Misery Guts

On the curb before Frank Write & Brothers Newsdealer, a newsboy in a newsboy cap waiting for the town to buzz to life carries the day’s headline on the tip of his tongue:

FORD’S PROMISE OF TOMORROW—

One-millionth Tin Lizzy rolls off assembly line!

The public square, furrowed buildings of limestone block, red-brick, candy-striped awnings—all-American storefronts at the heart of an all-American town. At the crest of each façade—etched in granite—the name of the character each structure is intended to portray:

H. H. Orendorff

Randolph

Churchill

Emmerson

Hanlon

And above all, upon a yellow water tower in the distance, in bold white letters:

CANTON

Canton: 1825, settler Isaac Swan, believing his new town to be the antipode to Canton, China, names it rightly so. Jones Park: An oval oasis of maple and poplar trees sitting snug in the arms of the town square, where a brick pathway runs down its center. Circling about a liberty pole, the path makes its way to an octagonal bandstand. Early rising folks sit crossed-legged, deep in shallow conversation, drawing a fine line between one thing an’ another in the twilight of their lives. And if one were to spin around on their heels and look directly south from its steps, they’ll spot that newsboy in the newsboy cap, waiting for the town to buzz to life.

AHOOGA! A stray flees with its tail between its legs as the most popular horseless carriage in America, the Ford Model T, putters east down Elm. And just past Holly’s flower shop, it takes a left at the beerhouse, where a man in a top hat advertises:

Budweiser is a friend of mine!

A lone drunkard washes his face in a water trough out front. And rumblin’ and bobblin’ over the brickwork, the Ford heads north up East Side Square for:

Messer’s Day Brother’s & Co.

Kimball’s Hardware

Schatzki & Sklark Clothiers

Mrs. Willard Milleny’s Dress Shop

And:

The Opera House

Having not seen a Broadway show come through in some years, a poster in the window displays: 

The World’s Greatest Photo Player, CHARLIE CHAPLIN, 6¢.

Taking a left on Chestnut, the Tin Lizzy heads west, passing:

Wilstead Meat Market

And Anderson the grocer sweeps the dusty sidewalk before his elaborate window display as a streetcar jangles south on its track, past:

Mason’s

Gamble’s

Durham Tobacco

The Bean Dean Company

And just across Elm, the trolley comes to a brief stop before the pillar of the community:

The First National Bank

The corner building stands stern and proud, its face aiming directly for the park from a forty-five-degree angle—sure to keep the business district in its periphery. The ledges of its second-story windows, grumpy brows, shading downward-peering eyes—scowling down its nose upon the humble townsfolk. The bank: Always on guard, protecting its paper heart behind 10-gauge steel.

A brand-new 1915 Paige Fleetwood zooms up Elm Street and skids to a stop out front. The luxurious and roomy five-seater, four-door touring body in Richelieu-blue, straw-colored wheels, and nickel trimmings is a sight to be seen. 

Mr. Olsen steps out in a bowler hat and shuts the door with velvet gloves, so to speak.

The bank’s guard, armed with a .45-caliber revolver on his side, strolls up with a holler, “Woo-wee,” and a long but quick country drawl, “was wonderin’ how ya dern near beat me this mornin’, Mr. Olsen!”  

“Good morning, Edward,” says Mr. Olsen, keys jangling. “Yes, the Fleetwood is second to none. Had her brought down from Chicago this weekend.” 

Edward: Tall and lanky with bushy sideburns, rolling on his heels, hands in his pockets, elbows locked, field-tanned, dusty old top hat inherited from his pop—adding a good foot of fortune to his 6-foot-6—clicks his check, clicks his heels. “Welp—” 

“Yep,” says Mr. Olsen.

Inside, they toss their hats, and Mr. Olsen locks the door behind them before readying the drawers. Before the steady stream of check cashers—steady trickling come Friday when it’s all pissed away at the beerhouse—Mr. Olsen makes his way to the vault and spins the dial. Electric chandeliers buzz, the dull yellow hue slow to chase away any lingering ghosts, and Edward takes his station by the door. 

