

Pitmaster Crowe

By Chris Bunnell

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2017 C.L. Bunnell

Gary Crowe opened his eyes to find he was lying in freshly mowed grass. In his right hand was his jaw. And he was rolling back and forth because although the pain was fading, it was still throbbing, and he could taste the coppery flavor of blood which he assumed was his.

He could feel the spiked bones that made up the knuckles of his attacker's fist. It was as though they had left an indentation on the side of his skull. And even though his mind was hazy, it was clear enough to know he wasn't going to let this stranger steal the woman he loved. A pretty little thing who went by the name: Cindy Houser.

But this wasn't going to be easy because this violent brute who towered over Gary was tall, strong and young. His massive arms were bent, his hands were folded into fists. He was a viper who had struck and was about to strike again. But that didn't matter to Gary, what did was this creature wasn't anything to look at which meant he would have to take what he wanted. There was no way anyone would go freely. And it appeared he wanted Cindy who stood on the sidewalk not far away.

Gary glanced over at her; she was scared, her hands covered her mouth. She feared the outcome.

Gary looked back at his attacker and shouted: "You better leave her alone!" His face was as red as a rose. He was angry, and tears welled up in his eyes, but that didn't matter. He would fight for Cindy Houser, and if he shed some tears then so be it. Those tears would be for her. Everything was for her and Gary had worked so hard to get this far; he held no plans of surrender. So if this beast couldn't see that, then he'd best take another look!

Gary slowly turned sideways so he could use his arms to get back on his feet. But he felt a sharp pain in his side as the big man kicked him, sending him rolling back to the ground. Now, he held his ribs.

"Get up!" The swine yelled, and his voice was deep; the roar of a giant.

"I'm tryin'!" Gary yelled back.

This no sooner left his mouth when he heard Cindy shout: "If you had left me alone, this wouldn't have happened, Gary!"

Gary—positive he heard this wrong shouted back: "Don't ya worry 'bout me! I've been hit by three cars. All of 'em movin, so this here ain't nothin'!"

Cindy turned away and her face was now as red as Gary's. She stomped the ground with her right foot and shouted: "Uuugh! You're impossible!"

"I'm willin' ta marry ya!" Gary pleaded.

The bully turned to Cindy, "How far do you want me to go with this?" He asked. "I don't want to kill him!"

Cindy stormed over to where Gary lie on his side, spitting blood, "Promise you'll leave me alone?" she asked.

Gary wiped the tears from his eyes, "If that's what ya want, but not if that's what he wants. 'Cause I don't care what he wants!"

"Gary!" Cindy shook her head in disbelief. "You know that's what I want; that's what I've always wanted!"

The brute leaned down and grabbed Gary by the arm. He helped him to his feet, "So, we're in agreement?" he asked.

Gary, a heartbroken man, replied: "I guess she's yer's now."

"Dude—she's my sister! And all she wants is for you to stop stalking her!"

Gary said nothing. His mind's eye showed a woman who had found another, and that happens. A story that's been told a million times, with the end always the same. You have to let her go. 'Here's lookin' at you kid!' 'Frankly my dear—I don't give a damn!' On and on and the movies told it best, and Gary had seen plenty of them. Down at the "Lincoln 'Ole Tyme' Cinema House. " And it was time to come up with one of those timeless lines. Something that would sting. Something she wouldn't forget!

"Bye Cindy," he said... Burn...! He then turned and walked away. Let her stare at his back because she wouldn't see his face. No—he wouldn't give her the satisfaction.

Bye Cindy, he thought. Perfect. He then heard the bully say: "Cindy, you know damn well he's not all there ... I won't do this again!"

Gary wiped the tears from his eyes. Obviously, she had made a mistake. It sounded as though her new man was about to raise his hand to her. Something Gary never would have done. Didn't matter, he wouldn't help her. Not after he did battle for her. After he drew blood for her.

Loose-lipped, he thought. That's what momma had said. She was a loose-lipped heart eater!

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Walking in the front door of his small A-frame country home, Gary found he was face to face with his mother. A woman who went by the name: Tammy Crowe. Tammy was tall, close to six feet. She was stunning with long auburn hair. Deep blue eyes and pouty full lips. She

was curvy, built like a porn star. She dressed like one as well. A sex hungry cougar who was close to forty but looked ten years younger. She was every man's dream, young and old and for a price, she would allow those dreams to become a reality. But only for a little while.

For most, that was fine because she did come along with some baggage. A mentally challenged child who was now an adult: Gary.

"What happened to you?" She asked as her hands instinctively went for the bruises on his cheek.

Gary pulled away, "Nothin' Momma," he said and went down the hall to his room.

"This better not have anything to do with that girl!" Tammy yelled. "I told you to stay clear of her!"

Gary listened then closed his door; he always listened to his mother. All good boys did, and he was a good boy. Always respectful, never cursed, and always helped the elderly.

Four days a week he spent time down at the Lawrence Avenue old-folks-home. He played checkers with them. He sang songs, ran to the store and bought them cigarettes, whiskey, sometimes fancy expensive tobacco. The kind you smoke in pipes. The kind that smells funny and can only be purchased from some guy named: Ox... Yeah—he took care of them all right, and in return, they were his friends.

But his biggest contribution was that he was excellent behind the barbecue grill. Winner of not one, but three consecutive first place ribbons for the best cook in the 'Lincoln Town Cook Off.' A contest held once a year.

His secret? He used a grill that burned real wood instead of charcoal. A grill that was made out of a large propane tank. So large, it had its own wheels and a hitch so it could be pulled by a truck. This grill was built down in Louisiana where they specialize in southern cooking. Yeah, it was the grill, and it was a gift given by one of his mother's many suitors. Why it was given, Gary hadn't a clue. But it was, and there wasn't another grill like it in the entire state of Indiana.

The interior was seasoned as they say. Like a well-used cast-iron-skillet, there had been so much meat cooked in it, you could smoke tree bark, and it would taste like a porterhouse. But Gary didn't stop there. He chose his own meat. He cut it, he trimmed the excess fat. He seasoned it with a special blend of spices. And the rest is history. And when it came time to accept his ribbons, he always thanked the people at the Lawrence Avenue old-folk's-home for taste testing his creations. From the residents to the caregivers, they all had a hand in Gary's once a year success. Oh, and of course, Leon Noone: the black butcher who worked at the 'Pig's 'n' Chicken' food store.

In Gary's room, there was a large mirror attached to his dresser. He looked at his reflection as he often did. He ran his hands through his tightly curled, coal black hair. He looked at this eyes which looked strangely close together. He raised his lips to show teeth which were crooked, gapped and yellow.

Teeth are like girls, his mother told him. If you don't take care of them, you'll lose them. So Gary took care of them. But they turned color anyhow. And he took care of Cindy Houser, and she was gone. So Gary thought his mother was correct, teeth are like girls.

Why do I look like this? He wondered as he took in his reflection. He knew he was a rare individual, he was different, but he hadn't a clue just how different. Most likely never would. But ask anyone who lives in the small town of Lincoln Indiana about Gary Crowe. Watch their facial expression as they mumble out the words: 'The Pit Master!'

Gary wasn't educated, never attended school. And although he was old enough to buy alcohol, he couldn't drive a car. But he did have a bicycle purchased by another one of his mother's suitors. A nice man who no longer had a name. And that's the way it was for Gary. When they left, he would first forget their face and then the rest. They would disappear from his memory.

Not even his father had a name or face. But Gary didn't care; at least not back when he had Cindy Houser. She was all he needed, but that was over now. Time to move on, and if Gary had learned anything from his mother's suitors, it was how to do just that. Move on. So he would let her go. He would find another and next time, he would work extra hard to hold onto her. At least as hard as he worked on his teeth.

It was summer time in Northern Indiana. The beginning of August which meant the temperature was excellent: low seventies. Gary had his window open, and he could hear the birds outside. He walked over and looked out at his view which consisted of Farmer Mel's corn field, next door. The corn was over waist high now, coming along nicely and looked to go on forever. Or at least as far as Gary could see.

There was a breeze which blew through the stalks, pushing them back and forth; hypnotizing Gary. Along with it came the whistling sound he found soothing, and he loved the smells of summer. The damp soil in the morning. The freshly cut grass. The flowers that Mother had planted in the spring. The sounds of crickets, birds, and the fireflies that glowed neon blue once the sun set.

When it was time to harvest the corn, farmer Mel would allow Gary to wonder in between the rows and pluck a grocery bag full of corn. This would take most of a day since Gary would only take the perfect cobs. And he would take as long as needed to find them.

And when it came time for the tractor, Farmer Mel allowed Gary to sit inside the cab while he worked the field. Even steer for a ways. And that tractor was massive in size and powerful. There was nothing that could match it; with rear wheels that were taller than Farmer Mel. So tall, even Cindy's new boyfriend couldn't look over them without standing on his toes. And Gary wished the brute would be found out in the field when he was steering. Because then the odds would be even. The John Deere against the girl steelin' queer! He thought and smiled.

But that wasn't going to happen. Farmer Mel wouldn't allow it. No sir, Mel was nice. A good guy. Nothing like Cindy's new bow.

Gary left the window, went to his desk where he took a seat on the chair. He pulled out some paper and made notes on what he was going to need to win this year's Lincoln Town cook-off competition, which was on Saturday. The same day as the town's festival. The same day the old Miss Lincoln removed her crown and gave it to a new winner. A younger and prettier girl. The same day the school children put on plays. And the local musicians showed off their talents.

Aaah, it was a great day. One of lights, cool nights, music and dancing. Live bands and good food. Gary would meet a girl, he was certain of it. He would win his fourth ribbon; he would wear it proudly on his chest. And he would prance around showing it off, like a lure to a fish, they wouldn't be able to resist. And he would pick the prettiest one, maybe even the new Miss. Lincoln and he would walk her past Cindy and her new lover. He would teach her a thing or two about romance. Why--Gary wouldn't be surprised if the brute hadn't already left a bruise on her cheating cheeks.

"Well," he whispered, "serves her right; so if she has one, I won't say a thing!"

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The next day, while the roosters crowed; Gary pulled up into farmer Mel's drive. Frantic, he had to get there early on account of once the farmer left for the fields, he didn't return until close to dark. But to Gary's relief, he could see Farmer Mel ahead fueling up the John Deere tractor. A familiar sight, one that consisted of the Farmer holding onto the nozzle with one hand, while the other's stuck in the top of his coverall suspenders. His head was dropped, and his baseball cap was pulled close to his brow. It was the traditional look for a farmer. One that was captured long ago by some fella named: Rockwell.

"High Mr. Mel," Gary said as he locked up the brakes on his bike. Skidding to a stop through the gravel.

"Gary—what are you doing up so early?"

"Was wonderin' if ya would be willin' to pull the grill down to the city hall. Ya know for the contest this Saturday?"

Farmer Mel thought a moment, and there was plenty of time to think since the tractor had a hundred gallon fuel tank. "I suppose it's that time of year, ain't it."

"Sure is, and I'm predictin' another ribbon."

Mel smiled. "Well, suppose the only way that'll happen is if you get that grill of yours close to those judges' noses. The smell of the food cooking is important at these things."

"I know—'member? Three years a winner!"

"Of course, what was I thinking?"

"So what do ya say?"

"Well sure Gary, but you didn't have to come down here so early to ask that."

"Yer not going to da field?"

"No, I won't work the field until it's time to bring in the corn. You should know that by now."

"Then why are ya gettin' ready?" Gary pointed at the fuel nozzle.

"Just emptying the storage tank. Ya know so the oil company can fill it back up. Cheaper now on account there's not much demand."

Gary looked confused. "Oh... Well, I was up anyhow ... So then will ya help me with the grill?"

"Sure, when would you like it delivered?"

"Thursday be good."

"Thursday it is. Any particular time?"

"Around Noon. I want ta get it started, get a bed of coals a goin'."

"Noon it is."

"Thanks, Mr. Mel, and tell Mrs. Martha I said high."

Farmer Mel's smile faded, "Gary," he said. "Martha passed away going on three years now. Don't you remember? You attended her funeral."

Gary hesitated; confused: "No way... Was she sick?"

"Cancer."

Gary hesitated. "Will ya tell her I said high when ya go to where she's buried?"

Mel forced a smile, "Sure Gary. I'll tell her you said hello."

"Thanks Mr. Mel," Gary said as he took off on his bike. Farmer Mel watched him leave. He worried about Gary. A grown man with the mind of a child. Innocent, wandering free among the scum of the Earth. He imagined one day Gary would get run down by a car. Left on the side of the road like a skunk. Or beat to death, which someone had just beaten him. His bruised up face was proof of that. And the people of Lincoln weren't as tolerant as most places. The rural area didn't offer much in the way of entertainment. Nor much of anything really. So it was easy for Gary to get into trouble. Not serious trouble, but small stuff; like stealing hot pies off from window sills. Or knocking on doors then running off before the door could be answered. He egged some cars at Harvey's auto emporium. TP-ed some homes during Halloween. But most of that was done during his early years.

Still, people from Lagrange County (which was where Lincoln was located) had no sympathy for anyone who made their lives more difficult. And they didn't forget...

Farmer Mel squeezed the nozzle and went on filling his tractor with diesel.

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It was close to noon that same day when Mel found himself walking the paved road that ran past Gary's home. The small pre-world-war-two house was a typical two bedroom, one bath dwelling with a small wooden, half a car garage setting off to the rear left side of the main house. The driveway consisted of two concrete strips. One for right tires and one for the lefts. In the center, there was grass growing.

Not kind to drunk drivers, Mel thought and smiled. But then if you couldn't stay on the two strips of concrete, your chances of getting the car into the garage was slim. Once the two wooden swing doors were open, there wasn't but a foot on both side of the tire paths before the garage walls would be rubbed.

Farmer Mel walked through the freshly mowed grass as he looked at that old garage. So small he thought it more of a shed. But then the home was built during the great depression and most didn't have cars.

Leaning against the right side, beside the single entry door, there rested an antique, Great States, 400, manual push, rotary mower. Year? Farmer Mel could only guess. But it did a fine job. He'd been to baseball games where the infield didn't look this good. Farmer Mel took a closer look at that mower. Those rotary blades were shining and free from rust. Gary tended to them like a race-car-driver would attend to his car. Oiled, greased, and ready.

He walked over to the main house. Then up the concrete steps and onto the covered, wood porch that ran the width of the home. Off to the right, there was a double seated swing that hung from chains that were attached to the ceiling. He looked at it and thought of the last time Tammy, and he had sat there. She had fed him spaghetti so after dinner, they swung and finished off the bottle of merlot red wine he had brought over. It was a beautiful night, beginning of June. And for a change, he wasn't lonely. But that night had ended, and unless he paid, she hadn't offered any more suppers.

He went to the front door which was open; which left the wood screen door. He looked in but couldn't see Tammy, so he knocked.

"Just a moment," he heard and then, Tammy came out from the kitchen. In her hand was a dish towel which she slung over her shoulder. She then opened the door and smiled.

"Why Mel, what brings you over here?"

"I got a hundred dollars; was wondering if you had a few minutes to spare?"

She looked down at the bill he held. "Sure," she said as she plucked it from his hands. "Come on in."

Tammy led Farmer Mel past the couch where she threw the towel that was on her shoulder. She went to her room and once Mel had entered, she closed the door. She looked at the hundred dollar bill and smiled—such easy money, she thought.

She had done the math, as she had with most of her customers. It was simple really, no different than any job. How long for how much. With Farmer Mel, she figured on average, she made thirty-three dollars and thirty-three cents per minute. This made him a very good customer. Unlike others who dragged on cutting into the profits.

No—Tammy may look like she wanted to have sex, but as they say, 'make a living doing what you love, and lose something you love.'

So after she secured her thirty-four dollars per minute; they went to the kitchen. Tammy served up some coffee and took her seat. Mel, he was already comfortable.

"How's Gary been doing?" Mel asked.

"He's fine I suppose. At least as fine as one could expect."

Mel wasn't sure if Gary knew what his mother did for a living. But she had done it since his birth, so if he didn't, he was the only one in town who didn't. But it wasn't like she had

much choice. A single woman raising a special needs child. Out on the farm, there was little in the way of handouts. At least not in the Lincoln area. As for the town itself, it was small with only a main street that ran through the center. Buildings lined both sides, but one could enter the town and exit it in-between breaths.

The falls were long with weeks that passed without seeing the sun. Rain and slush spit out from black clouds. And then there was winter. A time for hibernation, but human's don't sleep that much. This meant they needed something to do, and the only thing available was prying into everyone else's business which they did.

In short, while the men were madly in lust with Tammy, the women hated her with a passion. No big shock. But what was; was the fact that she was still around. That the cackling hens hadn't run her off. This was feared by the men, they spoke openly on the topic down at the Coffee-Pot-Diner. But no one feared her leaving more than Farmer Mel.

For the past three years since the death of his wife, she had been his only comfort. He had no children, no family to speak of. Without Tammy, there was no reason to go on. So he paid her a visit whenever he could. Suppose that made him a regular.

He also had spent his entire life watching Tammy from afar. They were close to the same age. He was a year older. They attended the same school, went to the same prom.

Working the field at fourteen, Farmer Mel would drive the tractor close to her house, praying Tammy was lying out in a bikini. Praying she was topless, or bottomless, or both. But that never happened. Tammy's fair skin didn't take to the sun.

He watched as she dated one loser after the other. Always the kid who swore he was leaving town. Going to make it big. Going to take her with him ... But they never did. Not even the man she married. Gary's father. But that didn't last long and once he was out of the picture, all those losers who made all those promises... well, they returned and were once again screwing her. But this time, it cost them a lot more than a burger and coke.

"He stopped by the farm this morning," Farmer Mel said, speaking of Gary. He was looking down into his coffee.

"Yeah—what did he want?"

"He wants me to take his grill into town... I told him no problem. But the strange thing was: he acted as though he didn't know Martha had passed on."

"Really?"

"Yeah, said he didn't even know she was sick. Hell, he looked confused when I told him he was at the funeral."

Tammy took a sip of her coffee. She thought a moment. "You know Mel," she said. "I'm sorry I didn't attend Martha's funeral. But you know how the women around here feel about me. So I assumed it was better to stay clear... I hope you understand."

"Oh yes. I wasn't insinuating anything like that. I understand perfectly, and I do appreciate you letting me take Gary... You know Martha was fond of the boy, and I think he felt the same way."

