being total opposites and disagreeing on every political and social subject possible, they had worked out a mutual professional respect and friendship for one another. Of course, the first six months they worked together I thought they were going to shoot each other.

Suddenly I felt an icy darkness enter my veins. A feeling I hadn’t had since Viet Nam. I scanned the diner, but everything looked normal. I leaned against Jack to look out the plate glass window and I saw him. Short, fat and ugly. He was carrying a shotgun as he pounded his way like an enraged bulldog toward the County Line’s door.

I scooted across the booth to my feet. Jack following me, his 9mm already in his hand. David was across the booth and didn’t know what was happening, but was following our lead. The three of us rushed toward the front of the diner but were only half way there when a shotgun blast exploded the glass in the front door. Screams and the crash of china filled the restaurant and we hit the floor. Everyone ducked under their tables or scattered screaming away from the front. A few patrons just sat frozen. David, Jack and I were on the floor. The Blue Dream was nowhere to be seen

The shooter kicked what was left of the front door open and entered the diner, shot gun waving from left to right at hip level.

“Nobody move a inch or I’ll blow your guts into the kitchen!” He shouted at the top of his lungs.

I rolled under the nearest booth, my own 9mm in my right hand.

“Hands up! Hands up! Hands up!” he screamed at David and Jack, who were slipping and sliding in the eggs and coffee on the floor. The ugly shooter stood over them with the shotgun pointed right at them. I nodded to Jack from my hiding place, and he reluctantly laid his gun down and stood up with his arms straight in the air. David followed suit.

“Hands on the counter, right here, right here!” The shooter shouted, pointing to the now empty counter. They complied, placing both hands on the counter. The gunman quickly collected their handguns and stuck them in his belt.

“Where is Ruthann McCormick!” He shouted to the entire diner.

Everyone was frozen in their positions, most huddled in the back of the restaurant with no escape. A few of them at their tables and many of them on the floor. I hoped that Murphy had made it out the rear kitchen exit and was on the pay phone on the corner punching 9-1-1. Of course, it would take Sharon, our dispatcher, a few minutes to figure out that the entire police department of the town of Lazy Sky were being held hostage in the diner. Eventually she would figure that out and call the county or state police, but it would be at least thirty minutes before anyone made it all the way out to Lazy Sky. Until then, it was up to me to handle the situation. The shooter still hadn’t discovered me hiding under the table. I was under the third booth from the door. He had quickly reloaded the shotgun.

The shooter was about 45 years old, 5 foot 4 inches in height, had a large gut, a mop of black hair, and an ugly face. Big nose, big ears, small mouth, one huge eyebrow that seemed to run from ear to ear. Can we say “Neanderthal?”

Of course, no one knew a Ruthann McCormick, but we all assumed it was the Blue Dream. Nothing ever happens out of the ordinary in Lazy Sky, so we automatically connected the two unusual events.

“That’s the bitch!” screamed Mrs. Harmon, the church pianist. She stood stretching her wrinkled arm, hand and pointer finger extended, toward the Blue Dream’s booth.

“You cops get to the back of the restaurant with those people.” The shooter yelled at David and Jack. “One wrong move and I’ll fill this diner with dead people so fast your feet will fall off.”

That didn’t make a lot of sense, which indicated a certain amount of nervousness on the shooter’s part. That made things a lot worse. I would rather deal with a professional killer than a nervous amateur.

Jack opened his mouth to say something but the shooter stepped forward and rammed the shotgun within inches of his mouth. Jack, more macho than brains, glared back at him. David grabbed Jack and pulled him to the rear of the restaurant as ordered.

The shooter stormed over to the Blue Dream’s booth.

“Ruthann, you get your self out from under that table before I shoot you right through it.” The maniac screamed.

Slowly the Blue Dream crawled out from under the table and stood up, brushing dirt and grease off of her blue dress. While nervous, she certainly didn’t seem as nervous as one would expect. Of course, we all assumed we knew what this was about. This ugly, hairy scumbag of a guy was taken with this gorgeous dreamboat, and couldn’t get it through his head that he was way, way out of his league. I could see stalker written all over his face. I inched myself a bit from under the table, hoping to be able to make some kind of move on him. But with the diner filled with people and the guy waving the shotgun about so much, it was going to be difficult. Yet, I had to do something, as I could smell what was coming, and it wasn’t going to be roses. This enraged shooter had already shot the front door out, and disarmed my deputies, I didn’t think he was going to leave here without emptying that shotgun again. The standard procedure would be to blow the woman away and then his own head off. It would be one ugly scene.