“How’s Bess?” asks Mr. Olsen.

“Ankle’s doin’ fine,” says Edward, hopping out of position to open the heavy drapes, allowing brilliant blue light to flood in. 

Mr. Olsen pulls open the vault door and walks in. 

Edward continues in a half-shout, raising his wobbly chin to note, “Up and walkin’ again!” 

Now, there’s no doubtin’ amongst no one, Edward is a people person, to say the very least. Still, city life suits Edward as awkward as his trousers hang on his hips, starched, rising high tide to the ankle. Edward is a good guard. Assuming so, to say the least, seeing his job has chiefly amounted to that of doorman—fingers crossed. You see, not long after moving to town, Edward got his footing as a clerk at Anderson’s Grocer, quick to show off his skills, adding and subtracting on his fingers. Edward is a farm boy at heart and hearth. Specializing in muck, dirt, and animal detritus, Edward has a mastery of cornfield math—a particular gift inherited from his pop, or so he claims. But when that “dern number clunker,” as he calls it, shows up on the counter of Anderson’s one day, its keys confound his knuckle joints, not to speak of his thinker. As his ticker speeds up and his mouth dries and bitters with the taste of panic, his finger-counting services are numbered. So, it comes time for the greenhorn-slicker to move along and find employment elsewhere, and what better place than the house of numbers—the First National Bank. 

Edward counts nine times out of ten—rushing off his dern feet—he dern near beats Mr. Olsen to the door each morning. But today, by God, he’s determined it’s a country drawl, refusing to clutch his tenth finger in his fist—it curls into a stubborn hook. 

Sure, Edward is popular enough. He adds and subtracts each customer as they come and go, remembering each patron, counting the letters in their names, and greeting them so, by number rather than name, and so on. But it is important to note that Edward’s wife Bess is somewhat of a local celebutante herself, known for her award-winning meat loaf. 

A good couple of good years before Edward and Bess moved off the farm, Bess inherited a meat loaf recipe from her great aunt Luisa. Rather, she found it in a music box after she croaked. You see, Luisa suffered from rheumatoid arthritis, a godforsaken disease attacking the joints in a hellish manner. To make things wrong-to-worse, the nightmare condition produces sweat-drenched dreams of being maimed and killed. Now, night after night, Aunt Luisa was said to be slaughtered by a stranger in the night with an 8” cane knife unless she helped herself to a hefty serving of her “special” meat loaf before bed. Upon discovering the recipe in the music box, Bess baked herself up a steaming batch before Luisa was even cold in the ground. That’s the day Edward got his feet wet as a taste tester. And that batch of meat loaf, well, it right out knocked his size thirteens right out from under him. And Edward spent the afternoon lying about the prairie grass, babbling on about leprechauns and such, and he’s never been the same since. 

It wasn’t but one year into taste testing when Edward caught word of a steamy meat loaf competition down south at the Illinois State Fair. And after a good nudging, he convinced Bess to throw together some bacon, red and yellow peppers, garlic powder, thyme, parsley, some taters, sourdough breadcrumbs, saltine crackers, grated cheese, Worcestershire sauce, a cup of ketchup, at least one egg, and a dash of salt and pepper, using only 75-25 ground beef and cooking it up precisely according to Auntie Luisa’s recipe to the “T.” Secret ingredient and all. 

The judges put on their bibs, loosen their trousers, and go to town on those thick slices of meat leaning against generous helpings of mashed potatoes. The results range from too moist to too dry. And from too heavily seasoned to too bland on the opposite end of the meat loaf spectrum. Some loaves are thick with topping, while others have little to no topping at all.

“Downright ludicrous,” if you ask Bess.

Overall, it is a good selection of various meat loaf styles, resulting in plates licked clean and happy swollen guts. The judges share comments and carefully make notes on score sheets: 

1 wrong - 5 right

They are quickly unanimous in their votes, and “Auntie’s Meat Loaf” is to take home the top prize. 