"I know he did, and as for not remembering things. Well—I think that's just part of his illness... He's lived a lot longer than the doctors had predicted."

"I know. Was just worried is all."

"Don't be, Gary will be fine, "She paused. "He will be fine."

Mel slowly shook his head in agreement. "Why do you stay here, Tammy?" He asked out of the blue.

Tammy, holding her warm cup with both hands said: "You know why ... This is where I grew up. My mother and father gave me this home. I don't want to live anywhere else. Besides, I couldn't afford to start over again. I've built up a pretty damn good clientele here."

"But that won't last... I mean you're getting older. If you moved to a bigger city, you could get some help. You know, with Gary."

Tammy's face turned red, and Mel knew he crossed a line. She looked him straight in the eyes and said: "That's a shitty thing to say. You sure weren't complaining a few minutes ago!"

"I didn't mean it that way. I was merely asking because I wondered what your future plans are. That's all."

"I don't have any plans!" She snarled. "I'm going to ride out this shitty life all the way to the grave. And I have no doubt that I will bury my son along the way. And that I'll grow old and be alone. That I will go hungry, and suffer. And these pretty prancing do-gooders around here will swear that I'm getting what I deserve. I can hear them saying it... She raised her hands to the sky; she looked up as though she was in church: "Ooooh Lord!" She shouted. "You have finally come to punish the wicked! PRAISE GOD! Cleanse our town of these demons!"

She took a breath and with fire red cheeks, she continued: "Then they'll cluck around in their private circles like the hens that they are. They'll hold their children tight, and scowl at their husband for being human. But they won't hate them for what they did with me. They won't wish them to starve, or die alone. They won't even wish them a trip to hell. And I find that strange because their men came to me. They're the ones who enjoyed themselves. Hell, they paid to get it. Meanwhile, it's all I can do to keep from puking when you stinking son's-a-bitches climb on top of me! And why do I do it? Because I have no choice, Mel! And no, I don't have any fucking plans!"

Mel coward looking down into his coffee cup. "You could move in with me," he whispered.

"What'd you say?"

He looked up. "I would take care of you when you get old. That's all I'm saying."

"Then when I get old, I'll go on ahead and look you up. How's that!"

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Gary rode up to the First Church of Lincoln, which was located on the eastern side of Lincoln. He parked his bike at the bicycle rack; he secured it with his chain and lock. Then he looked at the large, brick building which towered above and around him. It was the biggest single structure standing in Lincoln... He took a moment to take it in. It didn't matter how many times he was here, the temple always amazed him. There were numbers engraved in a concrete plaque that was part of the structure. This plaque was beside the massive double glass doors that led inside. "Eighteen-sixty-one," Gary whispered. "I'd bet that was a good year. The Lord would a made it so 'cause he would a been happy 'bout his new home."

The outside was simple enough. A large A-frame with a bell tower that ran up the left front wall. Gary was told the bell he could see hanging was indeed the original. Although the pull-rope had been replaced a few times. In the back was the cemetery which had been filled to capacity long ago. Hundreds of markers, all different shapes, and sizes. From round-top tombstones, to large, detailed, statues. They were all there, with designs that changed with the times.

There was a wrought iron fence with steel speared slats that were spaced no more than four inches apart that surrounded the area. The fence, eight feet in height, joined at a rounded top, entry way where there was a gate that secured the area.

According to legend, there was a problem with grave robbing back in the day, and the security system was as old as the church.

Gary had spent time in there. He found his great-great-Grandparents so now he visited them every Memorial day. Always brought some dandelions, or other wildflowers he found along the way. But not today.

Parked off to the side was a pristine, polished, black hearse. A 1968 Lincoln, coffin carrier; which belonged to the Reverend James P. Townsend and his eerie wife, Stella. Townsend took pride in the hearse, claiming the Lincoln was still the preferred mode of transportation for the dead. Gary figured if anyone knew what the departed wanted, it would be the Preacher.

But the Reverend Townsend didn't start as the town's Preacher. He was originally the mortician who served the Lincoln area. He was tall, close to seven feet; and painfully thin. It was this combination that made finding clothes that fit difficult. So his suits always hung on him like cloth draped over bone.

His shoulders were rounded, and his back bowed. His shoes were a size fourteen, and his skin was pale. Upon seeing him, most thought it was he who belonged in the coffin.

His hair was greased back, black, and stuck to his scalp; and when he wasn't around, the kids called him Lurch from the old Adam's family television show. Then there was his wife Stella who could easily pass as his sister.

But he could speak, and it was his preaching at the memorials that got him the Reverend gig. The way he worked with the dead and those in mourning. He was a gentle giant, but even a giant can be enslaved by the dollar. And as time passed, and his skin thickened, he became an actor. A performer, a street act, and street acts threw out a hat, and if that hat remains empty, it means the performer isn't worthy.

Townsend thought himself as Broadway material. Both he and his wife, Stella, had made a nice living off of the dead and the fear of death, of dry spells, wet spells, tornadoes, and long winters. So now, and in his mind, he provided a needed service. No different than a plumber, or electrician, and they were paid ... In short—Reverend Townsend and his wife Stella no longer had a use or compassion for anyone who didn't help fill the coffers. Gary had no cash.

All the same, Gary went inside, down a hall and into the main cathedral. He looked up at the massive wooden beams that shot from one side to the other. The cathedral ceiling was lined with stained wooden planks. Wainscot tongue and grove. All set perfectly by a master craftsmen. The detail was proof of that.

Gary had heard that Jesus was a carpenter. He thought he would be impressed with the work.

There were three rows of pews. Right, Left, and then center. Running from the back to the front. Holding a total of five hundred guests. Then there was a balcony for overflow which held another one-fifty. Gary followed these pews, up the aisle to the stage where there was a massive wooden carving of Jesus on the cross. He stood before it and wondered if it was life size? If people were that big back then? He was sure they were. They were giants; they had to be because of the danger. And there was danger, and Gary wondered who could have been big enough to bully Jesus? How many did it take to get him on that cross? Because this man was twice the size of Reverend Townsend and muscle-bound. A superhero that would easily put the fear of his father into any modern man who chose to cross him...

And yet, there he was. Nailed and bound, and if that wasn't enough, they even threw in a thorn-spiked headband. Cutting the skin to show more blood. Gary couldn't imagine what Jesus could have done to be so hated.

Just below Gary, in the basement; Reverend James P. Townsend was applying some base to the elderly Mrs. Rabatoy's, now dead face which he found challenging. The old hag had skin that was wrinkled and leathered... Townsend had his hands full beautifying this one. Not that he cared. Money in the bank and the fact she had grieving family members meant the mortician would do fine. He smiled as he thought of an insider's joke he had heard.

Question: What depressed the mortician?

Answer: A deathless day!

Townsend jumped when he heard Gary enter above him. The sound of the door closing echoed through the basement. Being an artist, the interruption sent a spike of rage through his entire body. Startling him, he dropped the base pad and it was now lying on Mrs. Rabatoy's bare, shriveled chest. "Damn it!" He mumbled as he reached back and untied the white apron he had on. He pulled it off and threw it across the body.

Aggravated, he went to the mirror that was above a sink where he washed up; making sure everything was in place. He took a moment to change personas. From Painter to Preacher. Then he went up the stairs and out the door that was just off to the left of the Church's entry doors. He walked to the main cathedral, and this was when he saw Gary Crowe standing at the front of the church, staring at the carving of Jesus on the cross.

Great, he thought.

He stood there a few moments thinking of a way to escape. Nothing came to mind, so he asked: "May I help you, Gary?"

Startled, Gary turned and said nothing at first; but then his tongue loosened and he replied: "I used ta come here. Mostly sat in the back 'cause Momma says we're not welcomed."

"Well she is mistaken; everyone is welcomed inside the house of the Lord. Especially beautiful women like your Mother. I've found such stimulation on a regular basis increases attendance."

"Whaaa?"

"Nothing Gary, go on."

"Momma says there's two that ain't never welcomed in Church: Lucifer and her." He paused, then said: "And me too."

Reverend Townsend walked down the aisle and took a seat in the front pew. "Well," he said, "you can tell your Mother that although Lucifer would do well to stay away. She can come whenever she pleases... As for you. You were told to leave because you kept interrupting my sermon."

"Momma say's that's how ya learn. Is askin' things."

"But there it a time for questions, Gary; and all through a sermon isn't that time. People have things to do, and they don't want to spend the entire day in Church."

Gary thought a moment. "Is now a time?"

"No, I have other things I have to do."

"Oh," Gary's face went blank: "I'm here on account a I need ta do some prayin'."

"Great, well you can pray anywhere you like. So--"

"No, don't suppose that'll help. I need ta be here on account a I'm gonna pray that I win the Cookin' contest."

Townsend rolled his eyes. "Aaah Yes. Gary the cook. Three-time champion. And the fact that I'm a judge has nothing to do with why you're here pestering me!"

"Not sure what yer sayin'?"

"Gary, I don't have time to listen to this. As I said, I have things to do. So seeing the Church is closed; I need you to leave."

Gary ignored him: "I just thought that since we all wanna win, and we'll be prayin' to God. And since he does love each of us... Well—I just sorta thought he would have a hard time choosin'... ya know, who he was gonna help. I mean, he can't taste test it can he?"

"No Gary, I doubt he has a taste for meat."

"See, that's what I was thinkin'. So how's he gonna choose the winner?"

"He won't, the judges will choose the winner."

Gary fidgeted some. Kicking at the carpet. Then he looked up and said: "I was watchin' this movie. Can't remember what it was called. But Detective Riggs was in it. But he wasn't playin' Detective Riggs, he was playin' somethin' else. Ya knew which one I mean?"

"No, can't say I do."

"Well anyway; it had these knights with swords and all. And they was gonna fight another group of knights with swords."

"You mean a mid-evil film."

"Suppose, there were Kings and such, and there were castl--"

"—yes, yes—go ahead." Townsend was rolling his hand telling Gary to speed it up.

"Well, in this movie, before they went ta killin', both sides prayed that God would keep 'em safe, and let 'em win ... I got ta thinkin'... How's he gonna do that? I mean, bein' there's only one God, that mean's they're both askin' him fer the same thing? But he can't help both sides... can he?"

"No."

"Then what's he gonna do? How's he gonna choose?"

"He won't. Now if you don--"

"I didn't think so, 'cause in the film, most a them fella's didn't live. Both sides I'm sayin'. After the fightin' was over, the grounds looked like an ant pile after they've been tossed the poison."

"Gary, Please! I have to go—"

"Yeah so," Gary continued cutting him off. "I was thinkin' that if I was to pray in here. Ya know in God's home, he would pick me over them others. I bet ole Detective Riggs and those sword fighters never thought a that."

"Fine, fine. But make it quick!"

Gary went to the praying pad where he knelt down. Then he prayed.

With that completed, he left the church. Once outside, he could hear the locks latching on the entry door. He turned to see Reverend Townsend standing there. He waved, but the Holy man just pushed on the door, making sure it wouldn't open, then turned and disappeared.

Gary looked up at the clear, summer sky. Not a cloud in sight, he thought.

He rode into town, up to the old five-and-dime store. Where he looked through the plate glass window to see the soda counters0 bar stools were filled to capacity. Evelyn and Barbara were on duty, with their paper hats, blood red lipstick, and white aprons. They ran around holding pencils and pads, taking orders. Carl, the short-order cook was working the grill. Gary thought the place never slowed down, and this bothered him because when it was slow, he could work a deal. He washed all the dishes, cleaned the windows, floor, and counter. In exchange; they made him a banana boat.

But that wasn't going to happen today, so he rode on.

He went past the 'Lincoln 'Ole Tyme Cinema' where the multicolored light bulbs would flash once the sun went down. He looked at the marquee to see the movie 'Singin' in the Rain' was playing. He saw it before.

Then there was the 'Coney Island Drive-In' restaurant where they served the best Coney dogs and root beer around. There were only a couple of cars pulled in the stalls. Trish worked alone since it was mid-day. Gary could hear the wheels of her roller skates as they ground across the blacktop. He liked Trish. She wasn't as pretty as Cindy Houser, but she was a lot nicer. He wished he had a couple of dollars; he would love a root beer.

Then there was the Regal drugs store, John Baker's lumber company, Coffee Pot Diner and a multitude of other small businesses... Basically, the town of Lincoln hasn't changed since the golden age of the fifties.

When Woolworth's closed down, the townspeople got together and purchased it. Same with Rexall Drugs, 'Dog 'n' Suds' drive in ... 'The Lincoln Theater.' On and on, preserving their way of life. Keeping their core values and remaining in the past.

So what you wouldn't find was a Wal-Mart, a K-mart, Walgreen's, Lowe's, or any other big name chain stores including a McDonalds. There wasn't enough business, and they weren't welcomed. No—the people of Lincoln were well aware of what the outside world had become... They wanted no part of it.

Up ahead, Gary could see the city maintenance crews were preparing for the festival which took place around the city hall. An old brick building that was erected in 1859. Not long after a tornado blew down the original wooden one. This building was nice, but not near as impressive as the Church. For starters, they had whitewashed the brick so many times the paint remained gummy to the touch.

Gary liked sticking his fingernails into it. He loved how it pulled the dirt out from under them.

But on this day, he would stay back and allow the workers to do their jobs. They were placing decorations up on the light posts. Bringing in picnic tables and fold-up steel chairs. Some were setting up the stages. The one for the bands had a dance floor taped off with yellow caution tape. Then there was another for the contests, and this was where the chairs were placed.

It was the same as it always was. But that was all right. Gary knew it was a sign of what was to come. That it was that time of year, like a decorated Christmas tree. Sure it was the same as the year before, but it wasn't only about the tree; but rather what it represented. And this was the first of two town festivals. Next would be the harvest festival. This was when the crops were brought in from the fields; which meant corn and sausage roasts. Stuffed cabbage, beans, and all sorts of gassy foods would be served.

So the townspeople could feel it, the energy, Gary damn sure could. There was magic in the air. There was laughter, and the sounds of Kids riding around on ten speeds. Gear chatter rang out when they stopped peddling. Gary's bike didn't have speeds. It was an old Schwinn that looked a lot like the witches bike in the Wizard of Oz. Minus the basket. Gary always thought he would like to have a basket. Thought it would come in handy.

He rode past the Sheriff's office making it a point to look in through the plate glass windows. Gary liked Sheriff Barry Kunz. A friendly fella who had charmed the locals into believing he was the only man for his job.

But although times weren't changing in the small town of Lincoln, they were for Sheriff Kunz. He was aging and his bad habits had transformed into basic survival instincts. Smoking was now as natural as breathing.

Water? whiskey? There was little difference between them, and both would ensure survival. He smelled of cheap cologne that came from a bottle shaped like a horse. A little is too much, and he wore a lot. Proof that he was aware of the smell that lie below the surface.

He was a large fella; the Sheriff... Played tight end at Notre Dame. At least that's what he'd tell you. Was as strong as a bull. But the years had added some pounds, and now he had the body of one as well. A bovine that stood like a man.

No worries, a short life doesn't mean a bad one. And Sheriff Kunz wasn't the type to be bothered with such things. Wasn't the type to be bothered at all.

Gary's Mother (Tammy), she liked the Sheriff as well. Always called him a "good customer!" Gary wasn't sure what that meant, but it must have been something special because the Sheriff spent a lot of time over at the house. Unlike his Deputy, a dick who went by the name: Doug Scooner. Or 'Deputy Doug' for short. Deputy Doug harassed Gary every chance he got. Always wanting him to get a license for his bike. Always making him get off and push it. The other kids didn't have a license. It wasn't fair.

Deputy Doug was the opposite of Sheriff Kunz. Gary had heard his Mother call him a "Bible Thumper!" Said he was handsome enough, and the girls certainly loved him. But he wasn't for them. Said his master was the Lord and he had received his calling at a very young age. Thirteen Gary thought. She said he vowed to become a priest, but by fifteen he changed his faith because there was only one church in town. The First Church of Lincoln and it wasn't Catholic.

So since the Church already had a Reverend; Deputy Doug did the next best thing. He became a peace-keeper. A man of the law... God's law! And he studied the writings of the Bible and had interpreted the words the way most people do. So they served his personal beliefs. And unlike Sheriff Kunz, Deputy Doug was lean and in shape. He lifted weights and wore a uniform that was too small.

He strutted around with his pistol unstrapped; ready to draw, ready to kill ... When he walked or stood, his right hand always rested on top of the Ruger. His Stetson hat rode just above his brow, covering his perfectly combed, sand colored hair. He had a lantern jaw; his face was clean shaved, and he wore mirrored, aviation sunglasses because he was just that cool.

It was Deputy Doug who locked eyes with Gary as he passed the Sheriff's station on his bike.

Gary started to peddle faster, knowing what was coming and it did.

"STOP!" He heard Deputy Doug scream out.

Gary knew, in the back of his mind, that the thing to do was to keep on going. But he was taught to respect those with authority. Besides, Deputy Doug knew who he was and where to find him. So he stopped and turned to see the Deputy standing outside the office, holding open the glass door from which he had just exited.

"What I do Deputy Doug?" Gary asked.

The Deputy let go of the door and walked over to him. His left hand was on his belt, and right was on his gun. Just like the law-enforcement training video had shown him.

"Gary, what are you doing on the sidewalk? You know the sidewalk is for walkers. Not bikers... Do you see motorcycles riding on the sidewalk, Gary? No! Do you think you're better than a motorcycle rider? No!"

"Sorry Deputy Doug. Won't happen again."

"Let me see your license!" his hand was out.

"I don't have one. I told you. I got no money."

"Get off the bike, Gary!"

"Ya gonna make me push it?"

"No, I'm taking it!"

"Takin' it? Where?"

"I'm impounding it, Gary. You know what that means?"

"No."

"Mean's it's mine now! So get off the bike!"

Gary did as he was told; tears welled in his eyes as he handed it over to the Deputy. But that didn't affect Deputy Doug; he saw Gary as a retard, and by nature should have been culled at birth instead of existing unnaturally... It wasn't what God wanted so he rolled the bike away.

"Why don't you leave that boy alone?" Sheriff Kunz said as Doug pushed the bike into the back room. The Sheriff was at his desk drinking coffee while watching a morning news show.

"Because I don't like him, and I don't like what his mother does for a living!" He said as he closed the back room door and returned to his desk. "That—THING—out there is her punishment for whoring! Why should we have to pay for her sins!"