“Frank, have you lost your mind?” The blue Dream spoke to him, her voice velvet.

“I can’t take this any more, Ruthann!” He shouted, his face filled with anger and frustration. I slid out from under my booth and crawled to the next one.

“I’m not changing my mind.” Ruthann said firmly, standing straight up with her arms folded across her breasts.

“Ruthann, you have to think this thing through!” He sputtered. Jack started inching forward and the creep spun around and raised the gun at him. David pulled him back again. With his back to me I scampered one more booth closer, my 9mm tightly gripped in my hand. I was justified in shooting him, but I couldn’t do it in the back. Whatever seemed correct in this situation would have to play well on TV and in the liberal newspapers. “Sheriff shoots emotional disturbed suspect in back!” wasn’t a headline I especially wanted to see. I waved at the few people behind me, and they all ducked under tables. If he fired at me I was hoping no one behind me would catch lead.

“Ruthann, I can’t take it anymore. You have to be reasonable!” Frank said in a whining voice. Yeah, the guy with the shotgun is appealing to reason.

“Frank, the answer is still no.” Ruthann said firmly. I had to admire the guts of that woman, boldly standing up to this guy. God knows what hell she had been through with this nut.

“Then I have no choice Ruthann.”

That was my cue. I jumped to my feet and screamed, “Freeze! Police Officer!”

The scumbag whirled his shotgun around at me, and I raised my gun straight out to fire at his heart when the Blue Dream jumped on Frank’s back, slamming him into the counter and ripping the shotgun from his shocked grasp. Stunned myself by this action, I paused for a second, then started toward the bad guy. Frank and David were approaching from the back of the diner.

The shotgun went off into the ceiling, blowing out parts of the roof, shattering a ceiling fan and the light fixture. Debris scattered everywhere, everyone screamed on cue and hit the floor again.

“Drop the gun sheriff. Immediately.”

The smooth sexy voice of the Blue Dream flowed across the diner. I stared up from the floor and looked straight into both barrels. I stood up, my gun in hand.

“I mean it Sheriff, drop the gun or I’m going to shoot you.” She said, starring coldly right into my eyes. I couldn’t help but lose myself momentary in those beautify eyes. However, the cold steel of the shotgun pointing at my gut broke the magic somehow.

“Ruthann, drop the gun!” Frank said from the floor behind her.

I guess I could have shot her right there. Everyone else was on the floor and I could have shot her dead right there, with no one else being hurt. But I wasn’t sure what the hell was going on! Maybe I should shoot the creep? Who the hell should I shoot?

“It’s OK, Madam, we will take care of Frank. We won’t let him hurt you anymore.” I said.

She walked over to Frank, and pulled Jack and David’s 9mm from his pants. Tossing one of them out the broken front door into the parking lot, she held the other one in her hand. I know the weight of the shotgun was causing her problems and I started to close in on her. She leaned backward and fired the shotgun into the air again over my head. While the recoil knocked her to the floor on her butt, it also drove me under the nearest table again, as parts of the County Line Diner fell to the floor all around me. Damn, this was getting irritating.

Quicker than I would have expected, she was back on her feet, this time holding just the 9mm. Frank was rushing her from the rear but he stepped in a pile of grits and his right leg went flying out from under him. He landed on his left side and slid several yards along the slippery floor and wound up laying flat on his back. I don’t think his leg was accustomed to that maneuver. He laid there groaning.

The Blue Dream walked over to Frank and stood with her feet on either side of his head staring straight down into his face. The gun was held in both hands and was aimed at his big nose.

“I love you Frank, and if I can’t have you, no one will. Certainly not that bitch you are married to!” She shouted, her lips snarling.

OK, I thought to myself, I’ve entered the X-Files for sure. Worse, that last dive to the floor landed my left knee pretty hard on a broken plate, and I wasn’t too eager to jump to my feet. I was bleeding pretty good. I sat there in the miscellaneous food and coffee and parts of the Blue Diner’s roof, pointing my gun at this psycho dame, still trying to sort out exactly who I should shoot, and when. One thing I knew, I was getting pretty darn pissed and was looking forward to shooting somebody!

Jack, being Jack, never did have a “Hesitate Button”, and was running full steam from the back of the restaurant. The woman heard his footfalls and twisted her body, pointing the gun right at Jack, aimed, and pulled the trigger. Thank God Frank, the former scumbag and now, well, not sure what category to put him in, saw this action and rolled into her left leg, pulling her to the floor. The 9mm slug sailed about a foot left of Jack’s head, burying itself into the old jukebox. There was a small explosion of glass and sparks, and I’m not sure, but I thought I heard Tammy Wynette give a moan

Frank was wrestling with Ruthann, both of them rolling around in the eggs and bacon struggling for the gun.