“My Auntie Luisa[CMP1]  always made it when we were younger,” Bess tells the Canton Register, “And, when my husband Edward proposed I enter, when he learnt of the contest, well, I was a bit hesitant, to be honest. And if it wasn’t for my poor Edward, spending his Saturdays with a swollen gut, I wouldn’t be here today. And, of course, I must thank my late Auntie Luisa. When she was going through her bouts with arthritis, she said the only thing that dern made her feel good was a hefty serving of her meat loaf. Now that she’s done passed on—God bless her soul—I want her special meat loaf to bring the same joy to others, same as it did to us as children. A tribute to her, I suppose.” 

The secret ingredient to Auntie’s Meat Loaf? Cannabis sativa: a rather skunky weed found growing in the ditch down on the farm.

“It’s too bad Bess was rushed off her feet like that. Goddamn potholes,” says Mr. Olsen, exiting the vault but leaving the door unlocked. “Hell, I’m considering paving the streets with my own damn money.”

“Do that, and heck, Bess might even have ya over for meat loaf,” says Edward, rocking anxiously on his feet, fingers counting as they do.

“Lord knows I could use a good meal—Roxy burnt my omelet again. I offered to hire help, but hell, I’m starting to think she’s trying to tell me something, Edward.”

“Women, mysterious creatures!”

“How’s Friday?”

“Sir...?”

“Meat loaf—” says Mr. Olsen, making his way to unlock the front door.

“I’ll have her gets right to it, sir.”

A young brunette, cradling a Fontana Milano handbag matching the tone of her long neck and slender wrists, enters.

“You don’t have to do that, Edward. I’m just joshing—good morning, Rose—the damn mayor has dug into my pockets deep enough, I tell ya!”

“Mornin’ number four,” says Edward as Rose rolls her eyes.

“You have an appointment with the mayor at nine.”

“Hell, Rose, it’s 8:58,” says Mr. Olsen, looking at his father’s pocket watch. “And here I thought you were on my good books!”

“Mr. President!” A full baritone booms from behind, and Mr. Olsen spins around on his heels in feigned surprise for the mayor.

The mayor: yet another short, squatty man. Red in the face, suit beyond his means, he wears a larger-than-life mustache, bulbous nose, and combover atop a round pair of shoulders.

The two shake hands vigorously. 

“Mayor, nice to see you. How’s Mabel?”

“Oh, finer than frog hair,” says the mayor, asking, “And how’s that darlin’ a’ mine?”

“Burnt my omelet again.”

“Bodacious! Break open that checkbook, Mr. President, and hire Roxy some help already, ya damn flummadiddle!! Hell, I wouldn’t let Mabel within ten feet of a flame—”

“Did you get a chance to read the Register this morning?” asks Mr. Olsen.

“I did, I did—over strong coffee, I might add!”

One long hour later. Exiting Mr. Olsen’s office, beads of sweat collect on the mayor’s brow, and he dabs at them with a silk handkerchief monogrammed with his initials:

FU

Frank Underwood.

Let us get this out there: The mayor won his seat through an extensive network of friends and family who helped him commit voter fraud; acquired his wealth through ill-gotten gains; has a gambling and alcohol addiction; married Betty Snyder in 1898 (with whom he has three children, two boys suffering inherited obesity, and a daughter none too much the looker—and hell, he’s tryin’ to auction her off at lodge meetings to men three or four times her age); is a member of the Knights of Columbus at noted; has a divine hatred for Truman, and is madly in love with a Mrs.[CMP2]  Roxy Olsen.

“Hogwash! The icicle’s gonna get an egg to the face,” says the mayor in a hog tail.

“Told Roxy the same this morning!”

“If I had my druthers, I’d give that scoundrel a piece of my mind. Anyhow, say hello to Roxy for me—” The mayor, pausing to rub his chin. “Hell, my wife could sure use a zing to her name like—” in an off-Scottish accent and a Spanish roll of the tongue, “Rox-see!”