"Now Doug. I believe Miss. Crowe was married when she had Gary. So I don't know if it would have been right for God to reprimand her for something she hadn't yet done." Kunz rubbed his eyes as the smoke from the hand-rolled cigarette that hung from his dry, bottom lip burned them... "But then—I'm no expert on such things. Perhaps, sometime when you're free. You could explain it to me."

"Waste of breath!" Doug said as he went back to work on some papers he had on his desk.

But Sheriff Kunz wasn't going to let it go that easy. "Doug. Seems to me, you don't like anyone except yourself."

"If it were up to me, they'd both be run out of town!" Deputy Doug said not looking up.

Kunz knew this was a sore subject. Would have been best to let it go, but there was so little to do. "At least he's not colored," Kunz threw out. "Could be worse."

"Leave me alone!"

"Please, share with me again why it is the coloreds aren't supposed to be here? I can't remember how it goes exactly; something about how they have their own country and should go back to it? But wait, didn't we come from over yonder?"

"Shut up."

"Oooh, that's right. They aren't like the white man on account we came over here with good intentions. You know, show them Indians what they were doing wrong. Introduce them to God. Save-them-savages! But then realized it was God's will to go on and just kill 'um and take what was theirs...

"And like the animals and the trees, God put them Negroes on this Earth to serve us. Help build them temples for worshiping 'cause although God don't take to gluttony. He does like a fancy house of prayer.

"But we don't need them Negroes any longer do we. So they should go on home. God's will again. But unlike when they came... You know when those ships dragged their asses over here. There don't seem to be any ships waiting to take them home? Odd... But as they do say: God does work in mysterious ways!"

"Please, shut up!"

"Oh come on. Lighten up a little. It's a good day. Look, you already took some crime off the street." He pointed to the back room where Deputy Doug had locked up the bike.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gary wiped the tears away before they could fall down his cheek. Watching his bike get hauled off was like watching his dog (if he had one) get hit by a car... It was in slow motion, and it was painful. And those last words the lawman said were already haunting him: "Mean's it's mine now!"

But could it be that easy for them to take something that's not theirs? Gary was sure the answer to that question was yes; because he just saw it with his own eyes. Deputy Doug had stripped him of his property. Took claim to it. And there was little chance of getting another bike. And the more he thought about this, the more he wiped away the tears, and the more it hurt. So by the time he walked past the Lawrence Avenue Old Folk's Home. His head was looking down, and his lower lip was out. And he was blubbering like a child who had just been spanked.

Glenda Gant, a very attractive black woman who ran the home; was out on the porch tending to the elderly when Gary walked by. It was a nice day, and there was nothing healthier than fresh air. So there were quite a few people to tend to, and she probably wouldn't have noticed Gary if someone hadn't pointed him out.

She took a second to see what was going on. "Gary Crowe," she shouted. "What are you crying about?"

"Deputy Doug took my bike," Gary said, he kept walking. "Say's it's his now. It was the only one I had."

"Why would he do that?"

Gary wiped his eyes. "I ain't got no license plate."

"You got to have a plate for a bicycle?"

"I guess so."

"I ain't seen no bicycle with a plate!"

"Suppose we just ain't ever looked," Gary said.

Glenda Gant said nothing else, but she watched as Gary walked out of sight. "That damn Deputy," She mumbled. "Bicycle with a plate! Never heard of such a thing."

By the time Gary made it home, he had stopped crying. So he was able to confess to his mother what had happened. But at the end of his story when he spoke of that moment when his bike was pulled from his hands. His mind replayed it, and the tears began to fall again. But Tammy had heard enough, and she was pissed!

"Go on to your room," she told him. "You stay there until I come home. You hear?" Gary nodded. She grabbed her purse and stormed out the front. If the sound of the screen door slamming shut was any indication of what was to come then shit was about to fly.

She jumped into her 1996 Lumina sedan. Hands shaking, she tried three times to get the keys in the ignition. The third attempt was successful. She fired her up and with the front wheels spinning, she backed out of the drive. Upon touching asphalt, she threw the transmission into first and floored the accelerator. The squealing tires blew out smoke from under the wheel wells. Rolling up and around the hood. Then those tires caught traction, and the car leaped forward, through the smoke. Then she hit second gear, then drive. By the time she passed the Lawrence Avenue Old Folk's Home, she was close to a hundred-and-five. And there wasn't a person on that porch, including the lovely Glenda Gant who had a shadow of a doubt who it was, or where she was going.

Infuriated, Tammy didn't slow down right away; she waited until she was close to the Sheriff's station. Then she crammed on the brakes, and much to her disappointment, they didn't lock up. The anti-lock braking system was still working perfectly. Instead, she pulsed to an uneventful slow pace. Then she turned into one of the empty spaces on the side of the street. Still, the commotion was enough to get people's attention. And by the time she exited the car, they were looking her way.

She didn't make eye contact. Instead, she focused on the door which was about to be ripped off its hinges.

"Barry! Just what in the hell do you think you're doing!" She shouted as she stormed into the station. She would later recall that she didn't remember opening or touching the front door.

"Now calm down," Sheriff Barry Kunz said as he jumped to his feet. "Just take it easy." His hands were raised out ready to push her back.

"Where is that piece of shit Deputy-Dog of yours!"

"He just slipped out behind you," Kunz said and pointed out to where the police cruiser was pulling away. Deputy Doug was behind the wheel. He was gone.

"Why did he take my boy's bike!"

"We've been over that Tammy. He's supposed to have that thing licensed."

"Yeah—well show me a bike that has a license, Barry. Just one!"

"Now listen, Tammy! I'm not the one who confiscated the bike. Doug did; it is the law so there's nothing I can do. I can't get on Doug for upholding the law."

"Bullshit!"

"Tammy; If you'll just settle down, I believe we can come to some kind of arrangement."

"Give me the bike Barry or I swear to God I'll go around and tell everyone where you spend your damn lunch breaks!"

"Listen, if you'd be willing to give me some credit, I'll pay for the license."

"I'll also tell them how much you spend on those lunches, Barry!"

"I'll even go down to the tax branch and get it."

This time she bent down and placed both hands on his desk. "Listen you piece of shit," she screamed through clenched teeth. "I'll cut you off entirely!"

Kunz hesitated. Then opened his left desk drawer and pulled out a set of keys. He unlocked the door. "Open your trunk, Tammy. I'll put it in for ya."

She went outside, and already there was a fair amount of people standing, watching. Sheriff Kunz came out; rolling the bicycle and people started low talking. He picked it up and gently placed it in the trunk. He then pulled a string from his pocket and tied the trunk down as best he could.

"There ya go, darling," he said. "And, don't you worry. I'll get you that license; just like I said."

"The boy is troubled, Barry. You know that. What in God's name does Deputy-Dog have against him?"

"Well, for starter's he doesn't like being called Deputy-Dog."

"Then tell him to come pick on me. I'm the one who calls him that, not Gary."

"I'll do that... Yes Mam," Nervous about the crowd, Kunz wiped the sweat off his brow. "So you drive safe now—ya hear?" He forced a smile.

Tammy got in the car. She pulled out, made an illegal 'U' turn, then headed down Main Street. The people watched the Sheriff as he watched Tammy drive away. He then looked at the crowd and said: "Go on now. Don't make me sprit's ya with ice water! Go on about your business."

The first thing the next morning, Gary had his license plate. He took it, along with the bike next door to where Farmer Mel was working out in the barn.

"I have to put this on my bike," Gary told him as he held up the plate.

"Yeah," Farmer Mel replied. "What for?"

"'Cause Deputy Doug arrested it yesterday. That's why. Momma had to go and get it."

"Why would he do that?"

"'Cause he's one them dicks. That's what Momma says."

Farmer Mel laughed. "She may have a point there. Here, let me take a look at it."

Gary gave it to him.

"Looks like a motorcycle plate," Farmer Mel replied and then walked over and looked at the back of the bike. "No mounting bolts.... Mmmm, suppose some tie-wire would do it." He went to his workbench. He pulled some wire off the coil and with snips, he cut it. He then wrapped it around the metal rods that held up the seat and attached it to the plate. He twisted the wire and then pushed it allowing it to swing back and forth. "There ya go."

"Thanks, Mr. Mel."

"No problem."

"I was gonna ask the Sheriff to help me, but he was busy with Mamma."

"The sheriff? What's he doing with your Momma?"

"Well, he's the one who brought over the plate."

"I don't understand?" But he did. He understood just fine.

"Yeah, he bought me the plate. Then he and Mamma went back to her room. Ya know to talk about grown-up stuff."

"I see... And is he still there?"

"Suppose. I mean they was talkin' somethin' fierce when I left. Must a been somethin' sad has happened. 'Cause they was both moanin' and cryin' out and all. There was some beatin' goin' on. Like the Sheriff was hittin' the wall with his fist... It was kinda sad."

Mel could feel the blood rush to his face. His hands began to shake, and he closed his eyes. Calm down, he told himself. You knew this kind of thing happens. She'll come around, and when she does, you will be waiting.

Gary left on his bicycle. He wasn't sure why, but Mr. Mel suddenly took to a foul mood. No matter, he had things to do so he couldn't hang around anyhow.

He went into town, making sure not to ride on the sidewalk. He passed the Sheriff's station and this time he looked in and saw Deputy Doug sitting at his desk. They made eye contact, but the lawman didn't move. All was clear.

But it wasn't clear, not really. Deputy Doug had learned that it was the patron's at the Lawrence Avenue Old Folk's home, who had gotten together to pay for Gary's license. Not the Sheriff. Sure, the Sheriff would drop if off. Spend some time with his whore. But it was Glenda Gant who took the cash and picked up the plate. The red-bone. Or half black, half white, bitch, who would have been wise to keep to her own business. And this wasn't the first time she stepped out of line. There were others. Like when she tried to enter the First Church of Lincoln! Like that was going to happen!

No sir, old Reverend Townsend is one of us, Deputy Doug thought. A faithful member in good standings. So when that black bitch came prancing in the door pushing a wheelchair with Mrs. Mumford in it, the Reverend sent over one of his deacon's to assist her. Peeled Mrs. Mumford's chair from Gant's fingers and told her he would handle if from there. That's right, Gant made a u-turn and went back outside; she waited there until the service was over. Until the Deacon wheeled Mrs. Mumford to where she sat on the curb. Just like that, and as easy as that. And that pretty face of hers didn't help a bit.

People need to respect the boundaries, Deputy Doug thought. Wouldn't be no different if one of us white folk went to their Church, or their restaurants, or their schools, or stores. They hate us as much as we hate them. We got the KKK, they got the Black Panthers. Same, same only the colors change. And those colors are opposite. Day and night. Sun and moon. Two totally separate parts that make up twenty-four hours. When one arrives, the other surrenders.

Deputy Doug had remained cool up until the Sheriff left to deliver the license plate to Gary. Once he was alone, he slammed both fist down onto the top of his desk. He closed his eyes, and looked up to heaven. He wanted to scream, but resisted. Someone could hear.

His face was red, he could feel it. The blood was hot, warming his cheeks. He pushed his Stetson hat off his desk; sending it sliding across the polished Linoleum floor. He stood and walked back and forth. He thought, and then took his seat once again.

He rubbed his computer's mouse on its pad. Once the computer woke up, he went into Word Perfect. He pulled a generic pre-made Petition form that only needed some fields entered. He cracked his knuckles and began to type.

Upon completion, he printed the form and took a look. He smiled. Once signed, this petition would prevent Gary Crowe from serving his food to the elderly. It would also prevent the tard from running errands for them. No more cigarettes, booze, or whatever. Those things would have to come from family members, doctors, or the home's staff. This meant it wouldn't come at all. This made Deputy Doug feel good. Most of what Gary bought for them went against God's will.

The signatures needed would come from the family members of those who were residents. Deputy Doug saw this as easy because although no one came to see these people, their families wanted them to live forever. And since booze and cigarettes aren't good for one's health. Sign on the line. And since Gary's food had fat and cholesterol, and wasn't as healthy as the tasteless, school style lunches that were normally served. Place your mark right there!

"Yes Mam," he whispered upon approval. "You best watch your back--Gant! 'Cause Deputy Doug sure is!"

Gary Crowe went to the 'Pig's 'n' chicken's' grocery store where he parked and locked up his bike at the bicycle rack. He went through the automatic sliding glass doors. Past the check-out-counters then straight to Aisle "G" where they showcased the baskets. Here he found containers of all kinds. Plastic ones, weaved ones, Styrofoam ones. But none that would attach to his bike like the dog stealing hag had on The Wizard of Oz.

Frustrated, he gave up and headed back to the meat department where Mr. Leon Noone (the butcher) was seen cutting meat. Gary, locked eyes with the man, waved his fast wave; and Mr. Noone, with his hands full, gave the boy a nod. Not one that said hello, but rather 'come on back.'

There was a glass wall that separated the packaged meat from the meat that hasn't been cut. This wall was meant to contain the smell, which Gary didn't mind, but most did. The smell of a butcher is the smell of a slaughterhouse, which is the smell of death, which is the smell of a mortician minus the formaldehyde. Muscle, blood organs, and bones. Basically, the stink of a morgue. People don't like the stink of a morgue, so Gary was told that since they wanted to sell the meat; it was best to keep the stench in the back.

There were double swing doors he walked through, and there was a net which he pulled over his hair, and then a blood-stained white apron he slung over his neck. He tied it tight in the back. Then he went to the first of many sinks and washed his hands. He pulled some latex gloves from a box and put them on. Now, he turned to see he was surrounded by stainless steel tables, saws, and sinks. Water hoses, and floor drains. There were sounds also. A band saw hummed as the blades rotated around the wheels. Water dripped from the nozzle which hung from the ceiling. The sound of knives carving through flesh. It was a glorious place to be. So what if it smelled a little. At least Gary thought so.

Mr. Leon Noone, he was Gary's mentor, his friend; he was the one who showed Gary which meats to choose. What fat to remove and what to leave on. He taught the young man all about cutting meat, how to season it. How hot the fire should be. When the meat is rare, medium, and well-done. He showed him which woods gave what flavor. And which would

suffice in a pinch. He was an expert on meat and how to prepare it. He was also as black as a sharpie so in the town of Lincoln—that meant he wasn't much.

But every man is useful in his own way. So upon drifting into town one winter's day; Leon Noone walked into the 'Pig's 'n' Chicken' grocery store and applied for a position in the meat department.

"No!" was what he was told, but after he slung a side of beef over his shoulder and carried it to the cutting table. They had doubts about their answer. Then when he cut that cow into steaks with the hands of an artist. They had a change of heart. Lastly, when they learned he would work cheap, they decided they could live with the color of his skin.

Then he started cooking. At first, it was just for black people's wakes. But some white people attended these wakes, so it wasn't long, word got out. Ole Leon Noone cooked Southern-Soul-Food. Slow and tender, using only the smoke from burnt wood. Not fluid soaked charcoal, but logs straight off the tree. Man oh man, a lost art indeed!

But Leon couldn't enter the cookout contest on account of it was sponsored by the Pig's 'n' Chicken market. No employees were eligible. So he did the next best thing. He trained the only white person in town who had a proper grill and wasn't prejudice as hell. He trained Gary Crowe.

But this didn't go unnoticed. Gary was seen in the cutting room, behind the glass. He was handling people's meat, and they complained to the manager. A mousy pimple face fella named: Marty Robinett. Marty was too damn old to have acne, but he did. Red pimples with white puss ready for popping... But Marty didn't take to pain. Not in the least, so there they remained.

"That boy's the best cook in town," he told the complaining customers. "He's won the blue ribbon three times running, and where do you think he gets his meats! You should be glad to see him back there... Besides, Leon may work cheap, but Gary works for free. So if you like those reduced meat prices, then you'd be wise to look the other way!" So they did, but that don't mean they liked it.

So now, Gary walked up and stood beside his mentor. He watched as the blade cut through the marbled meat. He reached over and grabbed a Styrofoam plate, he placed an absorbent pad on top of the plate and then once the steak was sliced he wrapped it. Then he put it on a rack where Leon would price it, and then put it out for purchase.

"So—I'm goin' huntin' soon?" Gary said as he worked.

Leon, busy keeping the blade off his fingers didn't say anything until the steak was cut. Then he looked at Gary and said: "You know it's not hunting season. You don't want to go around talking like that. What ya gonna do if someone hears?"

"But the contest is comin', and I'd like the meat ta age some."

"I know that. But what you do is your business, no others, so just keep it quiet. Remember, most won't take well to you using hard to get meat in the contest. Could be trouble."

"Notin' says I can't."

Leon thought a moment. "Yeah, suppose you're right about that. But still, you don't want to go given your secrets away. But you have a point—with it being a full moon and all, tonight would be good... But you'll want to get out there around seven, you know before it gets dark. That's when they come out to eat."

Up at the cash register, Gladys Tanner; a middle aged, heavy set woman pulled groceries past the scanner. She acted as though she was listening for the beep which proved the person buying had indeed been charged. But the truth was, after twenty-two years of doing the same thing; she couldn't really hear it any longer. Just like she couldn't hear the Salvation Army bells ringing around Christmas time.

Gladys had thinning hair, which she always puffed up into a bun so the bald spots couldn't be seen. She wore blood-red lipstick and at some point had decided that real eyebrows didn't look near as good as painted on ones. She wore black, thick rimmed glasses. And was always pale.

Standing on the other side of the belted counter was another woman named: Susan Moreland. Susan was the same age as Gladys. Fortyish—and they had attended school together. Even dated some of the same guys. They both were cheerleaders and attended the same prom where Gladys was named prom queen, and Susan was runner-up.

But time had passed, and like Gladys, Susan hadn't aged well. What once was the toast of the town, had become a frigid woman who no longer had the body or desire for sex. They were married now, with children in their teens.

It came as no surprise that their husbands were regular customers of Tammy Crowe.

Both Gladys and Susan were faithful attendees of Reverend James P. Townsend's Sunday services and were no strangers to the Wednesday and Friday evening sermon's as well. They were also very generous when the tithing plate came around. Which according to Townsend meant they were better than most. They believed him.

"You think there's enough hamburger there to make a loaf for six people?" Susan asked. Gladys had just picked up the package and was weighing it using only her arm muscles.

"Oh, I don't believe so," She replied. "Not unless you aren't scared of running out, you should get another pound. At least."

"Shoot. I'm having Reverend Townsend over for supper. I think he's bringing his wife and some other Pastor he knows... It's important that I make a good impression."

"You want me to call Leon and have him grind up another pound?"

