But with a Whimper

Zombie or Post Apocalyptic themed fiction/stories.

Moderator: ZS Global Moderators

Post Reply
User avatar
Ponyboy314
* * * * *
Posts: 1118
Joined: Thu Oct 26, 2006 3:12 am
Contact:

But with a Whimper

Post by Ponyboy314 » Thu Aug 19, 2010 2:43 am

C
Last edited by Ponyboy314 on Fri Feb 24, 2012 8:15 am, edited 1 time in total.
"If you have a milkshake, and I have a milkshake, and there's a straw, there it is, that's a straw...and my straw reaches...acrosssssssss the room, and begins to drink your milkshake. I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE! SLURRRP! I DRINK IT UP!

User avatar
Mangangali
* *
Posts: 242
Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2007 6:25 pm
Location: Texas

Re: But with a Whimper

Post by Mangangali » Thu Aug 19, 2010 3:30 am

popcorn and beer ready...is it too early for the M word?
I am Murphy's favored son.

User avatar
Ponyboy314
* * * * *
Posts: 1118
Joined: Thu Oct 26, 2006 3:12 am
Contact:

Re: But with a Whimper

Post by Ponyboy314 » Thu Aug 19, 2010 4:04 am

By two-thirty that morning, Henry parked right in front of one of the bars (specifically, the Mountaineer Saloon) to see the locals off and tip his hat to those who caught his gaze. It did as much as anything else to continuously endear him to the residents of his little town, as it reminded them not to reach for the keys if they put a few too many away, as well as that even at this late hour on a Friday, when he could have been throwing a few back with his friends, he was still watching over them as a good cop does. Quite a few winks and tips of the hat went by as the bar emptied and the locals waved as they passed him, but by a quarter to three, the streets were virtually empty and the bar shut off its lights. A couple of minutes after that, George Sturgis, the owner and operator of the Mountaineer Saloon and a lifelong resident of Red River (minus the four years he was in the Army) locked up and came to light a cigarette on the sidewalk near Henry’s cruiser.

“Well, good evening there, Chief. I hope none of my loyal regulars caused you anything like a fuss tonight.”

“Not at all, George. Responsible, upstanding citizens, every one of them. Looked like the mood was good in there.”

“Yeah, the good times sure as hell rolled tonight. You know, I saw Lawrence Hibbert walk out of here with that sweet-looking brunette he’s had eyes for? Arm-in-arm, right out the door. Can you believe that? Neither were even in their cups. I guess he finally said or did something to get her to realize that he exists. Probably field testing the mattress springs at his place right now, betcha anything.”

“Probably. Anyway, safe travels tonight, George. I’m heading home. Have some place to be tomorrow, you know, special occasion and all that.”

“Oh right, you’re taking the Mrs. out for a weekend, I heard it said. Well, have fun with that. I dare say the town won’t be burned to the ground while you’re gone. See you when you get back there, Chief.”

Henry smiled. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard Erika called that. “We’re not married, George, you know that.”

“Might as well be, and it’s a good thing she’s the truth-telling sort, so she doesn’t need you to make an honest woman out of her. Heh heh…get it? Anyway, going back to my own Mrs. You know she’ll break out that frying pan right quick if I get home too late. So tell that sweet thing of yours I said ‘hi.’ And you just make sure the two of you are scuffing up my dance floor next weekend. That bunch from down south, Las Cruces I think, The Rocky Mountain Rangers, you know them?”

“No George, can’t say that I have. Band of some sort, I’m guessing.”

“Yeah. I got them booked for next Friday. I caught them once a year or so ago at a hole-in-the-wall in Tucumcari and they ain’t bad. Gonna be a swinging place, betcha anything.”

“I’m sure Erika and I will stop in. Anyway, see you later, George.”

“Not if I see you first, Chief.”

Henry took his cruiser back to the station, that being the double-wide near the edge of town that served that purpose. He put his keys in the lock box and headed out, taking his navy blue Ford Bronco out of the gravel parking lot and down the main road, before getting to the turn off to Erika’s place. The small road led into the trees and past a few other houses until he parked in front of another double-wide, this one with a painted mailbox with “Sullivan” in elegant letters written on the side. They both had keys to each other’s places, and Henry was able to get through the front door without making a sound. He already had his bags ready to go by the front door and a set of clothes on the couch, and he showered and slid into bed, with a sleeping Erika next to him. He kissed her on the mouth and drifted off to sleep fairly quickly.