I had had enough. Despite my bleeding knee I found my feet and rushed over to the pile of rolling bodies. Frank had both hands on her right arm, while she held tightly to the gun. Her other hand was gripping his private parts with all her might. Frank did not look well. I waited for an opportunity to act, and eventually Frank smacked her right arm out onto the floor. I lifted my left foot and slammed it down with all my weight onto her wrist, forcing her to release her grip on the gun, which I quickly collected. . This not being the movies, where people can get smacked with grand pianos and walk away without a scratch, I’m pretty sure I broke some sort of bone in her wrist. Maybe two. She screamed like a tomcat caught in a bear trap. Apparently a side effect of this was she gripped even harder with her left hand, and Frank let loose with a horrible scream of his own. As both of them continued to roll about the floor screaming, two State police cars, and one County cop, sirens wailing, came screeching and sliding across the gravel parking lot outside. I reached down and grabbed Ruthann by her beautiful head of hair and yanked her with both hands to her feet, and quickly slammed her up against the counter with both hands behind her back, as she continued to scream.

“Jack! Get this guy under control!” I screamed at my deputy, nodding toward Frank. “If he breathes wrong empty your gun into him!”

Frank was rolling around on the floor with both hands at his crouch whimpering. He didn’t give Jack any trouble. He was handcuffed in seconds, although with his hands in front instead of behind his back. Jack, displaying a rare burst of compassion, allowing that improper handcuffing so that Frank could continue to hold his nuts and moan.

Marvin Haden, the six foot three thirty year veteran with the State Police Department stood in the doorway. He tilted the tip of his huge hat back and surveyed the County Line Diner. There were several huge holes in the ceiling, with wires and light fixtures and parts of the ceiling hanging down. Tables were overturned, food and dishes were scattered all over. The jukebox was still sparking a little bit, and Frank and Ruthann were both alternating between screaming and moaning. I stood there leaning on the counter, dark red blood soaking my leg.

“What the hell is going on here, John?” Marvin asked me in his deep slow voice.. A half dozen deputies gathered behind him peering into the diner.

I pulled Ruthann to a booth and sat down with her.

“Care to explain?” I asked her.

“Get me an ambulance, you broke my wrist you freaking jerk!” She screamed.

“As soon as you tell me what the hell is going on!” I replied.

“You broke this woman’s wrist?” Marvin asked me, coming over to the booth. He was obviously falling under the Blue Demon’s charm.

“She’s Satan! Shoot her! Shoot her!” Frank yelled from the floor where he sat leaning against the counter, handcuffed, still holding his nuts.

“Jack, David, check to see if anyone else is hurt and start getting names and phone numbers of everyone here. I want this case handled by the book.” I said.

Murphy came in the front door, caught my eye. I nodded thanks to him. He nodded back and went back to the kitchen.

Ruthann sat at the booth holding her wrist.

I told Marvin to keep an eye on Ruthann, and then walked over to Frank. I asked him if he was going to be OK. He mumbled weakly that he thought so, but wanted a paramedic to look at his nuts to be sure. I felt sorry for him.

“Frank, you want to tell me what this is all about?”

He moaned a bit, his eyes unfocused. I asked him again.

“She’s been stalking me.” He said finally.

I laughed, out loud. A few women giggled.

“OK, go on Frank.” I said, humoring him.

“I met Ruthann when my wife and I were on a charity bowling league last summer. She fell in love with me. I know, I know, I can’t explain it either!”

I heard Maribel snicker.

“She has turned my life into a nightmare.” Frank continued softly. “After I rejected her advances, she made up this story about us being lovers. She created a Facebook page, making up stories about us being lovers. She called my job, called my wife, and destroyed everything I have! “

At first I felt sorry for Frank and whatever delusions he was suffering from, but then I thought about Ruthann’s behavior. It didn’t add up. Maybe they both were wacko.

“She got me fired from my job.” Frank whimpered. “I had worked there twenty years!”

OK, that was hard to believe, but we were in an X-Files episode it seemed, so I let it go for now.

“So, why the gun Frank?” I asked.

Frank whimpered again. “My wife was about to leave me. You don’t understand. I love my wife. More than life itself! She is the one woman in all the world that God designed for me. And this bitch from hell was ruining my marriage. I lost my job, I was about to lose my wife and my five kids.”