"I don't want to hold up the line."

"Don't be silly," Gladys said as she reached for the microphone. "There's no one in the store at this hour." She pushed the button that connected her to the cutting room. "Leon?" She said as both peered down the aisle, to the back of the store. They could see Gary and Leon standing behind the glass. Gladys waited.

Slowly, Leon reached over and pulled the mic to his mouth. "Yes, Miss. Tanner?"

"We need another pound of hamburger up here at the counter. Would you be a dear and grind some. We'll wait. Thank you." She released the button all the while keeping her eye on the black man.

"Did he hear you?" Tammy asked.

"Yeah, he heard me all right. He's been getting cocky lately. Probably don't think he should have to walk it up here. Don't worry about it. He'll do it."

"Sad isn't it?"

"What's that?"

"Those people, how they've taken over the town."

"Sure is. I heard the railroad may shut down this route. God, I hope they do."

"Why? How's that gonna help?"

"Are ya kidding? That's how they get here. The trains like a grocery bag to a cockroach. They hop on, ride awhile, then jump off when they see a place they like. Then they breed and bring more in. Next thing you know—you got yourself an infestation!"

"Well, they're certainly taking over the North side."

"Deputy Doug says it all started after the State asked the railroad people to change out the lights and bells for arms that dropped. But that would have cost too much, so they agreed that they would slow the trains down when they came through towns. Nice huh? Sure, people aren't getting hit by trains, but now they're going slow enough, them niggers can jump off without breaking their damn necks!"

"Sounds about right. I bet you go to them rich rail men's homes, you won't find no blacks living in their town!"

"Of course not. And then that retard that's standing there with him. My god. I complained to Marty. Told him the customers didn't like no wet-brain idiot handling their food. Told him it was the worst thing he could have done to this store... You know what he told me?"

"No."

"He said the worst thing that could happen to this store was if 'HE' had to go back there and cut meat. And then he walked away."

"Pitiful ... Johnny says it's men like him that are part of the problem. He works them when he should run them out a here. This town ain't no place for people like them. This is a good town, with God fearing citizens. No sir—I say the blacks need to go, and that retard can go right along with them. Maybe then we could get rid of that whore mother of his as well!"

"You know what I heard?" Gladys said.

"What?"

"I heard at the last rally. The boys had just lit the cross when they noticed there was one among them who wasn't wearing his robe or hat. Guess who it was?"

"Who."

"Retard over there. That's right; he was standing there among them. Holding onto a damn bag of marshmallows and some chocolate bars... He wanted to make smores!" She burst out laughing. Susan followed. "My God," Gladys continued. "Can you imagine!"

"What did they do?"

"Deputy Doug said he kicked him in the ass so hard his feet left the groun –Oh Shh, here he comes."

Gary came out through the double glass doors. He walked around the meat counter and to the front of the store. He placed the wrapped hamburger onto the belt. The women, now just snickering said: "Thank you, Gary."

"I ain't never been ta no rally," he said. "And you just think my momma's a whore 'cause she's prettier than you!" Gary walked away.

Susan and Gladys watched him until he went through the doors and outside. They then looked at the glass where Leon was back to work; pretending he heard nothing. Gladys, she smacked the microphone a couple of times, releasing the stuck button she had pushed.

"They heard what we said?" Tammy asked but it wasn't a question. It was close to a whisper.

"Don't worry about it," Gladys replied. "I'm sure they've heard it before."

Gary didn't tell his momma what the lady's at the counter had said. He was good at forgetting, and seemed to be getting better. But he didn't forget about hunting because it was something he truly had a passion for.

It was Leon who had taught Gary to hunt. Where to shoot to kill the beast right off with no suffering. He told him what to look for. To position himself upwind, and always keep the sun at his back. But Tammy wouldn't allow Gary to hold a gun, so Leon had made him a bow and some arrows. Made them himself out of a hickory branch that been dropped by lightning. The fletching he made from the feathers of a pheasant. And the string was made from hemp.

Leon had spent time on an Indian reservation out West, but then he had spent time everywhere including the Coleman correctional facility down in Florida. They claimed he robbed a store, but Leon said it wasn't so. But what he said didn't matter, they sent him away anyhow.

He was a loner, ole Leon. At least that's what he told Gary. And Gary was his only friend, and even though Gary thought he had plenty of friends. The truth was, it was the same the other way around.

Around his own kind, Leon was feared because it was like Gladys Tanner had said. He did show up out of the blue one day. Jumped off the Eastbound, Fifty-three train. Walked into town like a ghost. And in the three years since, he couldn't seem to shake it.

As for the white people he was just another black man out to take jobs and disrupt their purity. Where the black folk feared him, the white's used him. But Gary was different. He didn't think that way, couldn't think that way. So Leon didn't see him as white, but rather more of something in-between. A red-bone if you will. Not accepted by either side. At least not in Lincoln Indiana.

Leon could talk to Gary, he trusted him, and Gary never looked down on Leon because of his color. He respected the man because he had so much to offer. He was a rambler, wild, a survivor. He had adapted to his environment and could live off the land without the white man's money. Do just fine. He got around using his thumb, the trains, or his feet. So Gary spent endless hours shooting that bow at straw bales over at Farmer Mel's farm. He found he had a knack for it and not just shooting. But hunting as well. He was patient. His hearing was great, as was his sight. He was strong and agile, which allowed him to climb trees for better positioning. He could walk through the forest barefooted, so he wouldn't be heard... All this Leon had to offer, and Gary had listened closely. The retard, as he was known, had the stealth ability of a Native-American.

So there he was, in position now. Standing on a large tree branch, close to twenty feet in the air. This limb spanned out ten feet. Gary was in the center, standing as straight as the arrow he held in his bow. There was nothing around for balance, nothing was needed. He used his mind. He imagined his feet were set in concrete. Therefore they were.

His face was painted green with some brown lines. He wore camouflage pants and a long sleeve shirt. Even his feet were green.

A trail ran just off to the side of the tree. There was little air moving, so his scent wouldn't be an issue. It was time to feed, so he positioned his back towards the place where food would be found.

That was four hours ago, and now it was dark, with only the glow of the moon cutting down through the thick leave filled branches above.

In the distance, he heard the train rumbling down the tracks. The whistle blew signaling it was going through town. This was good, scare up the game, get them moving.

"White men are cowards," Leon had told him. And Gary allowed this to run through his head. "They'll only hunt when there's no danger to them. When there's no chance that they may become the prey and little chance that they will get so much as a blister. They're not hunters, but they are killers. And the odds of success are stacked so far in their favor; laws had to be put in place to keep the animals from being wiped out... The Indians knew this long ago. They saw it with their own eyes. So don't be a white hunter. Take only what you need, and receive no pleasure from the kill. No trophies, because surviving is just that and there is nothing to be proud of!"

By the end of this vision, Gary could see Leon's face speaking those words. He could also hear something casually moving his way. Almost slow or clumsy. The sound of crumbling leaves, steps made in the soft dirt. Brush being pushed aside... But it was so difficult to see.

But did that matter? He wondered. Did he need to see? Or like the Indian's could he make his kill by ear, smell, and instincts? Could his mind's eye show him what was really there? His answer was yes.

He closed his eyes and halted his breathing. He listened; he imagined he could see it; this buck that had grown to adult size. Wondering around in the cover of the night. He waited until he was certain the game was close, then he slowly opened his eyes.

He carefully lifted his bow into position. He pulled back the string until his index finger went into his mouth. The same as it did a million shots before. He adjusted for the three inches between his mouth and eyes. He took a moment to reflect on his technique. There was time, he couldn't be seen, smelled or heard. There would be no fear. He bent his knees slightly. He was in danger, once the arrow was released, there was a chance his concreted feet would break free from the momentum. He would then fall to the forest's floor. Breaking his back. Ending his life. But he wasn't a white hunter.

Once he was confident he shared in the risk, he released the string.

There was a twang sound; then a thump as the arrow went into the chest of the beast, straight through the heart. Gary lowered his bow and watched as the target fell. There was no running, no squealing. No pain. No sound at all, but then he wasn't a white hunter. He had perfected his craft as anyone who takes a life should.

He stood there a moment. He was calm, and he could feel it. The wild, primitive beast that lies dormant just under his skin. He was a survivor who no longer needed the white man's money. No different than the beast that lay dead below him. No different than Leon Noone...

Gary climbed down; he went over to his buck. He pulled it back to the tree where he had just come from and using his climbing rope he hoisted it into the air, head down. Using a shovel he brought with him, he dug a hole. Then using a butcher knife he had got from Leon, he removed the testicles; he bled it, then gutted it, allowing the internals to fall into the hole. Once it was clean, he covered the goo with dirt. Took down the buck, and then dragged it to the hard road where Leon was waiting with the grocery store's cargo van.

"Nice," he said as he looked it over. "Not too old should be good eating."

"Wasn't as big as I would a liked," Gary replied.

"No worries. You ain't out to feed the whole village. You're out to win a contest, and that means you only need to feed the judges."

"Suppose ya got a point."

They loaded the buck into the van, then drove away. Leon dropped Gary off at his house, then took the carcass to the store's meat department where he would hang it on a chained hook alongside other meats. In between them and out of sight. This would be where it would remain until it was time for butchering.

Gary went to the garage where he hung up the climbing rope, the bow and sheath full of arrows. He leaned the shovel up against the sidewall. He then walked outside where he looked up at the full moon. He wanted to howl out like a wolf. The dimples and shadows of the moon reached out to him as it does all animals. He wanted to call to it, as though the sound would draw it, and the light it provides closer.

Tammy didn't see Gary leave, but she did see him return. She was sitting on the couch watching TV when he walked through the front door. His green and black face blended in with his green and black clothing. But the red from the blood stuck out, and at first glance, Tammy thought the blood had come from him. Her face turned pale, and she jumped up and ran to him.

"Don't momma," Gary said. "I'm not a baby, I don't need huggin!"

She stopped; her eyes wide, her hand over her mouth. "W-wh-what happened?" She asked.

Gary, confused took a moment, then he looked down to see his blood-soaked clothing. "Oh," he said. "This ain't from me Momma. I was out huntin'. This here's blood from the buck I shot."

"Hunting? It's not hunting season!"

"I know, but I needed it fer the cookin' contest."

"There wasn't any in the freezer?"

"Can't use it. Not fer something this important. I heard there's some new people gonna enter. Heard Ole man Haggin's a comin', and he owns a pig farm. Could be trouble."

"But you broke the law!"

Gary smiled, "No momma. Ya see, Leon says Injun's can hunt whenever they want on account this here's their land. We took it from 'em... Not proper either... Did ya know that?"

"Yes Gary. But Leon's not an Indian, he's a black man. Indian's aren't black."

Gary thought a moment. "Well then—I suppose he think's he's Indian."

"And you're not Leon anyway, so even if he was Indian, he would have had to kill the animal, not you... Jesus!" Her hand now went from her mouth to her forehead. "If it ain't hard enough to get along with these people as it is. Here you go and start poaching! If they find out, you're in big trouble mister!"

Gary watched as her face turned red. He was well aware he had done something wrong, although he didn't understand just what it was. "I'm sorry momma," He said as his eyes began to tear up. "I was only tryin' ta make ya proud. Winnin' the contest is the only way I know how."

Tammy forced herself to calm down. She could see Gary's lip was quivering. "All right then," she calmly said. "Go on and get out of those clothes. Throw them outside, they stink. And get a shower; you look like you belong in a horror movie."

"I will momma." Gary wiped his eyes.

"And don't tell anyone what you did tonight—ya hear?"

"Yes, Momma."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Lawrence Avenue, Old Folk's Home, was just that; it was a home, it was always a home and nothing more.

Built in eighteen eighty-six by a Southern man named: Henry Wiles; the structure flaunted a Southern flair not often seen in the region. Henry, who relocated from Macon Georgia after losing his home during the civil war, built a Victorian style, Southern Mansion. One with two stories. Each with their own balconies that ran the entire length of the street's side of the home. Massive pillars ran from ground to the roof and joined in with the white, wooden rails, and rosettes to make something worthy of the most prestigious of temples.

Henry had some cash. A plantation owner suddenly turned Yankee sympathizer, Henry Wiles had made the statement that the war wasn't fought by the slave owners. That in reality, they wanted nothing more than to be rid of them. That they were costly. Said while the black men were winding up dead; the women were getting pregnant by the white hands that were supposed to be keeping them in line. He said there were few, true Negroes left; that the bloodline had been tainted with white blood. And that meant trouble... Said if he had wanted white slaves, then that's what he would have had. "White people aren't slaves for a reason," he said. Although the reason wasn't ever told.

Henry made the statement that with the way things were going; soon, they would have machinery that would do the work of a hundred slaves, and that would be a problem... It would mean the white people of this great country of ours would expect those, now unwanted slaves to be taken on home. But who would pay for such a thing? Or better: who would be expected to pay for such a thing? Why the same people who paid to have them drug over here of course.

But that wasn't going to happen on account of although there was cash in importing; there was none in exporting.

"Wealth mean's power!" Henry had said. "And power will always take from the weak because they can. And the weak will always give because they have too!"

So these Southern Gentlemen were more than happy to free the Slaves. Hell, they even agreed to hand them some property. Not enough to survive with. But enough to save face. In return, those same slaves will gladly come home to their masters. Only now they are on the payroll which means no more food. No more clothes or shoes. No more medicine. No more white thugs to handle them. No more beatings or loss of workers due to pregnancy or death. And all this for pennies on the dollar!

"Hell yes, we told them. Where do we sign up?" Henry laughed and laughed at this. "And when the time comes when they're no longer needed. Well—we'll simply fire them. Then they'll become your problem!"

Henry was a funny guy.

"But what came as a shock," he said. "Was them Southern folk who wanted to fight. Wanted to keep those slaves right where they were. And most of those who died for the cause hadn't owned a black man in their entire lives. Yet there they were. We weren't. Hell, we stood back and cheered for you Yankees... But still... Something about that didn't seem right!"

As time passed, and as Ole Henry Wiles predictions came true. More and more black people migrated up North in search of a way to make a living. When they planted footing in the town of Lincoln, the locals didn't take a liking to it. And since they had been told of the reasons for this, they knew who to blame.

On September eleventh, eighteen eighty-one. At the age of Seventy-three; Henry Wiles was found swinging from a tree just South of Lawrence Street. He was in a wooded area that was close enough he could see his home as he died. It came to no one's surprise when the murder was never solved. But most thought it did answer the question as to why white people weren't slaves.

This left his wife Milly; who suddenly packed up her things and moved back to Georgia where the children resided, leaving the home vacant. It remained vacant until Nineteen fifty-six when it was sold to the town of Lincoln for one hundred and fifty dollars. It was refurbished and turned into a retirement home.

Deputy Doug now stood outside the home. He read the historical plaque that hung by the road that told of the story. This wasn't the first time he read it, far from it. But to this day, it still boiled his blood.

So he looked up, at the balconies that flaunted the Southern style. It was shoved in his face. An eyesore and he swore he would torch the place to the ground if he could. One match and that old hardwood would burn so hot, even with no tongue, it would scream out for mercy. And there would be none, he thought. No way to save it... Ole Lord—it would feel so good to finish what those so long ago had started. Be rid of Ole Henry Wiles legacy. His poison. But then, to do that, I'd have to burn down the entire North end of town.

He turned away and walked up the sidewalk, through the gate that led to the yard. Then up the wooden stairs and onto the lower porch. He went up to the screen door and knocked on it. "Hello," he said. "Deputy Doug here to see Ms. Glenda Gant!"

Glenda, she was working in the kitchen preparing a crock pot full of pot roast, carrots, and potatoes, which she was going to serve for supper. Upon hearing the knock, she took the towel which was draped over her shoulder and wiped her hands as she walked.

She went down the hall, past the staircase. She pushed Mr. Stallman (who was sitting in his wheelchair) into the living room and out of the way. Then she went to the entrance where she could see the Deputy standing. She opened the screen door and smiled. "Deputy Doug, what brings you by?"

Doug reached into his back pocket and pulled out the petition that was now signed, sealed, and ready to be served.

Deputy Doug cleared his throat and then said: "By the authority of Mayor Stanley Duncan, acting as the Judge for the town of Lincoln, in the country of Lagrange, in the Great State of Indiana. From here henceforth, requires you to cease and desist the serving of food, or the gathering of store bought products by one Gary Crowe." He then handed Glenda the paper which made his words official.

Glenda didn't know what to say. She stood there looking at Deputy Doug, then slowly, she looked down at the paper he held in his hand. "I don't understand," she mumbled. "What is this?"

"It's a court order resulting from a petition signed by the families of your residences. It states that they don't want their loved ones eating Gary's food. Nor do they want him purchasing alcohol products or tobacco products."

"I don't understand they have so little...? And their family signed it?"

"Yes!" now he was waving it in her face, so she took it. "Good day, Ms. Gant!" Deputy Doug said as he walked away.

In town, Leon Noone and Gary Crowe were in the 'Pig's and Chicken's' grocery store, cutting room. They were making sausages with Leon grinding the meat and adding the seasoning, while Gary stuffed the product into the casings.

"Momma was real upset last night," Gary said.

"'About what?"

"Ya know, what we done. She said I looked like I was headin' for a horror movie."

Leon put his finger up to his lips, silently telling Gary not to speak of it.

Gary took the hint. "Ya ever get scared when watching them ghost movies?" he asked.

"No," Leon said. "Don't believe in ghosts."

"What makes ya so sure there ain't none?"

"'Cause if the dead could come back, we wouldn't have to worry about no humans... No sir, we'd be looking at a bunch a damn pigs!"

"Pigs?" Gary chuckled.

"That's right. You see, the way I hear it, those doctor folk are trying to put pig's hearts inside a humans... Ain't that something? I mean can ya imagine it? Poor damn pigs gonna donate his heart, and instead of giving the swine a proper burial, they're gonna call out for a damn pig roast...! No sir, don't get much worse than that. I wouldn't be surprised if the pig-hearted man isn't the first in the food line to pull meat off his donor! So until I see red-eyed, dead swine's walking them streets, I'm gonna hold onto my beliefs!" Leon chortled. "I made a rhyme," he said.

Gary thought for a moment. "You sure have a good point."

Out at the register, Gladys Tanner stood and watched Leon and Gary through the glass. She could see them laughing and talking, and it bothered her. They had no reason to cackle, neither of them. One was a sore on the skin of the town; the other was responsible for bringing it down. Take your pick which was which. Neither was welcomed, and she thought the people of Lincoln had made that clear.