Henry was woken up that morning around nine or so when he heard the front door slam. A few seconds later, Erika came in, dressed in a pink tank top under an open dark blue collared shirt and jeans, complete with sneakers, holding two brown paper bags. What a doll, she even brought breakfast.

“Hey honey. What you got there?”

“Figured you might like something from The Red River Griddle before heading out and wishing me a happy birthday as only you can.” Erika smiled, that same smile that tossed a net around his heart five years earlier.

“You’re a real doll, Erika, I ever tell you that?”

“At least a few times a week, which means not enough. Now come on, the best breakfast burritos in the world aren’t going to eat themselves, you know.” Erika’s shirt flapped open as she moved, showing off the holstered Smith and Wesson snub-nosed .38 she usually wore whenever she left the house, and always had when ever she hit the radio at the station. She had her concealed carry permit and knew how to use that little J-frame years before she had ever heard of Henry Dane. Although she doubted the possibility, if anything happened at the station, she might have to draw it and handle some business. Erika never was and never would be the type to hide behind her or anyone else’s man if things got hairy, and the day Henry realized that, he knew he had a keeper on his hands, even if it was still a few months before he made what he thought was a fool of himself that night at the bar that get their ball rolling.

They took a few minutes to put away what were, in fact, the best breakfast burritos in the world, and after that, Henry got dressed, brushed his teeth, and that was about it. They were out the door by nine-twenty.

Henry had gotten them a room at the Taos Best Western, which put them in easy reach of Taos’s Old Town Plaza for shopping and a decent dinner, the chance to see a museum or two, and generally be a couple without everyone they passed recognizing them. They had Italian for dinner, splashed around in the pool (Erika secretly bought a new two-piece for this occasion, just to see Henry slather for a while before the real show began up in room 308) and what they did that night should not require description. The next day, they slept in late (it had been quite a night), barely managed to grab breakfast at the hotel’s restaurant before they stopped serving it, and spent most of the day just walking around Old Town Plaza again. Red River, barely an hour from Taos, seemed a million miles away, which was the point. They ate a fancy dinner (as fancy as a born-and-bred small-towner like Erika could imagine, that is) and hit the pool again, before heading back upstairs and getting cozy behind their “Do Not Disturb” sign.

Happy birthday to her.

It was something of a pleasant ride back to Red River. As they rounded the bend and headed into town, the peaceful mountain setting almost seemed to be welcoming them back with a wink, as though what they had done in room 308 was just between the three of them. They got back to Erika’s place and proceeded to nap the afternoon away. Both would be back at the station bright and early the next morning, and their blanket-based recreational activities had sapped much of their strength over the weekend.

Back to the grind. Back to the cruiser and the radio. Back to the people of Red River.

Back to paradise in the mountains.
"If you have a milkshake, and I have a milkshake, and there's a straw, there it is, that's a straw...and my straw reaches...acrosssssssss the room, and begins to drink your milkshake. I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE! SLURRRP! I DRINK IT UP!

The Sarge
* *
Posts: 199
Joined: Tue Apr 20, 2010 3:21 am
Location: Penriff, N.S.W, Australia
Contact:

Re: But with a Whimper

Post by The Sarge » Thu Aug 19, 2010 4:18 am

Yeah, two story posts, you know what that means...

MOAR!
When you think about it, the end of Romeo & Juliet is acutally pretty funny. (Note that some of the females in my class called me quite a few things when I said this, none of them nice)
Jeriah wrote:A sword is like a sling: useless unless you also pack the stones necessary to actually use the thing.