“Coffee a bit strong this morning?” asks Mr. Olsen.

The mayor leans in close. “Brandy!”

“Thought my office smelled mighty sweet—mighty early, Mayor, mighty early.”  

“Care to swap jobs for a day? Anyhow, isn’t happy hour any hour?”

“I suppose, and about that swap, you’ve got a meeting in five with the board of directors, and all of their interests will be in attendance,” says Mr. Olsen. 

“In that case, I think I’ll get back to my brandy.”

“Wise decision, Mayor.”

“I’ll bring a bottle of scotch by for ya, single malt, won it in a hand of poker off that scoundrel Randolph, I tell ya, anyhow, I’ll drop in on my old darling—”

“I'm sure she’d love to see Mabel—we can make a dinner of it.”

“Sounds like an evening.”

“Okay, Mayor,” Mr. Olsen growing weary, “take care now, and watch that loose brick!” 

The mayor steps out onto the sidewalk in full baritone, carols on, “You’re the flower of my heart, sweet Rox-see!” He pauses to fire up a finely rolled Gordo just as an old Jeffery Rambler rumbles up. And he heads mindless, head in a cloud of smoke, straight for the loose brick, “I trust that I will find your love still mine, sweet—OUCH—Son of a—’” rolling his ankle on the brick. Limping away, “Mabel, what kind a’ name is Mabel anyhow?”

Mr. Olsen turns to Edward, “Don’t know who he's calling an arfarfan’ arf’? Sure, Wilson likes his brandy—hell, so do I. But the mayor is snookered by 10 am. What a job the man has carved out for himself.”

Edward stands stiff with his revolver on his hip, “The board comin’ in today?” with wide, bulging eyes, chin tucked back into his neck like a bullfrog choking down a fly.

“No, no, I just couldn’t take any more of his nonsense. For goodness sakes, man thinks I’m his personal checkbook—at his beck and call. And hell, he wants to deputize the townspeople instead of adding more officers to the payroll, yet he’s raising taxes. For what? Surely not the roads! I tell ya, he’s got all the markings of a man with an agenda—the nerve to ask me to pay for two dozen Krag carbine rifles. Trying to twist my arm until it breaks—man spends money like water!” 

“So, what ya tell him, Mr. Olsen?”

“Oh, we went ‘round in circles. But in the end, I told him no thanks—that’s why we have Edward.”

Edward takes a hard-swaller of the Adam’s apple and shifts nervously. 

“Hell, I didn't tell him that, Edward—I’m just joshin’ ya.” And with a slap to Edward’s shoulder, “But as it turns out, Illinois accounted for 40% of the nation’s bank robberies last year. Can you believe that?”

Edward eyeballs a buzzing fly, fingers twitching behind his back. 

“Mayor suggests, to be on the safe side, I initiate a $6 premium to cover any losses. It’s a bit over the top, I do believe. And I’m mighty certain he’s got his eye on that premium anyhow. Man makes a killing off me, I tell ya what.” 

Mr. Olsen rubs his tired eyes. R. C. Saunders, with narrow, beady eyes, focused firmly on Rose, strolls in unnoticed. Rose: at just 22 years old, she is the first female bank teller in the state of Illinois. Just two months on the job, when the man in the Kroger cap arrives at her window. She greets him with a warm smile, “Good afternoon, sir,” and Saunders places a carpetbag on the counter. 

“Fill ‘er up,” he says under his breath.

Surely this cannot be real, questions Rose. But when a .30-caliber Luger appears, adrenaline surges straight for the artery in her long sexy neck the man cannot overlook, even in the heat of a bank job. Oh my, this is real, he is genuine, honest to God, life is real, death is actual, her young mind spirals out of control. 

Rose’s biggest regret in life: saying yes to John Jameson behind the barn when she was sixteen. What a horrible mistake! Being pretty is a double-edged sword, she believes. “Everyone wants to give you something until they want to take something away,” she warns her sister Jen, “...to cut things fine, everyone is nice, until they ain't, until you don't give ‘em what they came for, ‘cause then, hell, they take it anyhow.” 