But they remained. They took jobs from the locals, and so now either you were a farmer or a coon! There were no other jobs for the white folk. The blacks had taken over the cities

maintenance positions. They did the road work, plowed in the winter. They hung the holiday decorations. They washed the dishes, they handed out license plates, and they cut the meat. And not long ago, one took over the tobacco counter. The son's 'a' bitches were all around her. And it was only a matter of time before old Marty the manager would hire one to take her spot.

Oh yeah, she had worked a long time and had received raises throughout that time. Now, she was making double what that little bitch at the tobacco counter made.

Why would Marty keep me? She wondered. I mean, it's not like the old days when the cashier had to look at groceries, find the price, then punch it in on the number pad. That took skill. Hand, eye coordination. What did this take? Anyone could do it, a fucking monkey could do it! She looked back at the glass at Leon and Gary. Then over to the tobacco counter where the new girl worked.

This ate at her, like an ulcer. It burned deep, and she would do anything to stop it. To make this town the way it was. Before the roaches were released from the shopping bags. Before the trains slowed at the city limits. Before her husband slept with whores. Before she got old.

She wasn't sure when it happened. That moment when her life stalled its uphill climb and began the decent. But she was sure that although the climb was slow, the decline was moving right along and seemed to be picking up speed. In the last twenty years, her body went from model to muffin. The cigarettes that once made her cool had left her face leathered, and took her teeth. She constantly coughed, forcing air through flem that although moved back and forth in her throat, never seemed to disappear. In short, she had become her mother, and as a young woman, she was ashamed of her mother.

The sliding glass doors opening caught her attention. She looked to see Deputy Doug Scooner walk in. The handsome, unmarried stud that lived on the edge. God, she wanted him, and she made her mind slow his motion down. Slower, slower, until she could see his hips bounce back and forth, raising that pistol ever so slightly off his leg. That right hand of his resting on it. While the left reached up, and ever so slowly, pulled off that Stetson. His perfectly groomed, sand colored hair, bounced into position as though the air that blew through it was a comb.

She reached up and touched the bun which was wrapped tightly on the top of her head.

Then there were the sounds of his shoe rubber which squealed as it gripped the polished, linoleum floor. The resonance of leather called out, and why wouldn't it? The belt, the gun holster, the pepper spray sheath. His entire attire was that of a warrior. A modern day knight. His life, always one bullet from ending, and that bullet could hit him at any time. Anywhere... He walked up to her and came to a stop.

"Hello Deputy," she said, her voice crackling, her nerves tingling. She could feel the blush on her checks. Some color, not all bad, she thought.

"'Morning Gladys," he said but he was looking past her, he nodded his head in the direction of the cutting room. "What's that all about?" He asked.

Gladys looked, acting as innocent as a library book stealer. "You mean Gary?"

"Yeah, what the hell's he doing back there?"

"Marty's lets him help. Say's he works cheap."

"Bull shit! I don't want that retard touching my food!"

"Well. Between you and me; you're not the only one who's complained," She whispered. "But Marty won't do anything about it."

"How long's this been going on?"

Gladys shrugged her shoulders. "Since forever. But most times, Gary doesn't hang around. Only when it's contest time. Which I think is wrong on account of it's cheating."

Deputy Doug, with his right hand still resting on the butt of his gun. Allowed his index finger to tap on it. Gladys saw this. It was the twitching trigger finger she had heard about in movies. Deputy Doug had it, and he never looked so sexy. Clint Eastwood was who came to her mind. Ready to draw, only waiting for someone to shoot.

His eyes, Gladys concentrated on his eyes; they were dark and angry. The eyes of a raven. He bit his lower lip. Gladys had no doubt that should the time come, the Deputy would draw that Glock nine millimeter with the speed of a rattlesnake strike. Shooting without aiming. Straight from the hip. The first bullet blowing out the glass; the second and third, eliminating the unwanted. Sending them straight to hell where they came from. No doubt, making his day!

But Deputy Doug didn't do that. Instead, he marched straight to the manager's office where he insisted on speaking to Marty Robinett, the boss.

Back behind the glass, in the cutting room, Leon and Gary hadn't a clue that Deputy Doug was around. They were working away, daydreaming of days to come. When Leon came out and said: "Been thinking about leaving." He handed a pan full of ground meat to Gary.

"Leavin'? where would ya go?"

"Been thinking about what Gladys said. You know about how I'm not wanted here... Out West, with the Indian's. They treated me real good. Like one of their own. That's a good feeling Gary. So I'm gonna take the Westbound, Fifty-three train out to South Fork. It's in Nevada. I felt like I was home there..."

"What's it like out there? Ya know, in that nervona?"

Leon smiled. "It's Nevada. But it's real nice, Gary. Desert-like, but with hills. Kind of reminds me of the land where the roadrunner ran from the coyote."

Gary chuckled. "I like that cartoon. Beep, beep!" Gary was silent for a moment, then he said: "I'm sure gonna miss ya Leon."

"I'll miss you too, Gary. But I was thinking; maybe you could come along. You know just for awhile. That train runs back and forth so you could go home whenever you wanted."

"Ya really think I could?"

"Don't see why not. I mean, you're old enough to drink whiskey, so you're old enough to leave home. At least that's the way I see it."

They were interrupted by the glass swing doors opening. Leon and Gary looked up to see Marty-the-manager standing there. "Gary," he said. "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave the cutting room!"

"How's come?" Gary asked.

"Deputy-Dog says that if you don't, he's going to have the health inspector start making more unannounced inspections. You have no idea of the pain in my ass that jerk is!"

"But how am I gonna cut up the meat for the contest?"

"Do it after closing hours when no one's around. Old Leon won't mind staying and helping... Would you Leon?"

"No boss man. Wouldn't mind at all."

"See, problem solved. Now if you don't mind. Gary, you need to exit the room. Deputy Dog is watching."

Gary took off his apron, his hat, and his latex gloves. He walked past Marty who held the door for him.

"Sorry Gary," Marty said, and he meant it. The truth was, he wished he could hire the man. Pay him something. Hell, he could take over for Leon should that day come. But although the locals would allow black people to serve them, they drew the line at mentally challenged

people. The fear of them cutting themselves and bleeding into the meat scared the hell out of them.

"Like that don't happen anyway," he mumbled as he let go of the swing door and walked away.

Gary walked down the aisle towards the cash registers. Towards Gladys who was watching him, and there was a smirk on her face. Normally, Gary would allow this, he was used to it. But on this occasion, her words about his momma ran through his head like a tape on a loop: get rid of that whore mother. Get rid of that whore mother. Get rid of that whore mother!

He stopped when he was close and looked at her. He said nothing, only looked. At first, Gladys kept her self-righteous smile. Her 'what are you gonna do retard!' look. But Gary didn't move on or change his gaze. And this gaze wasn't one of anger, nor was it joy. It was the look of nothing at all. A look of no expression or emotions. The look of a manikin and it wasn't long; Gladys began to lose that smile. Then her confidence began to fade.

Those beady eyes of his were too close together. And there was something strange about them. Something unreal; and that hair, that tightly curled, shoulders length dark hair. Where had she seen it before? In a movie? Yeah, one with a doll that came to life. An evil doll. And that stare, it was burning through her skull and into her brain. She began to sweat, beads of moisture appeared on her brow. Under her nose. She wiped them away, but Gary didn't move. He just stood there until Marty came walking up and asked what was going on?

"He's freaking me out!" Gladys shouted. "That's what's going on!"

Gary looked at Marty. "I need to pick up a pack of smokes for Momma. I was just tryin' to remember what kind she wanted. And Miss. Tanner started actin' all weird."

Marty's hands started shaking. He was having a hard day. "What the hell's the matter with you, Gladys!" He grunted. "We have one customer in the whole damn store, and you want to run him off without making a sell!"

"I-I-You'd had to see him, Marty. He was looking at me in a strange way."

"The boy's not normal genius! He doesn't look at anyone any other way! Now get him a pack of Salem lights—hard pack! On the house—that means, out of your pay...! GOD DAMN!" he shouted as he stomped away.

Gladys said nothing; she left the register and went to the tobacco area where the young black woman was holding out the cigarettes.

This black bitch is getting a lot of pleasure out of this, Gladys thought as she snatched the pack out of the woman's hand. "Big shock!" she mumbled through gritted teeth. "The boss knows what kind of cigarettes his whore smokes!"

But the black woman wasn't getting pleasure from this; she leaned over the counter and whispered: "You best watch what you say to that boy. I saw the way he looked at you. Something's wrong with him. Something you'd be wise to fear..."

"I'm not scared of him."

"Sure didn't look that way a moment ago."

"Mind your business!" Gladys snapped as she walked back and handed the pack to Gary. "Here," she said. "Now go on before I call Deputy Doug. You won't get no sympathy from him."

Gary took the pack. "Thanks, Miss. Tanner," He said and left the store.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Glenda Gant took a break from cooking and tending to the residence of the Lawrence Avenue Old Folks Home. She walked over to the kitchen table where she picked up the petition that Deputy Doug had given her. She unfolded it and read it. She then crumpled it up and threw in the trash.

Worried, she put her head into her hands and rubbed her forehead in an attempt to relieve a throbbing headache she now had.

Things weren't well at the home... The State had cut back on the funding that helped with supplies. The families of the residences refused to pay more to make up the shortage. And now it was only her and an old man named Elmer who remained on staff.

So there would be no more cook outs. No more simple things that would make life easier for the dying. And that's what they were. They were forgotten and as good as dead with their only value being the social security checks, and the pension checks that come in each month... But those in the home don't see those checks. The people who held the 'power of attorney' papers now receive them. And they cashed them and distribute the funds as they see fit.

So even though they care little for those in the home, they do want them alive since their deaths would bring an end to the monthly income that they have grown accustomed to spending. And they didn't take it at first, but as time passed, they found some way to justify their claim.

So since they could, they did. Just like the wealthy take from the poor. Human's are human's, and we're all guilty in one way or other.

And Glenda Gant knew all this. She was a very intelligent black woman. One who could have been so much more if it hadn't been for her father settling in the small town of Lincoln. If he hadn't sold his farm in Western Indiana to Chicago Developers, and if the land hadn't been so cheap a little farther East in Lagrange county. Things may have been different. She could have stayed in public school where she would have continued to obtain a grade point average that would have secured her a college scholarship. Instead, she was home schooled because her mother was black, and she was black enough, and in the town of Lincoln, they didn't take to black people. So her and her mother hid around the farm. Isolated until one March day after a long winter. Glenda found her hanging in the barn. Sort of like ole Henry Wiles, the Plantation owner found swinging from a tree not that far away.

She can still see her, Glenda can. But not the beautiful woman who gave her life, but rather the bulged eyed off colored corpse that swayed in the wind on a rope that was tied around her neck. And her father, who swore she was murdered, could never admit that she took her own life, because to do so, would be to admit that moving to Lincoln was a mistake.

"God help me," she whispered as she lifted her head from her hands. She wiped the tears from her eyes and noticed her hands were shaking. Then there was a knock on the screen door.

"Ms Gant, it's me, Gary! Can I come in?"

Glenda wiped her eyes with a dish towel and then went to the door. "Hello Gary," she said as she opened the door. "Please, enter."

Gary did, then he looked at Glenda and he could tell she was upset. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Gary, there's no easy way to put this so I'm going to just come out and say it... You can't cook for us any longer, and you can't run errands for the people here. The Deputy will be watching and if he catch's you, he'll arrest you... Do you understand?"

Gary thought for a moment. "Suppose, but why?"

"Because their families don't like it."

"They don't?"

"Guess not."

"Why?"

"I don't know, but it doesn't matter. What does matter is that you avoid this place for awhile."

"So, they won't be comin' to eat some barbecue?"

"That all depends on whether or not their families will take them, Gary. My guess would be no."

"But I was gonna buy some pork from Mr. Manny. Ya know the pig farmer. Was gonna cook it just for them. The way they like it. They coulda took it home with 'em."

"That's real nice of you Gary. But look at it this way. This will save you some money."

"What about you? Are you gonna come?"

"Gary—you know I'm not welcomed. The only way I'd come is if I was pushing one of the white folk."

Gary was silent for awhile. Glenda could see his eyes begin to water, and it shattered her heart. "Well," he said as he wiped his nose with his arm. "Suppose I'll leave ya be then."

He turned and walked back out the door. Glenda watched as he got on his bike and rode away. She hadn't noticed it, but tears were also building in her eyes, and she knew it would get worse. She walked out onto the porch where she took a seat on a rocking chair. She wept. She had hurt Gary, and the people she tended to would suffer for it. Why? She wondered. But nothing that made sense came to mind. Nothing but hatred, Greed, and a way of life that had moved on Fifty-five years ago.

Emma Nesmith, an elderly woman, who was also on the porch sitting in her wheelchair. Rolled over to where Glenda sat. She reached out and put her hand on her knee and patted it gently. Glenda, who had her hands over her eyes, pulled them away and looked at Emma.

"Now, now," Emma said. "Don't you fret, dear."

"But things aren't looking good, Ms. Emma. What are we gonna do? I've let you all down. We're running out of food, we can't use the air conditioner. We'll have no heat this winter. And it just keeps getting worse! I fear we're going to be shut down and I haven't a clue where you'll go?"

"You've not let us down," Emma said "You have to remember that we were the same as them at one time. Hell, we're the ones who taught them to be the way they are; so we have no one to blame but ourselves..." She looked out across the horizon, then softly said: "whatever comes, we have coming. I truly believe that."

Glenda pulled a handkerchief from her apron pocket and wiped her eyes. "But why?" She asked. "Why would anyone want it like this?"

"It's the only way they know. They believe the world around them has lost its way. That they have held onto something of great value. And they will protect it. Just like we did... But there will come a day when they'll fall prey to their beliefs. And they'll find themselves ousted. Living in an old slave owner's home. Alone. With the only friends left being the ones they not long ago hated...

"Of course, by then it will be too late to change anything." Emma looked at Glenda. Her eyes were tired, and her face showed the years she had invested on this Earth. "You should leave this place," she said as she pulled the shawl a little tighter around her.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thursday morning, Farmer Mel chose the Ford F-250, four-wheel-drive diesel pickup truck to haul the grill into town. A bit large for the job, but a wise choice all the same. Farmer Mel had purchased the vehicle new in 2003. That was fourteen years ago, and the truck still ran like a steed in a derby.

He pulled up a little farther than Gary's drive, he then backed the truck in, past the house and next to the garage where the trailer was waiting. Farmer Mel was good at hitching. He slowed when he was close then stopped when he heard the thump sound of the ball hitting the hitch. He got out of the truck and went back to take a look. Spot on, he thought so he lowered the trailer and secured it to the vehicle.

Once he was done, he went to the front door which was open leaving only the screen door. He knocked. Three times, no more. The door was simple by design, made from one-inch, by, four-inch wood slats, with the screen held in place by wood strips. There was a foot long spring that ran from the door to the door's jamb that worked as an automatic door closure. So when he knocked, the door bounced making a sound that's heard more down South than up North. The sound of poverty, some would say. Of making do with what one has. But for Farmer Mel, it was the sound of his youth.

He spent his summers at his grandparent's home, up in the hills of Kentucky. Mountain folk or hillbillies, or hill rats. There were all kinds of names for them. But what Farmer Mel knew them as: were survivors.

It was his grandfather who would brand him with the name "Farmer Mel." Because he would be handed down the farm upon the death of his father. It was a curse, his grandfather had said. One that had taken his daughter from the hills, and wouldn't allow his grandson to settle in them.

Mel grew to love these simple people. He learned how to live off the land, or off the grid. To not have to rely on anyone for anything. To not accept the spoils of what money can buy, because to do so, means you're up for sale and have been purchased. And Mel knew this all too well. The farm was a mistress, a temptress that needed more, always more. More equipment, more tractors, combines, trailers, and seed. And there were no guarantees of success; because no one can control the weather. No one but God. So they prayed for his mercy.

But the banker's didn't pray. They needn't waste God's time; because success or failure mattered little. That mistress needed cash, and they held it out with confident hands. Steady hands... So eager to help. "But we will need collateral," they said with a smile. "So what do you have of worth? Well, your land of course. Those thousands and thousands of acres. That'll do. So you just sign right here and here, and we'll be waiting for that first payment ... Don't you be late now—ya hear!"

And hovering just out of sight were the leaches, the blood suckers who already have plans drawn up. Plans that have your farm sectioned off into small squares where house on top of house will be placed on the land you're foolish enough to believe you still own.

"No... There's a grand plan," his Grandfather had said. "A contest that's similar to chess, and even though we're not schooled in the rules of the game; we play all the same. So to lose, shouldn't come as a surprise. Yet, for most, it does."

So here Farmer Mel stood; waiting patiently as Tammy made her way to the door. Seeing her, he stopped thinking about his vulnerability and concentrated on how lovely she looked. And she was stunning with her long hair curling ever-so-slightly. Just washed, he could smell the shampoo, and her hair was still damp. She wore no makeup, none was needed, or at least Mel didn't believe so. She smiled as she reached for the door. Her full lips parted to show perfect teeth. The long, loose gown she wore only showed her bare feet. She looked elegant, or mother-meeting-material, which he hadn't seen often.

"High Mel," she said. "I'm glad you came by. I wanted to apologize for being so mean the other day."

Mel smiled as he stepped inside the home. "No worries," he said.

"Come on in, have some coffee. I just brewed some."

They went to the kitchen table where Mel took his usual seat. "I heard you spent some time with the Sheriff," Mel said trying to keep his voice steady.

Tammy acted like she didn't hear him at first. She poured two cups of coffee, handing him one while taking the other. She then took her seat across from him. She took a sip, blowing away the steam first. Then she looked up at him and said: "Why would you ask something like that?"

"'Cause I don't think It's right."

"Mel, you've known me since we were kids. You know what I am, how I make a living. Why would you suddenly have a problem with it?"

"I have feelings for you."

Tammy smiled and took another sip. "That's sweet," she said.

"I kind of think I always did. But you were too good for me... I mean—you had much better suitors than me. I mean—you're still too good for me... SHIT!"

"Are you talking about Terry; Gary's father? He was a real piece of work."

"But he was a popular fella. Everyone said you two were a perfect fit. You even got married."