SteveD
* * *
Posts: 544
Joined: Sat Feb 07, 2009 6:23 pm
Location: Central WI

Re: But with a Whimper

Post by SteveD » Thu Aug 19, 2010 9:50 am

WOHOO!!!
new story!!!keep the additions coming ponyboy
if all else fails, accelerate!
KC9UMT

User avatar
maldon007
* * * * *
Posts: 4097
Joined: Thu Oct 15, 2009 10:49 am
Favorite Zombie Movies: Most of the older stuff, newer stuff just doesnt cut it fsr...
Location: Pickle Bucket Brigade
Contact:

Re: But with a Whimper

Post by maldon007 » Thu Aug 19, 2010 10:08 am

Yes yes YES!
Image

Laager
* * * *
Posts: 839
Joined: Sun Jun 20, 2010 9:25 pm

Re: But with a Whimper

Post by Laager » Thu Aug 19, 2010 3:33 pm

I have a funny feeling that Paradise has just been lost.....can't wait for the next chapter.
“Complacency kills. Paranoia is the reason I’m still alive.” If we do happen to make contact, I expect nothing less than gratuitous violence from the lot of ya.

User avatar
Stumpgrinder
* *
Posts: 116
Joined: Sun Oct 25, 2009 3:25 pm
Favorite Zombie Movies: Zombieland, Dawn of the Dead, Shawn of the Dead, The Signal
Location: Kyle, TX

Re: But with a Whimper

Post by Stumpgrinder » Thu Aug 19, 2010 3:40 pm

Here we go again! I loves me some PonyBoy!
Vicarious_Lee wrote:We'll get by.

User avatar
FrANkNstEin
* * * * *
Posts: 1341
Joined: Fri Jan 08, 2010 4:37 am
Location: Austria

Re: But with a Whimper

Post by FrANkNstEin » Thu Aug 19, 2010 4:44 pm

yay!! :mrgreen:

SimonZayne
* * * *
Posts: 991
Joined: Tue Nov 20, 2007 10:33 pm
Location: Zanesville

Re: But with a Whimper

Post by SimonZayne » Thu Aug 19, 2010 5:36 pm

I've been waiting for a new story from Ponyboy.

User avatar
Ponyboy314
* * * * *
Posts: 1118
Joined: Thu Oct 26, 2006 3:12 am
Contact:

Re: But with a Whimper

Post by Ponyboy314 » Thu Aug 19, 2010 6:52 pm

Their first day back at the station, not much happened that would distinguish it from most other days. Henry pulled over some out-of-towner who felt the need to try blowing through the center of town at nearly sixty when the speed limit was thirty-five (and that idiot kept Henry busy for nearly half-an-hour as he pressed his argument that he never saw a speed limit sign, which did not get him out of a ticket), and that was about the most significant event that took place all day through Henry’s eyes. Beyond that, he got out now and again to just walk up and down this road or that, for the sake of tipping his hat as he passed the residents of Red River. He stopped for a two-minute chat with George Sturgis, who was then grabbing a smoke in front of his bar (it was early afternoon, and hardly anyone was inside anyway), he headed into Julie Berman’s curio shop to see how her father was doing (not great, as cancer was doing a number on him at a hospital down in Taos), and stopped in at the small convention center, to see if anything interesting was happening in the near future (not much in the immediate future, but in about a month, some company from Salt Lake City was holding a retreat there and sometime after that, the New Mexico chapter of the Single Action Shooting Society was holding its annual meeting there, along with an Old West Firearm display). In other words, Henry’s day went the same as they almost all did. Nodding and shaking hands, keeping up with whatever the town considered important, and generally just reminding everyone that their police chief cared.

Erika Sullivan’s day was also mostly indistinguishable from any other. She sat in her ergonomic chair behind the front desk of the tiny Red River Police Station, grabbed a cup of coffee every couple of hours, logged in the officers’ locations every hour, and took a few calls that should have gone to someone else (such as when Rob Osstereicher called in saying that he blew a tire in his own driveway and needed a tow, apparently forgetting that the local grease monkey kept a tow truck in the back lot and that a flat tire was hardly a police emergency). But as usual, Erika’s day was mostly made up of getting a few chapters ahead in some Tony Hillerman book, doing her nails, and chatting with a friend of hers over the phone about the possibility of dinner on Friday and tying it on at the Mountaineer or some such thing. The station’s holding cells (all three of them) were empty, the toilet paper had already been replaced recently, and nothing needed to be dusted or vacuumed. Erika did, for a time, tune in an alt-rock station from way down in Albuquerque, but mostly she just whiled the day away, nose-first in her book. Basically, when Henry got back to the station that afternoon, they were unlikely to talk shop. It wouldn’t be a lengthy conversation. It rarely was.