So, upon seeing the shine in the crook’s eye, she’s done figuring out what he’s come for and opts to give him what he wants before he takes it anyhow—the way Frank Dithers did behind the school when she was fourteen. Coolly stuffing the bag with bills, Rose quickly catches the eye of the teller to her right, Henry, caught up in a banking interaction with Ms. Smith, Rose’s eighth-grade schoolteacher. Ms. Smith rolls a glare of shame down her long roman nose toward Rose’s perky breasts, the very breasts Tim Simmons slurped away on outside her own classroom window. Peach fuzz inflames young Rose’s skin—a case of contact dermatitis. Dr. Gustine prescribes a miracle drug he calls Cocaine. Cocaine: will cure anything from moral weakness—not the case for Jim Holden—to headaches, to, in Rose’s case, inflammation of the skin. Cocaine now speeds up Rose's thoughts and blushes her cheeks as the crook grins her way, raisin’ an eyebrow.

Henry—an uptight, pale young man with an imperial mustache, a self-imposed master of accurately handling and processing routine transactions at the customer’s request—can hardly contain his disgust for the frayed edges of the man behind the trigger that eyeballs Rose’s breasts with glee. Standing firmly between two rather serious eyes of his own, Henry peers down his own nose at the crook—his collection of finely tuned facial tics madly out of control. 

“Get on it, Nancy,” says Saunders, getting back to business, cocking the hammer towards Henry’s twitching dome. Henry smirks a brow and opens his drawer. In a gravelly tone, Saunders turns and shouts, “Hands up!” 

Now, nothing sets alarm bells ringin’ like an iron barrel to the ribs, all but these words spoken in a bank. Mr. Olsen jumps in his shoes and turns to stare down the barrel of the man who has himself arrived to rob his bank. Edward raises his lanky arms. But with a whack to the head, Edward collapses to the floor like a dead hound, counting fingers twitching momentarily and, suddenly, still for the first time in as long as anyone can count. 

“Hey,” shouts Saunders. “This is a robbery, goddamn it, wake the hell up!” 

Ms. Smith lets out a nasal breath as deep creases form around her mouth. The long black feather protruding from her dark hat, a bird long extinct, quivering back to life in utter disbelief. She puckers and huffs in contempt. A slight disturbance to her morning routine. Tea for two is on the tray, and Ms. Elliot awaits. Ms. Elliot: insignificant to this story.

“Ott, ott, ott,” utters Saunders as Mr. Olsen attempts to tend to Edward. Saunders removes the .45 from Edward’s holster, caressing the barrel of the ten-shot on Mr. Olsen’s label, saying, “Judgin’ by the suit, boss, I’d say you the president of this here bank. Now, wouldn’t ya be a gentleman and escort me to the safe, how ‘bout it?” just as Gale Tout, the manager of the lumberyard, enters with $95 cash to be deposited.

Now, it takes Gale Tout a twinkling or two to notice the drawn pistol pointed directly at his face, but in due time the old-timer raises his hands over his head, cash in one of them, fluttering about. 

“Mornin’,” Saunders greets him. “Now, as you can see, this here is a robbery,” as Tout looks to see Edward snoring on the floor.

Mr. Smith glares at the crook with hate from her own two feet.

Saunders shakes off her glare.

“Now,” nudging Tout to the floor, “on the floor. And turning back to Mr. Olsen, “Go on, boss, let’s go an’ give that dial a good spin,” and turning back to Ms. Smith, “And don’t you move an inch, lady, or I’ll take that fine hat right off your head.”

She glares right back down the barrel into his eyes. He flinches as a ruler strikes his swollen bosom. What the hell is goin’ on, he wonders, with a shake of his noggin. Small towns. For heaven’s sake. The slicker runs Edward’s barrel across the brim of his Kroger cap, beady eyes twitching into the past in a particular moment of humiliation, “Ain’t nothin’ but a good fer nothin’—”  

“I don’t know who you think you are,” says Mr. Olsen, finally breaking his silence.