"Yeah, and look how that turned out. I had our first child, and he disappears. It's been over twenty years since he left. Just like that. No goodbyes, no Christmas presents, no support of any kind. Just gone." She snapped her finger. "Poof! Even took the damn car ... Yeah, we were a match made in Heaven all right."

"Maybe he's dead?"

Tammy chortled. "Dead? Like I could be that lucky! No, my guess is he found some rich-bitch and is on a lawn-chair, tanning out beside some mansion's pool about now." She stopped and calmed down. Then she looked at Mel and said: "I remember the way he looked at Gary. He couldn't accept it, and in some crazy way, I don't blame him for leaving. I mean... I would have if I could."

"Tammy," Mel said as he reached over and took her hand. "Maybe it's time you let all that go."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean Gary's grown up. You don't have to spend every waking moment tending to him anymore. You could come live with me and give him this home. You'll be next door. He's always over at my place anyhow and that wouldn't change. You could give him some freedom while you some peace."

"I don't think I could do that. I mean, for some reason its sounds impossible."

"But you can, Tammy. I want you to marry me," Mel said, and Tammy broke down.

Just then the screen door opened and Gary walked in. He stopped when he saw his mother was crying. "What's goin' on?" he asked.

"Gary," Mel said. "I just asked your mother to marry me."

Gary waged his head in confusion: "Does that mean ya can't take the grill into town?"

Farmer Mel forced a smile and then looked at Tammy. The sight was disheartening because she wasn't crying tears of joy, but rather tears of desperation. She was thinking about her answer, but not because she held feelings for Mel, but because she feared this would be the last time the question would be asked.

Farmer Mel stood up. "Come on Gary," he said. "Let's take that grill into town."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sheriff Barry Kunz sat in his office chair with his feet up and resting on his desk. In his hands was the Fort Wayne Tribune, which although the city of Fort Wayne wasn't real close to Lincoln, it was closer than the other cities. And it had a paper with a cartoon section along with world news, which seemed to be rare around the town of Lincoln.

The area had no television stations, nor was their cable. There could be satellite, but no one came around offering it, so no one had it. There was no wifi. No cell phones reception, there was no internet. There was nothing that would make one believe they were living in the twenty-first century.

But there was the Fort Wayne Tribune which was sold down at the drug store. Only brought in once a week. All seven copies. And old news sold cheap, the entire week went for a buck-fifty. Sheriff Kunz held last Tuesday's copy up high, so it covered his face.

Deputy Doug Scooner sat at his desk and watched in disgust. He really wished the fat man would take those feet off the desk. Have some respect. At least act like he was working, after all, he was being paid and seldom did a damn thing to earn his check.

He wanted to say something. Tell the Sheriff that he was a pig. An out of shape leech that did nothing short of draw blood from his host. The taxpayers. And Deputy Doug was one of those taxpayers. And there was nothing he wanted more than to see the Sheriff chase a criminal down the sidewalks of Lincoln. Let the people see the old man wheeze, gasp for breath, and fall to his knees. Give up, while the bad-guy disappears forever.

Wouldn't that be nice, he thought.

But he said nothing because beyond his negative opinions, Deputy Doug Scooner, feared the fat-man... He was all the things above, but what was left out, was the Sheriff was tough as hell. With thick skin, and a stomach made of iron. He could use his bare hands to scoop up road kill, where he would take it home for burial.

Not long ago, they received a call from Kathy Roberts who owns the Coffee Pot Diner in town. It seemed ole man Howser hadn't been in to eat his breakfast for the past four days, and that wasn't like ole man Howser.

Kathy said that Howser, who was a farmer, a loner, and unfriendly; was a lot of things, but late for breakfast wasn't one of them. So Deputy Doug and the Sheriff took a ride out to his farm. When they arrived, they saw the barn door was open. They also noticed the warm summer breeze carried some funk with it. A smell the Sheriff knew all too well, but one foreign to Deputy Doug.

They went to the barn but found nothing. Then they followed the breeze into the corn which was chest high for Doug. They found ole man Howser lying there, dead, bloated and partly eaten. Laying close by was a twelve gauge double-barrel shotgun.

The smell was so bad, and the sight, so gruesome, Doug began vomiting upon his first glance. He turned and walked upwind past the source of the smell. He fell to his knees and held his stomach. Now, there was little left, so he began to heave bile, then nothing. This went on until he swore the liner of his stomach was now in his mouth. Until the pain was so great, it surpassed the sight and smell of the image that remained not far away.

But he could hear Sheriff Kunz behind him. Talking away like there was no smell. Like ole man, Howser was just fine. Clean and proper. "It looks like something drew him into the field," he said speaking into a recorder. "Maybe a deer? A corn eater. But something happened. Would guess heart failure. But hard to tell. Hell, it's hard to believe this is even a man I'm looking at. But with the smell and bloating, and the fact he missed four breakfasts at the diner: I would say he's been dead for four days. Maybe five.

"Something's been nibbling at him. Most likely a coyote. But whatever it was, the meat wasn't to its liking. Nothing new, only a pig will eat human meat. The others will take a taste... Eat enough to kill the hunger pangs I suppose."

Then, the Sheriff helped the Mortician: Reverend James P. Townsend, remove the body. Deputy Doug could smell the stink on the man for a week. But Kunz didn't seem to mind at all. In fact, he got a kick out of it. Said Ole Haggin's pigs were jealous. Thought they missed out on a meal.

Add to that the fact that Sheriff Kunz was still as strong as a bull, and could smash Deputy Doug like a gnat. And you have a situation where you can think all you want. But don't tease the bull that focuses on the Matador, instead of the cape he holds!

So Doug watched the fat man read his paper. And he wondered why God hadn't removed this heathen from his flock. I mean, Kunz did it all. He drank, he smoked, he beds down with whores. He was destined for hell and cared little to change that. Claiming he was a Catholic, that he would ask for forgiveness right before death. That he would see Doug in heaven. Stride alongside him in the promised paradise. And this ate at Doug, who had given his life to Christ. Just the thought of such a thing was nothing short of blasphemy!

The whole point of heaven is, so I don't have to be with people like him, he thought. No Jews, no blacks, no queers and no porkers in my heaven. That's been promised. The good book is clear on that. So good luck fat-man. Your gluttony alone will be enough to send you away!

Then, as though the Sheriff could hear what Doug was thinking, he dropped down the paper and looked over at him: "You mind running down and grabbing me a bag of chips and a soda?"

Frustrated, Deputy Doug stood. "I was getting ready to leave." He said.

"Good. And get me the family size bag. Vinegar and Salt. Make the soda a Coke. A large fountain Coke. Not much ice!"

"I wasn't planning on coming right back."

"Bring me the receipt; I'll pay you out of the petty cash fund."

Doug shook his head and went to the door. As he opened it, he saw the Mayor: Stanley Duncan walking his way. He stood and held the door open for him.

"Afternoon Deputy," Mayor Duncan said as he squeezed past.

"Mayor," Doug replied and went on his way.

"Ya mind closing that door Mayor," Sheriff Kunz said. "The air's on."

Duncan closed the door then walked in and took a seat on the chair that was in front of the Sheriff's desk.

"So," Sheriff Kunz asked. "What's going on?"

"Just got done speaking to your wife, Barry."

"Uh oh, don't like the sound of that."

"She says your cholesterol is out the roof. Three-forty. Something like that."

"Is that bad?"

"She also said you're blood pressure is high, and you're on a diet. Seems she's afraid that being a Judge at this year's barbecue contest could be some sort of 'conflict of interest.'"

"Since when do you have a problem with conflict of interest?"

Duncan laughed. "I didn't say 'I' had a problem with it. I mean, as you can see—it's not like I have trouble eating a morsel or more than I should."

The Sheriff pulled his feet off the desk and sat straight in his chair. "You look fine to me," He said. "But enough with the flirting... What is it you want to say?"

"That the judges for this year's cooking contest are going to be Reverend Townsen—"

"__aah come on—"

"—Deputy Doug—"

"—no way—"

"—and me!"

"Bull shit, Duncan! You can't do that. I've been judging that contest for the past six years! I look forward to it!"

"I know Barry, but it's out of my hands."

"My wife can't tell me what to do. Besides, you can't use Deputy-Dog, the man's prejudice as hell, not to mention he hates our reigning champ, Gary!"

"To my knowledge, there's no black people signed up for the contest. And it's time for the champ to step aside and allow someone else to receive the coveted blue ribbon award. My God Barry, people are starting to talk. They're saying the contest is rigged.

"Now I'm not saying you can't go around and partake of the food. It's just that being a judge means trying each dish multiple times; and by the end of the day. Well... A man ends up with a belly full of meat. Nothing else, just meat. And lean meats don't taste good, so don't be counting on that. Point being: I can see where you're better half would be concerned."

"Did Deputy-Dog have something to do with this?"

Duncan raised his right hand in the air. "Swear to the all mighty; not a thing."

"Shit... Well, suppose that's that then. Been a good run." Kunz pulled a cigarette from his pack and lit one. He took a long draw.

"You have an extra one of those?" Mayor Duncan asked.

Kunz shook one out of the pack and tossed it to the Mayor. He lit it then raised his head as he inhaled the smoke. He then blew it out. "Man that taste good," he said. "First one all day."

"Yeah? You trying to quit or something?"

"Well, as it turns out, we're not supposed to be smoking in any public buildings. Some new law."

"Really?"

"Yeah, just heard it myself. It turns out the smoke bothers some people."

"Bother people? Really?"

"That's what I was told. I guess someone came through town and ate over at the Coffee Pot Diner. You know how everyone smokes in there."

"Yeah, so what."

"Well, this stranger took offense. Didn't say a thing to Kathy, or anyone else for that matter. But they damn sure called the Governor's office. In turn, they called me. Told me I was to make sure there was no smoking in the diner or any other public place for that matter."

"They can't do that. That business belongs to Kathy Roberts. She can do as she pleases."

"I'm afraid they can, and it's going to be up to you and Deputy Doug to make sure it happens."

"Right. And just how are we supposed to do that? Walk around with Spritzer bottles and spray the bastards?"

Duncan laughed. "I wouldn't worry too much about it. Just hang some signs and such. Make it look like we're trying. But don't spend a lot of money because I don't see this ban lasting too awful long." He stood up and headed for the door. He reached out and took hold of the knob. He turned to see the cigarette was back in Kunz's mouth. "No smoking in any public owned buildings Barry. You need to take it outside. I don't want to have to reprimand you."

Kunz laughed: "You just screwed me out of being a barbecue judge, Duncan. What more do you think you can do?"

The Mayor, cigarette hanging from his bottom lip, waved goodbye and then walked out the door. Kunz watched out the window as the Mayor waddled away. He could see him pass Deputy Doug who was on his way back with the chips and soda. The Mayor looked at the junk food, then turned to look back Kunz's way. He laughed and went on.

"I could kick his ass!" Kunz said as he took the chips and soda. He had already forgotten about the smoking ban.

"Kick whose ass?" Deputy Doug asked.

"The fucking Mayor! Did you know I wasn't going to be a judge?"

"Yeah, they told me when they asked me to do it."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"I don't know. Suppose I knew you'd be upset."

Kunz opened the bag of chips and took out a handful. He stuffed them in his mouth and thought as he chewed. Once they were gone, he looked over to where Doug was sitting back at his desk. "What's this all about?" he asked.

"What?"

"Duncan say's Gary's not going to win on account of some are saying the contest is rigged."

"I heard that."

"What do you think? You think I would vote for Gary just because he's mentally challenged?"

"He's retarded. Let's call it what it is. And no; but I do think you would vote for him because you're sleeping with his Mother."

"She's a prostitute, she sleeps for cash. Her son winning or losing isn't going to change that."

"You asked... So..."

Everything was quiet for a few moments, then: "Damn," Kunz said as he calmed down. "Suppose you may have a point. I mean, now that I think about it. But that boy can damn sure cook, you can't deny that."

"He's all right... I suppose... If you like to eat hogs feet."

Not far from the Sheriff's station, and certainly within view; Gary stood by his grill which was parked just off to the right side of the courthouse. Other contestants were coming in. Most were people he knew from previous contests.

There was Kenny Larson, who was runner-up one year. Kenny was one of the few who purchased his meat straight from the 'Pig's 'n' Chicken's' store. He relied on Leon's advice, and his food was good. But not good enough.

Then there was Mark Jacobi; he owned a livestock farm. So he could raise a Black Angus cow. Pamper it like it was a race horse. Feed it grain oats and honey long before it was slaughtered. He had total control throughout the entire process, from birth to the plate. And that worried Gary. Two of the last three years, Mark was runner-up.

There was also Pig Farmer Manny Haggins. Another with total control of his offering. But Pork was frowned on because pigs stink. So although Manny was constantly in the top five, he had yet to win. But this year he could turn that around. Gary would keep his eye on him.

Then there were others who were one time contestants. Most wanted to see if they had something. But when they found they didn't, they would bow out of future events. Return to eating instead of cooking. And everyone ate on this day, they ate well. And they loved Gary's food. There would be no left over's. Gary knew this, so he had made arrangements with Pig Farmer Manny Haggin's to bring him some pork for the people at the old folk's home and his friends. They wouldn't get any of the main dishes. That was reserved for the judges and others who hadn't a stake in the outcome. Leon had made it clear that those he knew and fed on a regular basis would always cheer for him. That was a given. The trick was to draw those people in who had no reason to cheer but did anyhow. "That's when you're doing something!" Leon had said.

But there would be no need for the pork because none of Gary's cheerleaders would be at this gathering. So Gary, seeing Pig Farmer Manny Haggins setting up his grill, walked over to share the news.

"Howdy there Gary," Manny said. He saw him approaching.

"High, Mr. Manning. I come ta tell ya that I won't be needin, the pork."

"No? Why not?"

" 'cause Momma ain't comin', Leon and Glenda aren't invited, and none of the old folks are allowed to eat my cookin' no more."

"Is that a fact? Why can't the old folk's eat barbecue?"

"Not sure. But just thought I should tell ya."

"Well, Gary. Now I went on and thawed out that pork. It's gonna have to be cooked. And we did make a deal... 'Swine for shoveling,' remember? You were gonna pay for it by working in the hog pens."

"Yes sir, and I'll work just like I said. Just don't need the pork is all."

Manny, seeing there was a good chance he could keep the pork and take the labor; changed the subject before Gary thought of asking for it. "Heard there's about ten of us this year," He said.

"For real?"

"Yep. But I wouldn't be too worried about 'em. I think It's gonna come down to me, you, or Mark. I spoke with Kenny earlier, and he said the store didn't have much to offer this year."

"Leon couldn't fix 'em up?"

"No, 'least that's what Kenny said. But he could be foolin'. Ya know, surprise us in the end."

"Hope not."

"What you cookin' this year?"

"I got me a Buck. So I'm gonna cook him up. Suppose that's my best chance."

"You gonna cook somethin' that's been frozen? That won't win nothin'!"

"It's not been frozen."

Manny smiled, showing his toothless gums. "Aaah, I see now. You been feedin' a deer ain't ya? Got all friendly with him. Fed him real good I'd bet. Then when it was time, and he was all fattened up with good food, you went on and gutted em...! Nice, not proper, but nice."

Gary, realizing he just told his competitor something that was supposed to be a secret, got spooked. He shut his mouth and wouldn't speak. Manny, he could see this and using his shoulder, he playfully nudged Gary. "Don't ya worry now. I won't tell a soul. That is unless ya win!" He chortled as he went back to work.

Gary took off running. He went to the Pig's 'n' Chicken's store. To the back and through the glass doors and into the cutting room where Leon was working. "Leon," he shouted in a tone barely above a whisper.

Leon turned. "What is it? You're not supposed to be back here!"

"I know, but somethin' happened. Somethin' bad." Gary was gasping for breath.

Leon grabbed Gary by the arm and led him out of the cutting room, through a back door that went outside. "What is it?" he asked.

"I told Pig Farmer Manny that I was serving a buck. He says he won't tell as long as I don't win... What am I gonna do Leon?"

Leon thought a moment. "Well, if you're smart, you'd say the hell with that contest and come with me out West!"

"But the contest?"

Leon could see Gary was upset. "Now take it easy," he said as he took hold of his shoulder. "We can handle the Pig Farmer. All we need to do is work out a deal with him."

"What kinda deal?"

"Well, since pigs aren't picky about what they eat..." He was thinking. "What if we offered the farmer some food for his sows?"

"What food?"

"I'm a Butcher, Gary. The store has plenty of left over's. I dump the remains into a large container. Ole Marty takes it and sells it to some dog food maker ... What if I was to set some aside for the Pig Farmer?"

"You think he would take it?"

"Hell ya, it'd be worth a lot more than a ribbon!"

Gary thought a moment, then smiled. "Thanks, Leon," he said. "Oh—and Momma may be gettin' married to Farmer Mel!"

"Is that right...? Hey; does that mean you'll head out West with me?"

Gary lost his smile. "So you done made up yer mind? Yer goin' then?"

"Sure have. Already told Marty I would work until Monday. That's when the next train comes through heading west."

"What he say?"

"Said he wanted two weeks' notice. Said that was proper."

"Did ya tell him ya had a train ta catch?"

"I asked how much time was given when he fired someone?"

"What he say?"

"None! So I told him, 'he should be happy. I was giving him a lot more than that.'"

"And?"

"He said he was gonna miss me, but he understood. Said this town wasn't kind to people like me. That's what he said."

Gary's mind went to wandering. Then he said: "You wanna cut up the meat tonight?"

"Be a good idea. That way you can start soaking it."

"Okay then. See ya around five."

Gary went home to find his Mother still sitting on the same chair she was on when Farmer Mel and he had left. That was three hours ago. She hadn't changed into clothes, hadn't put on shoes, hadn't done anything. But she did exchange her coffee cup for a glass of whiskey. The bottle sat on the side and it wasn't capped.

, "What is it, Momma?" Gary asked.

Tammy, already drunk, moved her eyes slowly. She looked at her son and tried to focus. She forced a smile and said: "Nothing. Just thinking about the future and just how shitty it will be."

"That's too bad. But anyway—Leon wants me ta go with him out West. Say's we can live with the injuns. What do you think Momma, can I go?"

Tammy dropped her head into her hands. "Sure, Gary. And since you're heading that way. Why don't you saddle up the nag and take the herd along with you. Kill two birds with one stone!"

Gary wagged his head. "I don't know ... What's a nag?"

"A horse."

"We have a horse?"

"No Gary."

"What about this turd?"

"A herd Gary... You know what? Never mind. Please, leave me alone!"