“I love my kids,” Frank said, and from the look in his eyes I believed him.

“I don’t want them to have to grow up through a divorce! The thought made me nuts!” He continued.

Frank paused to breathe and moan a little. “I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to put a stop to it. I had a few drinks down the road. I’m not a drinker, don’t know why I did that. Just needed some bottled courage, I guess. I wasn’t going to hurt anyone, I swear, I just wanted to frighten her, make her think I was nuts and leave me and my family alone!”

“Will one of you stupid pigs call me a doctor?!” The Blue Demon screeched from her booth.

I walked over to Ruthann.

“Is this true?” I asked her.

She stared at me, her face was filled with rage.

“Yes, dammit, it’s true! Now call me an ambulance, I’m in pain here you idiot! I’m going to sue you, your deputies, this stinking dive of a diner and anyone who walks by!”

She continued to rant for a few moments. I nodded to the State Troopers to call Fire rescue. I said down again across from the woman.

“OK,” I said, “let me get this straight. You have been stalking this short fat balding ugly faced man? No offense intended Frank.”

Frank moaned none was taken.

She stared at me. I stared at her. The police and diner patrons stared at her. The one working ceiling fan wobbled circles overhead. The jukebox gave one last spark.

Eventually, she leaned over the table to speak to me.

“Do you know how many scumbags are out there?” She asked in almost a whisper.

“And every single man is dying to get me out of my dress. They don’t see me, the real me! All they see is this body and they want me. Drunks, drug addicts, abusers, alcoholics, idiots, morons, gamblers, encyclopedia salesmen, all kinds!”

I guess I could understand that. Most men were jerks; had to admit that.

“And when I met Frank last summer, I found a decent, honest, well adjusted strong, intelligent man who talked to me! I mean…he talked to me! He didn’t talk to my breasts, but to me!”

Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

“I shared a bowling lane with him and his wife. I saw how he loved his wife, how he loved his kids, how he took care of them and respected them. He had a good job teaching history at the university, attended church, worked around the house, did volunteer work. Everyone loved the man!”

I gave her a few napkins to catch the tears.

“I have tried to find a decent man, but they are all just walking piles of sewer!” She screeched, salvia spewing from her lips, as she broke into a full cry. I could see several women’s heads nodding agreement and I think I heard one mutter, “You said it sister.”

“Finally I met a good decent hard working considerate man, and the bastard is married!” She continued.

I looked back at Frank. The entire diner looked back at Frank. Without the shotgun and the crazed look he wasn’t really that ugly. We looked back at Ruthanne.

“Sure, Frank ain’t real handsome, isn’t rich or powerful, but I love him! The real him that is inside that body! He is a wonderful human being! And after years of dealing with jerks and bastards I wanted him! I deserve a decent guy! And I didn’t care what I had to do to get him!”

The diner was silent. I heard an 18-wheeler drone on by the highway outside.

“Please, Ruthanne, go on.” I said, as dozens of people stood in silence listening to her story.

“But Frank was immune to my beauty.” She continued, quietly. “I threw myself at him, but he rejected my advances. He refused to cheat on his wife. A man of honor. That. . . just made me want him more.” The avalanche of tears came again.

Jo Anne went over and stooped down to Frank, resting her hand on his shoulder and offering him a glass of water.

I stood up and walked about the diner deep in thought, trying to sort everything out. Looking at the crazy beautiful woman in the blue dress, then at Frank. It just didn’t make sense to me. David walked over to me.

“Is it really that hard for you to accept John?” David asked me.

I looked at Frank. I looked at the Blue Bombshell. Whoa, yeah, it was very hard for me to accept.

“Is there some rule that states only people who are of the same physical quality like one another?” David asked me? I nodded affirmative.

“Ah, Sheriff, you know, you sure have one fine looking wife.” Jack said, walking up to me. I glared at him, and he took a step back.

“Jack’s right John., “David continued. “And have you looked in the mirror lately? You ‘re no Tom Cruise you know.” Only David would have the guts to say that to me.

“Well, anyway Sheriff, who we gonna take to jail?” Jack, always moving forward, asked.

I looked about the diner again. Frank was still sitting on the floor with Jo Anne helping him drink water. Ruthanne was alternating between a full cry and cursing. The diner was a complete mess. Marvin and his squad of deputies stood watching me. My knee was still hurting and leaking blood and I had a headache the size of Montana.

“Jail?” I asked. “Shit, forget jail, let’s just load up everyone here into three busses and drive straight to the Jerry Springer show!”

I walked out the door as the paramedics pulled up.

- end -