“Well, mind my manners,” says Saunders, “seems I’ve forgot proper introductions in all the excitement.” Smooshing the barrel of his 10-shot into Mr. Olsen’s cheek. “This here is Godspell. Now, Godspell, he gets a little riled up from time to time, but ya know what keeps him calm? Poetry, of all things. Now, I can try an’ calm ‘im before he gets flustered, but I might add one tiny detail about our schedule—if we ain’t out of here in two minutes flat, ol’ Godspell here, well might-gonna lose his patience. And hell, he might just go on an’ sing a gospel real loud, bringin’ all y’all closer to God.”

Ms. Smith grabs her cross. The barrel swiveling in Mr. Olsen’s cheek, Mr. Olsen doesn’t budge an inch. Ms. Smith is rather unimpressed by the path this young man has chosen in life. If she only had her trusty ruler. She’d set him on the straight and narrow by God as her witness.

“He does not wear the epaul—” Saunders stops to clear his throat. “He does not wear the epaul—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” scoffs Ms. Smith, “Epaulettes! He does not wear the epaulettes!”

Saunders continues, “...the epaulettes / nor the corporal’s coat of grey / Yet sickly grey is on the flesh of this monster man of prey / Who, like some misshaped Martian toad / unfurled the flag of fray / He sits upon the latest throne—imperially commands / our fighting lads to maim and kill the brave of other lands / His fat heart knows one craven wish—the greed of mister-hands.”

The two lock eyes, failing to see eye-to-eye.

“It’s in your hands, boss.” Grabbing the watch out of Mr. Olsen’s vest, Saunders yanks on its golden chain with a snap and a click of his cheek. “Now, give up the ghost!”

The lights buzz and Mr. Olsen glares back at him in silence, takes a deep audible breath, grasps the handle, and pulls open the unlocked vault. 

“Golly,” says Saunders, shaking his head in astonishment at the unlocked vault, “didn’t take me as the type—now get on in there and fill it to the brim!”

Mr. Olsen clenches his teeth and snatches the carpetbag from the crook’s hand. 

“Now, I know what you’re thinkin’. I'm just some lowlife, good for nothin’ crook.” 

“Matter of fact I was,” says Mr. Olsen as he carefully places each bundle of cash into the bag.

“But ya know, the only difference between you and me is you ain’t honest! In fact, you’re a victim of your own success, stealin’ from the common man. You can’t even see it when ya look in the mirror in the mornin’, C-R-O-O-K, written right across your forehead!” He runs the barrel of the ten-shot across his own brow. “There’s honor in a man knowin’ what color his blood runs. Hell, if it ain’t a downright virtue! See, boss, my blood runs green—green as a Martian toad.” Casting an eye over at Rose—trembling in her ankle boots—Saunders loses his train of thought. “Come to think of it, ya get that sweet little thing out of this predicament alive—well, hell, the truth is, ladies tend to get a little looser after the excitement of a bank job, if ya know what I mean.” He stops to think, scratching his temple with the barrel. “More pro-fli—”

“Profligate,” says Mr. Olsen, shutting his eyes and dropping his head in nausea. 

“Don’t be getting’ all squeamish on me now, boss. Come on out of there!”

Mr. Olsen lugs the stuffed carpetbag overflowing with cash out of the vault. 

“Now, be a darlin’ and carry it to the door for me, would ya?”

Saunders stuffs his shirt with leftover banknotes from Henry’s feet, who stands pigeon-toed, tweaking his left eyebrow as he turns his head away in repulsion. And Gale Tout hands forth his $95 cash from his position face-down on the floor. But, preoccupied with Rose’s silhouette, Saunders’s menacing eyes soften. And with an ornery grin, he says, “Aw hell, let the poor devil keep his money—it ain’t insured.” And, in a whisper, he lies into Rose, “What’s your name, darlin’?”