"Okay, well, tonight I'm gonna go and cut up the meat with Leon."

"Good, but be careful and stay away from Deputy Dog. He was by earlier, complaining that you've been cutting HIS meat... Whatever the hell that's supposed to mean."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Friday morning, Gary was feeding his grill with wood long before people began to arrive. He was happy with the layer of coals that now covered the bottom of his massive smoker. The smell was that of a campfire. And the amber glow looked to be from a million stars that burned in such a black sky.

This coal bed had been smoldering since the night prior, but there was still more needed ... Not to worry, Farmer Mel had loaded a bunch of wood in his truck and would be delivering it soon. Gary could wait, things were coming along nicely.

He and Leon had cut up the meat. Selecting only the best portions. The rest they threw into a large stainless steel container along with other carcass remnants. This was for Pig Farmer Manny who much to Gary's surprise, agreed to the terms of their deal. It turned out that food was worth more than the coveted blue ribbon.

Then the selected meat was trimmed of unwanted fat which there wasn't much. And now soaked in a special tenderizer made by Leon. Later, the meat would be removed and placed in another container which held the marinade. There it would remain cooled until it was time to be placed on the grill. Perfection or at least real close to it.

There were people all around now. Children practicing their plays on the stage. The contestants for the next Miss. Lincoln sat in chairs while the judges went over what was expected of them and what would transpire. The previous Miss. Lincoln sat idle and looked bored as hell. Gary couldn't take his eyes off from her. But then it was none other than Cindy Houser, the girlfriend he had lost not even a week ago.

She looked over to catch him staring at her, she quickly looked away. But the damage was done, and before she knew it, Gary stood right behind her.

"Leave me alone Gary!" she said sarcastically.

"Ya can't be sure it's me 'cause ya ain't took a look." He always seemed to get tongue tied when he talked to the beauty.

"I know it's you. I just saw you over there staring at me. So what do you want?"

"I wanted ta tell ya that I won't be around no more. I'm headin' out to live with the Injuns."

"Why would I care?"

"If you was ta ask real kindly, I might stick around and tend to ya."

"I don't want you around... Don't you get it!"

"I don't see yer new bow anywhere. What happen, he dump ya?"

"Jesus Gary. For the hundredth time: Clyde is my brother!"

"Well—Momma's gonna marry Farmer Mel!"

Frustrated, Cindy threw both hands in the air, then she stood up and stomped off. Gary watched as she shook her head and mumbled something to the ground. She was so pretty. All he wanted to do was make her happy, but he was convinced that she didn't want a serious relationship. At least not yet. So I'll go on and live with the Injuns, he thought, maybe once I'm gone, she'll see her loss. She may even come a lookin' fer me. That'd be nice. Just hope I haven't found me one a them squirrels 'fore then. He thought a moment. Funny they would name the women after a tree mouse.

"What you looking at. BOY!" he heard someone shout. He turned to see Deputy Doug standing not far off. He was leaning while standing, like John Wayne. His Stetson hat down low, resting just above his mirrored sunglasses... His right hand rested on his pistol, and Gary thought he looked tough. Couldn't take that from him. Deputy Doug always looked tough.

"Just talkin's all." Gary said.

"That pretty girl doesn't want anything to do with the likes of you! So leave her alone before I really give you a beating. You think that bruise Clyde gave you hurts. You ain't felt nothing yet!"

"Ya shouldn't be talkin' ta me like that, 'cause I'm gonna be leavin'."

"Really? Just for a laugh, where are you going?"

"Injun country where jerks like you ain't welcome."

Deputy Doug burst out laughing. "You?" he said. "You're going out to live with the Indians? Now I've heard it all..." He paused a moment while he thought of something to say: "Well then, with that being the case. You're right. I should be kinder to you. Oh...perhaps... I mean if it's not too much trouble; you could tell them gut-eating-savages, that there's plenty of land up in Canada. Or even better; down south of the Border. Ya know, Meheco. Tell them to take you with them."

"As long as ya stay nice, I'll tell 'em. But ya best watch it!"

Doug, frustrated spit out onto the ground. He looked at Gary who was confused as hell. "You're a waste!" he sneered. "What's the use in making fun of a retard? Not like you can understand a damn thing!"

"I understand just fine, Deputy Doug. For real. You want me ta tell the Injuns 'bout the land in Canada and Meheco. That there's plenty of it and ya want 'em ta take me with 'em. I remember just fine. So, as long as yer nice, I'll tell 'em just like ya asked."

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Down the road and within hearing distance; Glenda Gant looked out of the Lawrence Avenue Old Folk's Homes, screen door. She could hear them down at city hall. The children laughing and playing. The bands doing sound checks. The vendors setting up their concession trailers. The hobby enthusiasts standing up tables to showcase their wares. The sounds of metal fold up chairs being put into place. And then there was the smell of wood smoldering and seared meat. The smell of the grills, as they burned off the meals, they had previously cooked.

As she stood there, all she could think about was what Mrs. Emma had said to her. How she should leave, and she was beginning to see the old woman's point.

A car pulled up and came to a stop. A new Camero that belonged to a young man who went by the name: Samuel Duncan. Samuel had turned seventeen not long ago, and since he took the Lincoln high school football team to the State finals last season; his father (Mayor Stanley Duncan) bought him the new car as a gift. Glenda thought it was the prettiest ride she had ever seen. Candy apple red, waxed and looked as good as it ever did. The tires were gloss black. The windows tinted, and he had replaced the stock exhaust with something that sounded racier.

Samuel popped the trunk. He got out and walked back where he pulled out two bags of groceries. Items Glenda had ordered from the 'Pig's 'n' Chicken's' grocery store. She watched as he headed for the door.

He was a good looking boy. Strong, tall with dark, short hair. He took after his mother. He wore tight blue jeans and a white tee shirt. She could see his Green eyes as he walked up the steps. She opened the screen door, more than happy to allow the bull into the ring.

"Hello Ms. Gant," he said as he walked past her and into the home. She didn't have to show him the way to the kitchen. Being a delivery boy, he came by at least three times a week.

"Samuel," she said following him.

"Yes, Ms. Gant?"

"Are you going to the festival?"

"Sure. Ain't everyone?"

"No, not everyone. I'm not going."

Samuel put the bags down on the kitchen table. "Why not?"

"It doesn't matter. But what does, is that you come by before you go home."

"What?"

"Come on," she said, smiling. "You've been eyeing me up ever since you hit puberty. I've noticed you looking in my window at night. Sneaking a peek. So I'm offering you a chance to see a little more. That is if you're interested."

"Y-y-yeah, sure," he stammered.

"Then come by... say around eleven o'clock then?"

"I'll be here Ms. Gant, I mean Glenda... And thanks!" He bolted out the door before Glenda could change her mind.

Once in his car, he fired it up and drove off, when he was down the road; he started pumping his fist in a jubilant display of sheer anticipation. He wondered if he should have given her a kiss. Yeah, that would have been nice, he thought. As nice as it's going to be to hold those HUGE breasts of hers. I hope she lets me see her naked. That body she's always hiding under those loose dresses. She's hot. The forbidden fruit, she is. And I'm gonna run my hands through that long, curly hair of hers. And do all those things I always imagined I'd do!

Glenda, she went to the door and watched Samuel drive away. She was twenty-nine years old. A bit too old for the high school stud. She smiled at the thought of still being pretty enough to drive the young boy's insane. And he would be insane by the time he arrived. He had a full day to think about it. Plenty of time to allow his imagination to build this into one, monumental event. She feared his expectations would surpass anything she was capable of satisfying. But then realized that didn't matter at all.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Saturday morning, as the first ray of light beamed over the Eastern horizon, Gary stood at his grill like a sentry who stood guard for a King. He had just stoked up the fire with the last piece of wood he would need. Now, it was time to let her smoke and then, and when that smoke wasn't too thick. The cooking would begin.

He was the only one up at this hour. The other grills sat idle, some didn't even have their grill set up. Most likely going to use a cheap, portable grill, bought over there at Hilliard's hardware store. Sold every summer for $35.29, plus tax. They were made from thin metal, painted black, and would burn out before they were even seasoned. Good luck. Gary knew only a fool would show up with such garbage.

Beside him was a large, Igloo, 150-quart cooler loaded with ice and meat. The cooler, a $180.00 value was on loan from Farmer Mel. That cooler was full of meat and Gary was glad his grill was as large as it was. He was sure he would be feeding the entire town. Well—less the black folk, old folk, Farmer Mel, and his Mother. They wouldn't be coming to the festival, and although Gary knew the reason for the last three, he hadn't a clue why the black folk didn't show up. So he asked Leon.

"Gary," he said. "Us black folk done taught you all you know. It's like asking a black man to sunbathe. We don't want no part of that! Besides, you heard Ole Miss. Tanner. They don't want us around no how."

Gary understood. Sort of.

There was a chill in the air, but that would change. Mr. Laferty, the weather man that wrote for the Fort Wayne Tribune, had promised a bright day with temperatures in the mid-seventies. All the same, Gary had on a long sleeve flannel shirt.

It was close to nine when other people began to appear. Then, at eleven, the children put on their shows. There were three in all, performed by kids from all different ages. By Noon, the eating contest began, and Gary pulled off his first smoked brisket. A chunk of meat the size of a football.

On the side of the grill, built in, there was a cutting table where he placed the loaf. There he sliced off sections that were three inches long, and a quarter of an inch thick. He placed them on a large plate around in a circle. In the center of the plate was his name.

There was no sauce of any kind; none was allowed. The meat had to stand on its own. So once Gary felt the presentation was to his liking, he had Chuck, the server, take the plate to the three judges for taste testing. The rest was served to the public, and if those who tasted Gary's offerings were any indication, he was the sure winner.

Where the other contestants had people grabbing as they walked by, Gary had a line. And there were moans when it was gone. So he pulled more out of the smoker. There was plenty to go around, and this was his day. The one day of the year when he was something other than a Pain, or burden. So he enjoyed it, wearing a smile that he couldn't wipe away. As for the judge's plate: it came back empty each time.

And the competitors were keeping a close eye on each other. Kenny Larson (the man who bought his meat from the Pig's 'N' Chicken's store) was already threatening to contest the results if Gary won. He claimed Leon pulled aside better meat for his buddies.

Cow farmer Mark Jacobi, who was next to Gary, kept asking what he was cooking. Wanted to know where he got it. Gary just smiled as he handed him a sample. He watched Jacobi's face as he bit into it. The meat was as tender as any filet mignon he had ever eaten. The taste was sublime. The spices, the peppercorn seasoning, and the charred flavor, all came together to tickle his taste buds, and he wanted more, a lot more but wouldn't ask. No—that would be admitting defeat.

Manny Haggin's, who was on the other side of Gary; he didn't seem to care. But then knowing that soon, he would have pigs with bellies full of free food; he no doubt felt he had already won. As for the rest, they weren't taking it seriously. It was as Gary had expected. A row of cheap grills, some still burning the black paint off the interiors. Pitiful Gary thought.

They cooked everything from rabbit to duck. Lamb's to goats. Someone even cooked some freezer burnt bass fish they no doubt needed to get rid of. All the better, Gary thought. Feed the judges trash, and I'll feed 'em prime meat!

Gary smiled as his mind's eye showed him Deputy Doug's face curling inward as the caustic taste of enamel paint flakes rolled across his tongue. As the bones from badly cleaned fish stuck in his throat, and like sauce, there was no bread allowed. He giggled, then stopped as this wasn't the time to let the mind wander.

The cooks couldn't see the judges; this was so their expressions wouldn't give away the outcome. The contest would go on for hours. With the first test being rare, the second being medium, and the third being well done. So the judges felt it was important to not change the way the cook handled his food throughout the process. You know, add some more seasoning or something like that.

Gary didn't care; he didn't want to look at them anyway. He was too busy.

It was around one, the plays had ended, and the first band began to jam. A brass band that showcased early jazz. Gary—not realizing it, began to shuffle his feet in time with the music. His head bobbed up and down, back and forth like a spring headed doll that sits on the car dash. The people, some took to the dance floor, but most stood around drinking lemonade, ice tea and waited for the next serving of food.

Around three o'clock, they had the Miss. Lincoln contest. Then the next band fired up. This one played country music. By Seven o'clock, there was a band that played 50's rock and apparently someone had snuck in a bottle. Spiked the ice tea. There were a lot of lemonade drinkers who had changed to ice tea, and they were getting loud. Gary noticed the dance area was full.

By this time, the barbecue contest had ended and Gary closed off the grill to smother out the fire. The meat was gone, not even a sample to take home to his mother. But then, she didn't eat much meat. More of a grazer.

So it was over, and although the Judges hadn't called out the winners yet. Gary felt a sadness welling up inside him. A familiar depression, the same feeling he got on Christmas night ... The presents were open, the food was eaten, and it would take a whole year for that sensation of bliss to return. Just like that, come and gone.

"Gary?" Someone shouted, and he turned to see Sheriff Kunz walking up to him.

"Oh—High Sheriff."

"I heard talk you were the pit master again this year."

"Pit master?"

Kunz smiled: "your food was the best."

"Oh, yeah. Well, I worked real hard on it."

"You wouldn't have a taste for your old buddy here would ya?"

"You didn't get any?"

"No... the wife was watching me. I didn't get to eat any of the good stuff. I couldn't even judge this year."

"Well, I'm sure sorry, Sheriff; but there's none left."

"Figures ... Your mother around?"

"No, she won't come ta these things, just like she won't go ta Church."

"Yeah, suppose I understand. Still, would have been nice to see her."

"She looks the same; I mean, if that helps."

Kunz laughed, then with his right hand, he reached out and held onto Gary's shoulder. "Listen," he said. "You may not win this year, but I want you to know; that it has nothing to do with your cooking."

Gary, confused asked: "What are ya sayin' Sheriff?"

"I'm saying that the best man doesn't always win, Gary. There are reasons for this that most times won't be known. But that don't mean you didn't cook real good. I was watching, and the people loved your food."

"Then why wouldn't I win?"

"'Cause no one wants to see people win too much. They believe it's not fair because they don't win at all. But then life isn't fair is it. Hell, if it were, you'd be my Deputy and Doug would be cooking meat." Sheriff Kunz forced a smile. Gary was confused, but there wasn't anything that could be done about that. The Sheriff pulled his hand from Gary's shoulder, said goodbye and walked away.

Soon, the band took a break and turned the microphone over to Mayor Duncan who stood there in a white button up shirt that now had food stains all over it. "As you can see," he said in his boisterous voice. "I have enjoyed this day, and I sure hope you all have as well."

The crowd all clapped and yelled out. Mayor Duncan held onto his bulging stomach like Santa and Chortled out with the same glee. He smiled and turned back and forth so the crowd could see he was full. "What do you say we give it up for all our cooking contestants this year!."

Again, the crowd cheered, clapped and laughed from the drink. The ice tea no doubt.

"Judge's," Mayor Duncan called out. "I need you up on the stage."

Reverend Townsend and Deputy Doug were at the base of the steps. They walked up and were now standing beside the Mayor.

"And Contestants," the Mayor added."If you would kindly line up in front of the stage so we can get a good look at you."

They did, and Gary found himself close to the middle with men on both sides and the crowd to his back.

"Now. I want you all to know that this decision wasn't easy by any means."

Someone in the crowd called out Gary's name. Then others joined, and soon this courtroom needed the gavel hammered down. The Mayor raised and lowered his hands repeatedly. He called out for the crowd to calm down! They did.

"Annnnd..." Mayor Duncan continued. "I would like to thank each and every one of you for participating. So, without any further ado. I will turn the microphone over to Reverend James P. Townsend."

The Reverend stepped up to the mic. And he was comfortable as was expected. "First," he said. "I would like to thank our Lord-all-mighty for the foo--"

"—what did he cook?" Someone shouted, and the crowd once again erupted into talk and laughter. They were feeling excellent, and it wasn't a good time to start preaching. But the Reverend went on all the same.

"I would like to thank him for the temperate weather, the clear skies and the blessing of another beautiful day!"

"Announce the winner's already!" Another shouted. "This ain't Sunday for Pete's sake!"

"He ain't gonna pass around that damn money plate again—is he? Another yelled, and now, the Mayor once again stepped in and calmed the crowd.

He then looked at the Reverend. "Perhaps you should get this over with," he whispered. His hand was over the mic.

Frustrated, the Reverend pulled a piece of paper from his pocket that held the names of the top three chosen winners. But what wasn't known to the crowd; was the holy man had lost his confidence. He was used to two types of people. The first was dead; the other was hung over and sedated after a rough Saturday night of heavy drinking.

He suddenly found he was sweating, so he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. He dabbed his brow while everyone wondered why he was so hot. It wasn't hot out. The sun was setting, there was a cool breeze. But pit stains rapidly formed under Townsend's arms. So he wiped again, this time his entire face.

Deputy Doug stood beside Townsend, and he held onto three ribbons. Blue, red and white. First, second, and third.

Townsend cleared his throat and then decided to do what the mayor had suggested, which was just get on with it. So he said in a very rapid tone: "Third place finish goes to—Mr. Manny Haggins!"

The crowd clapped. Manny walked up onto the stage, shook the Mayor's hand, then took the Ribbon from Deputy Doug then stood off to the side...

There would be pictures taken at the end.

"The second place ribbon goes to--Kenny Larson!" Again the crowd clapped, and again the Reverend cleared his throat.

"And the first place ribbon goes toooo-- there was a pause. "Mark Jacobiiiiii!"

Silence ... The world stopped. The crickets stalled their wings. Even Mark Jacobi hesitated not sure if what he heard was what was said. He slowly went to the steps and then up onto the stage. He walked over; he shook the Mayor's hand, took his ribbon and then stood in the center of the others.

Then, there was someone who clapped in the back of the crowd. Then another, and another. Soon, the whole crowd was clapping for the three who stood out among all others... But Gary wasn't clapping.

The photographer snapped pictures as they held up their winnings. The Mayor made sure he was in a couple of them, as did Reverend Townsend. Deputy Doug, he stood there staring at Gary with his now common, 'fuck you!' grin spread across his face.

But Gary wasn't grinning. He was stunned, and then his lower lip began to quiver. Tears welled up in his eyes, and Deputy Doug felt that grin turn to a smile. Were people watching this? Did they see what kind of man Deputy Doug was? A man who found pleasure in the pain of someone so unfortunate?

They did, but it was like the Sheriff had said: "No one wants to see people win too much. They believe it's not fair because they don't win at all." So they ignored Deputy Doug's actions, and they ignored Gary as he broke out into tears. And as the band retook the stage, Gary remained where he was. And as the dance floor filled, the dancers sashayed around Gary. And as he wept, the music turned louder to drown it out. No one wanted to hear it. No one cared.

Gary felt someone grab him and pull him off to the side. With tears rolling down his face, he looked to see it was Leon. "Come on," he said. "You don't want to let them see you like this!"

Leon pulled Gary away from city hall, down the alley that went between the Coffee Pot diner and Post office. Once they were away from the band noise, Leon let him go. Gary dropped down to his knees, then he swung around and sat with this legs pressed up against his chest. He placed his head in between his knees. And he sobbed.

Leon said nothing for awhile, he stood there and waited patiently. When the balling turned into blubbering, then he spoke: "You know, I was watching, and you won that contest. The crowd saw to that. But you're a lot like me. You're not wanted here."

"Wh-whe-when are we leavin'? Gary asked.

"Tomorrow. I learned there's a Westbound train that'll be coming through around noon. You meet me down at the tracks. In the woods just south of beach road. You hear me now?"

"O-o-okay. I will Leon."

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Glenda Gant had just gotten out of the shower when she looked at the clock that hung on the bathroom wall. Quarter till eleven, it read.

She combed her hair. She put on some lipstick, some makeup, although she didn't need much. She sprayed some 'Fancy Love Perfume' in the air and then walked through it. She went to her room where there was a dress lying on the bed. She loved this dress. Red, skimpy and showcased what she had to offer in a way that made the desired end result a sure thing.

Once she was dressed, she looked in the mirror. She turned left, then right. And then she heard a knock on the door. "Early," She whispered. And then took off down the stairs and to the front door which was now closed.

"Hello Samuel," she said as she held open the screen door.

Samuel said nothing, nor did he move. He stood there taking in the beauty that was now in front of him. The beauty that would soon be his. That would take his virginity. He wondered if this was real because it didn't feel that way. But he could smell her, see her. She was right there, so he walked in, and she closed the door.

He couldn't speak, he didn't try. She took him by the hand and walked him upstairs and into her room. "I don't want any of the residents to see us," she said, as she closed her bedroom door.

Samuel walked over and nervous as hell, took a seat on the bed.

Glenda, she started to take off her dress, starting with the straps that ran over her shoulders. She went over and bent down and kissed him. Now, the dress had slipped down to where Samuel could see her bra. He reached up, going for his first feel when she suddenly pulled away.

"You know what?" She whispered.

"W-what?"

"We need some wine. You know, to get you comfortable. I mean, I've waited so long for this. I don't want it to end too fast."

"S-s-sure, you have some?"

"No. I couldn't get any on account of I can't leave the residents alone. But you stay put. I'll only be a moment ... Promise me, you won't leave. I mean your Grandmother's here."

"Okay, I promise."

Glenda pulled her dress back up over her bra. She left the room, closing the door behind her. She went out the front door, to her car where she already had two suitcases in the back. She backed out, drove down Main Street, straight out of town. She took a left on state road 111, took it all the way to the 90 turnpike. Then she headed east, where she wouldn't stop until the ocean forced her too.

\----------------------------------------------------------------

Gary was quiet on Sunday morning. He ate his breakfast and told his mother he didn't win. "I didn't even make third," he said and began to blubber a little.

"That's all right sweetie," she said. "As long as you had fun." But it wasn't fun, and she knew it. It was work, and those bible thumping bastards did this for personal gains. She knew it; she knew Gary wouldn't win as soon as she heard they switched the judges from Sheriff Kunz to Deputy Dog!

"The Mayor wants votes," Farmer Mel told her. "Gary doesn't vote, and most of the townspeople don't care for the way you make a living. As for the Reverend; well, you don't go to Church, so you don't fill his coffers, so he's going to take care of those who do. Meaning the hens like Gladys Tanner. Then there's Deputy Doug. Don't need to say a thing about that."

Tammy knew Mel was right and she wanted to say something that would make her son feel better, but what? The truth wasn't worth hearing, so she said nothing at all.

About the time Gary had finished his cereal, Farmer Mel came to the door. Gary let him in and told him the same thing he told his mother.

"Is that right? Well, there's always next year," Mel said as he ruffled his hair as though he was a child.

Gary was beginning to think the contest didn't mean much to those around him. That he was doing all this for nothing, well not nothing, he was feeding the town's people. But why would he want to do that when they treated him so bad? He wouldn't! And he realized that now and he felt foolish. So he excused himself and went into his room and closed the door.

Farmer Mel took a seat at the table. Tammy handed him a cup of coffee. "Is he taking it hard?" Mel asked.

"I don't think so. But I just heard he didn't win. As you know, I wasn't here when he came home."

Farmer Mel smiled. "I remember," he said, then he thought a moment. "You don't think he's mad because we didn't go to the festival do you?"

"No, I never go to the festival. No surprise there."

Mel took a sip of coffee, then said: "Suppose I'll go pick up the grill today. Bring it on back here."

As Mel went to take another sip, he noticed Tammy staring at something. "What?" he asked.

"My broom. What the hell happened?"

Mel looked down to see the broom end was lying on the floor.

Before they had a chance to call Gary, and they both knew it was Gary who did the damage. The door opened, and he came walking out holding the broom handle over his right shoulder. On the end was a red beach towel that was full of clothing making a ball. The towel was tied around the handle ... Gary had made himself a vintage hobo clothes carrier. And had done a nice job doing it.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" Tammy asked, but she couldn't help but laugh.

"I'm leavin' to take my trip."

"What trip?"

"Ya know. Gonna go live with the injuns. But don't worry, I'll be back 'fore long."

"You need my broom handle to take this trip?"

"Yeah, I mean how else am I gonna carry my stuff?"

"And you say you're gonna be back?"

"Yeah."

"Then you see to it that handle comes back with you, ya hear!."

"I will, momma." Gary went over and gave his mother a kiss on her cheek. He then looked at Farmer Mel and asked: "Will you see to it my grill comes on home?"

Mel smiled, "Sure Gary; was just talking about that."

"'Kay then. Suppose I'll be seeing ya."

They both watched as Gary went out the door. Then down the drive, then down the road towards town. "You aren't worried?" Mel asked Tammy.

"No, he'll be back when he gets hungry."

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It was Monday afternoon before Tammy really began to worry. Gary was of age, and there were times when he would stay out all night. Fishing, or hunting with Leon. But never so long.

She called Sheriff Kunz who promised he would go for a drive and take a look around. Farmer Mel had already been doing the same. They met up at the 'Pig's 'n' Chicken's' market where Marty the manager told them that Leon hadn't come in. But then it was his last day anyway, so it wasn't a surprise.

"Where was he going?" Sheriff Kunz asked.

"Said he was going home."

"Where's that?"

"Africa would be my guess."

"Nice... But tell me—do you think he would have taken Gary along with him?"

Marty shrugged his shoulders. "Haven't a clue, but what if he did? Maybe it would do him some good to get out of here and see some of the world."

Kunz agreed.

"But there's Tammy to think about," Mel said.

"Maybe this would be a good thing for her as well," Marty said. "I mean It'll take some time... But."

"Maybe," Kunz said. "But what if he's not with Leon? What if he's lost in the woods or something? Imagine finding him a month from now. That wouldn't be good at all!"

"So we keep looking," Mel said.

Then, behind them they heard someone say: "You're not going to believe what's happened!" They turned to see Mayor Duncan walking up.

"I can't wait," Sheriff Kunz said.

"That damn black witch, Glenda Gant has done gone and ran off!"

"What?"

"That's right. My boy Sam was there, spent the night. Glenda said she was going out for something and never returned. We have to find her."

"Why? You think she's in danger?" Kunz said.

"No, I mean I don't know. But if she doesn't return, then that means the only one left is Elmer, and he only does maintenance. There's no one else; which means the elders are going to have to move back in with family. That means Momma's coming home, and that's trouble!"

"This isn't any of my business; but why was Samuel there again?" Farmer Mel asked.

"Good question," Sheriff Kunz said. "The boy hasn't been soiled, now has he, Mayor? 'Cause if the town's people found out something like that, it could affect the next election. I mean the Mayor's son carrying on with a black woman. I don't care how pretty she is, that little scandal could cost you the election. Could be we end up with a new Mayor. One who goes by the name: Deputy Doug... But then I do recall it was you who said: 'the public don't like to see the same person win all the time'... remember?"

"Are you going to help or just run your mouth!" The Mayor asked.

"I've already got my hands full."

Just then there was a call that came over the two-way radio. Deputy Doug's voice came through real clear: "Sheriff, I'm over here at Manny Haggins place. You need to come over. Make it fast! It's Gary, I found him and it's not good!"

Sheriff Kunz looked at Mel; both were thinking the same thing.

"What?" the Mayor asked.

"Gary's missing," Kunz said. "It sounds like we have found him.

"Maybe Glenda's with him," The Mayor said. "Not likely—but maybe."

They left immediately; the Sheriff in his cruiser, followed by Farmer Mel and Mayor Duncan in the pickup truck. With lights flashing, they ran past the Old Tyme Cinema, the Coney Island drive-In restaurant. The Regal drug store, and John Baker's Lumber Company.

Sheriff Kunz reached down and flipped on the siren right before they passed the Coffee Pot Diner, and the Ole Five and Dime store. The Sheriff slowed at the red light. Enough to see everyone at the soda counter had turned and was looking at them. Confused as to what could be going on.

They rolled out of town, to the limestone road where Pig Farmer Manny Haggins lived. They took a left, and the Sheriff floored his cruiser sending a trail of dust up into the sky. Farmer Mel had to slow down due to poor visibility. The interior of the truck, with the windows down, was now a dust cloud. This didn't bother Farmer Mel, but he could hear the Mayor next to him coughing, and gasping for breath. He went on all the same.

Once he was at the farmhouse, the Sheriff slammed on the brakes, sliding to a stop. An impressive display of off-road driving not seen since the end of the 'Duke's of Hazard' episodes. The Sheriff's door flew open, and he climbed out. He didn't wait for the Mayor or Farmer Mel. Instead, he walked up to the barn which had the doors open but no one was around.

He heard the truck come to a stop, the doors open, and the Mayor coughing. Before he could walk away, they both were right behind him. Sheriff Kunz ignored them and went around to where the pig pens were located. Now, he could see Pig Farmer Manny and he was standing behind Deputy Doug who looked to be bent over and vomiting. Manny was holding his Stetson.

Off to the side, stood Reverend James P. Townsend who although didn't look sick, he did look disturbed.

"What going on?" Kunz shouted. "What are you doing here, Reverend?"

"I was called, Sheriff."

"Called? By whom?"

"Deputy Doug. It seemed he thought my assistance would be required."

"Does someone want to tell me what the hell's going on!"

"Over there, in the trough," Manny said. "Take a look for yourself."

The pigs weren't in the pen. Manny had locked them in the barn which seeing they would eat anything, was a good thing. Sheriff Kunz walked over, climbed the fence and walked up to the scene of the crime. He could see the slop bin was full of blood, guts and other waste. He could smell it as well. "Where did you get this?" Kunz asked.

"From the 'Pig's 'n' Chicken's store. I was promised some left over cuts and bones from Leon and Gary."

"And they told you to take this?"

"Yes sir, they even had it in a special fifty-five-gallon drum that had my name on it."

The Sheriff crouched down and pulled a pencil out of his pocket. He took the pencil's erasure and placed it on what appeared to be the head of a beast. Or what Deputy Doug thought was the head of Gary. He rotated it around until the eyes came up and bobbed in the sludge. Deputy Doug was right, it was a human's head, but it wasn't Gary's.

"I'll be damn," said the Sheriff. "It's Clyde Houser. Has anyone heard he's been missing?"

Farmer Mel took off running. He too began vomiting.

"Deputy Doug," the Sheriff shouted. "Has anyone called in a missing person's for Clyde Houser?"

"No," he shouted back while trying to stand. "But he's been known to disappear. Spends a lot of time in Fort Wayne, and the South Bend area."

"Yeah, that's right," said the Sheriff. "He's been known to sell dope. Goes by the name, Ox. Well, suppose we won't have to worry about that no more. Looks like the poor soul's been slaughtered." The head now rolled over, and once again the hair floated on top of the blood, bones, and organs that came from Pigs, Cows, chickens and... Clyde Houser.

Sheriff Kunz stood up, climbed back over the fence and walked over to Pig Farmer Manny. "You say you got this from Leon and Gary?"

"That's right," Manny replied.

"Is that normal? I mean does Marty usually give you the left over's?"

"Hell no. Marty don't give anyone anything!"

"So why would they let you have this, Manny?"

Manny began to get nervous, "Now Sheriff, you ain't suggestin' I had somethin' to do with that!" He pointed to the trough.

"No, not saying that at all. But would be nice to know. I mean, we don't have many bucks left in this area. So?"

"What ya say?" Manny asked.

"A buck, you know a breeder. A young man in his prime. What of it?"

"T-t-t-that's what he said..." Manny turned pale. "I mean Gary. That's the reason I got the swill. He accidently told me he was cookin' up a buck. One he poached. H-h-h-he gave me this so I wouldn't tell. Ya know takin' a deer out of season. But he wasn't poaching... was he?"

Sheriff Kunz spit out onto the ground. "No Manny, don't think he was," he walked around in circles as he thought. "You know," he said. "I've spent a lot of time over there at Gary's home. I wonder if he picked that up from me? A buck? He shot a buck...? Suppose it's possible. I mean in his condition, he may not know the difference. Killing is killing to him. Man or animal. Death is death."

Now, all but Manny, and the Sheriff were throwing up, and Deputy Doug began to weep. "We a-a-ate human meat!" he called out in between gasps for air. "My dear God in Heaven! Can you ever forgive me!" He shouted.

"Now don't be saying all of us ate Human meat," said the Sheriff. "As I recall, I was replaced on the judging panel on account of my cholesterol."

"I didn't eat any— thank God," Farmer Mel said.

"I ate some," said Pig Farmer Manny. "It was real good too."

"Thank you for your honesty, Manny," the Sheriff said. "As for the rest of you, it could be worse."

"How?" Shouted the Mayor.

"You could have made him the winner."

Mayor Duncan was pale, as was Deputy Doug. One by one, they walked away, back out to the front of the barn and away from the stench. Once everyone calmed down, Reverend Townsend asked what they were going to do.

"This needs to be handled delicately," Mayor Duncan pleaded. "Sheriff, any suggestions?"

"Well," Sheriff Kunz said. "First, we have Ole Manny let his pigs go on and eat. I mean no sense in wasting good food... No sir. Besides we need it gone. Clyde wasn't much. A bully, a drug dealer, a piece of shit. So I doubt his folks will carry on too much about his disappearance. Most likely hope he's out and doing fine somewhere."

"You mean like an unwanted dog that runs off?" Asked Pig Farmer Manny.

"Exactly like that, Manny. Again, thank you."

"No problem Sheriff. I heard Clyde beat up Gary not long ago."

"Don't push it, Manny... Anyway, the second thing we do is keep our mouths shut. I mean for the Love of God, everyone in town ate that meat. Hell, they couldn't get enough of it. If this gets out, Marty will end up closing the Pig's 'n' Chicken's store on account of that's where the man was slaughtered. Townson here will no doubt be forced to leave the Church and good luck getting another gig. You Mayor will be ousted, and God help us if anyone took a video of you holding your gut on stage while the crowd cheered. If that goes viral, we're screwed...

"Take a moment and think of that. Everyone from the town of Lincoln and it doesn't matter if you ate some meat or not. We will ALL be branded as fucking cannibals! Our town will be ruined, destroyed. Manny, your pigs will be worthless. Mark Jacobi won't be able to give his cows away. I doubt you, Mel, will even be able to sell your corn! Then think of Tammy; hasn't she already been through enough?

"No, I say the hell with that! We don't tell a soul and if what I've already told you isn't enough, then chew on this... That black man and retard knew exactly what they were doing! They knew what to say and how to say it. Not one black person attended that festival. I suppose now we know why.

"They also set it up so we would find out the truth. Giving Manny the evidence, and it just so happens they both disappeared yesterday. Manny, they knew you couldn't pick that drum up until today. And they know we won't say a word, or chase them, or even turn them in...

"No! Mark my words, boys! They know this because if they get caught—we'll lose a hell of a lot more then them! Now—with that said, this plan of theirs don't sound so retarded to me—what about you Deputy Doug?"

"I'll kill everyone a them sons-a-bitches!" he gasped, crouched down with the dry heaves.

Sheriff Kunz walked over and grabbed Deputy Doug by the hair. He pulled him up from his crouched over position with such force, the man's feet left the ground. "Now you listen to me boy!" The Sheriff said through gritted teeth. "You can talk all the trash you want, but if you touch one of them black folk, then the other's will tell what they know. And they know 'cause Leon's well aware of your hatin' ways... Ain't you been listening! You've been played, idiot. Now it's time to surrender and lick your wounds. Now tell me you understand!"

"Yeah, Sheriff. I understand!"

Kunz let him go. "Good," he said. "Then get on back to the office. And stop by and pick me up a bag of Salt and Vinegar chips and a large coke... Family size bag! Better make it two that vinegar will help wash that taste out of your mouth!"

Crying, Mayor Duncan went with Deputy Doug. Reverend Townsend had his own car. One by one they drove away. Each beaten, each feared their future. When the dust cleared it was Sheriff Kunz, Farmer Mel and Pig Farmer Manny left standing there. "Manny," The Sheriff said.

"Yeah Sheriff?"

"Why don't you go on and keep that Stetson hat."

Manny looked down, he forgot he was still holding the Deputy's hat. "But Sheriff, this here ain't my hat."

"I know that Manny. But you are the only one I know that would admit to not only eating the meat but saying it tasted good. That makes you a real life man eater. And there can't be but a few of them around. So go on, I'll by Doug another hat."

Manny put the hat on his head. He smiled as he pulled it down, so the brim was just above his brow.

The Sheriff then turned to Farmer Mel. "So what are you going to do?" he asked. "You gonna tell Tammy?"

"No, it would kill her." He thought a moment. "Suppose I'll find out where Gary is, and take her out to see him."

Sheriff Kunz smiled. "That would be real nice, Farmer Mel. Real nice indeed."

Author's note: All feedback is welcomed. Please reply to cbunnell61@yahoo.com.

Thanks for the read.

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