“Rose,” she says, lip quivering.  

“The queen of all the flowers / And loathsome canker lives in the sweetest bud—”

“I thought you and Godspell had somewhere to be?” says Mr. Olsen.

“Alright, move it,” says Saunders, leading Mr. Olsen, Rose, Henry, Gale Tout, Ms. Smith, and his $95 cash for the vault. He gives the dial a good spin. Steps over Edward and dashes out the door, joining his cousin Hank waiting in the old dusty Rambler. Hank: a greasy-haired man in overalls, grinds the gears, and they flee as fast as a one cylinder might. The newsboy looks on in wonderment—the headline having arrived at his curb.

Putterin’ east down Elm, Hank makes a sharp right and jumps the curb on Fourth, passing:

P&O Plow Factory

The Rambler tops out at 14 mph, a pack of yelping strays keeping pace, racing south for the railyard in the low part of town.

The lacquer barely dry, the Japan Black Patrol Car, souped-up to 20-horsepower, speeds east past the newsboy in quick pursuit. At the wheel: Chomping at the bit, a greying Chief[CMP3]  Roy—waiting all his days to see action like this—thin-lipped, brow crinkled with rage, not in my town, stomping the pedal to the metal, engine roaring to forty-two, flat. Passenger: Officer O’Brian, a sturdy man, tough as game and gristle, first-generation redhead, spinning the cylinder of his six-shooter like an all-American. 

The officers spot the getaway car at the corner of Oak and Fourth, running parallel to the railyard. Chief Roy cranks the wheel and flies around the corner, catching the 8-horsepower Jeffery in a snap. With escape suddenly narrowed, Saunders takes a defensive position, shooting from the back of the Rambler. Bills trickle from his collar as a gun battle ensues, and the strays flee. Roy speeds up alongside the getaway car, and O’Brian leans out the window and fires across the hood, shooting out a front tire. Swerving to the right, Hank nearly crashes into a tree before overcorrecting to the left, jumping the tracks, and jarring the Rambler’s rim into a scissor crossover. The axel snaps, and the crooks come to a rough halt atop the sleepers—steam rising from the engine. Chief Roy stomps on the brakes, leaving twenty-foot skid marks. He jumps out and proceeds to fire—POP! POP! POP—Cash flying everywhere at the intersection of Cherry Lane.

Out of ammo, Saunders takes cover on the floorboard. Hank pulls a Winchester lever-action from behind his seat, firing nine shots in return—Crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack—punching two holes in Chief Roy’s chest. His rage-filled face descends into agony as he slides down the side of the patrol car, blood pooling around him. A final crack throws lead right into O’Brian’s chest, and he collapses to his knees with a gasp as he bleeds out into the palm of his hand. Head bobbing, his vision fades. But something inside of him gathers. He clenches his eyes tight, nurturing a lump of hot coal, a man at the dawn of time, nursing the light, nursing will, staying off the darkness with a spring of the eyelids. He raises his sidearm, peers down the quivering iron, and with the tiniest of possible breaths, steadies, summons the last of his gathered strength, and squeezes the trigger with a single POP. The round flashes out of the barrel, peeling back with mad velocity as it screams through the air and whacks into Hank’s chest, landing him squarely on his back with a thud—blood projecting from his mouth and splattering on the brick. 

Saunders rolls out of the car. With cash fluttering, he flees on foot, unscathed, carpet bag in hand, scurrying between two ramshackle houses. A sudden BANG rings out from a waiting barrel. And with a sudden look of surprise, Saunders’s eyes widen and cross as he drops the loot—loot gathered by the breeze. He falls to his knees—knees bending the wrong way—with a plop as smoke curls from the long, chromed barrel. A shiny watch is removed from his pocket. The loot is retrieved, and blood spurts out in pulses from the hole in his head. Somewhere beyond, a stray howls. As above, a startled starling circles back around to see which way the wind is blowin’. 

Copyright © Cory Zimmerman, USA. All rights reserved.