Nothing much happened to distinguish the next few days on the clock either, just as little had done so in the five years since Henry put the chief’s stars on his shoulders. Life went on, day by day, and the only thing that truly made one day different from the ones before and after it were whether or not Henry and Erika were staying in or getting together for dinner or their latest DVD rental.

For Henry Dane, life was good.

That Friday night, he and Erika did, in fact, add a few new scuff marks to George Sturgis’s dance floor, and although they were hardly the Oak Ridge Boys, The Rocky Mountain Rangers weren’t terrible (even though Henry had little use for country music, and was mostly a fan of classic rock, metal, and alternative). Henry had a beer or two (Shiner Bock, as usual) while Erika had a Crown Royal and Coke, promptly followed by another, but stayed dry the rest of the night while Erika found herself, once again, trying to lead a two left-footed Henry through something as simple as the two-step, as well as other dances he couldn’t name, and after a while, they split apart for a time to dance with some of their friends. Henry tried to keep up with Evie Wainwright (Erika’s friend who called her at the station that Tuesday about meeting at the Mountaineer) while Erika tore the floor up with Martin Turner, one of Henry’s officers and his best friend. They lasted for most of the night but called it around one in the morning, heading home (Henry’s, this time) for a romp in the sheets and a long night’s sleep in each other’s arms.

Yes, for Henry Dane, life was good.

It was Wednesday the following week, and this day, at least by eleven in the morning, was shaping up to be as uneventful as any other. He stopped at the Rough Rider Saloon (which was always happening, but never got quite the business that The Mountaineer did) to chat for a minute or two with Lew Clancy, the owner/operator, and later saw Mal and Renee Sellers pushing around their new baby boy, not yet three weeks old, whom Henry had never actually seen, which he remedied quickly (they had named their little one Timothy, after Renee’s late father), and such was his day before lunch. He stopped in at the Red River Griddle and picked up a French drip sandwich for himself and some chicken salad for Erika, eating together at a red-painted picnic table in front of the station. Henry was out and about in his town by a quarter to one. It was ten after two that he got the call.

“Dispatch to Adam Zero-One, Dispatch to Adam Zero-One, come in, Chief.” (Despite being in a relationship for four years, both Henry and Erika were quite professional when speaking to each other in an official capacity).

“This is Adam Zero-One, Dispatch. Go ahead.”

“Chief, I got a call from Russ Tillman. He’s out at the Plessy house and he says that something weird happened up there, but wouldn’t say anything about it, just that we needed to get there right away. His voice was shaking like hell when he said it.”

“At the Plessy House you said?”

“That’s right, Chief. Russ is at the main road at the base of the hill from Plessy’s place. Says he’s not going anywhere near that place again until we get there, over.”

“Okay, Dispatch. Leave it with me. Adam Zero One to Adam Zero Three, come in.”

Over Henry’s radio, a comparatively ancient voice cracked back, “Adam Zero Three here. Go ahead Chief.”

“What’s your twenty, Bumpy?”

“Closer to the Plessy house than you Chief, I’m willing to bet. Not wrapped up in anything at the moment. Want me to head on up and see what has Russ Tiller all spooked?”

“Yeah, do that. Radio back if you need me out there.”

“You got it, Chief.”
"If you have a milkshake, and I have a milkshake, and there's a straw, there it is, that's a straw...and my straw reaches...acrosssssssss the room, and begins to drink your milkshake. I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE! SLURRRP! I DRINK IT UP!

User avatar
Ronin71XS
* *
Posts: 270
Joined: Thu Feb 15, 2007 10:48 pm
Location: Wilmington, NC
Contact:

Re: But with a Whimper

Post by Ronin71XS » Thu Aug 19, 2010 8:52 pm

Ohboy Ponyboy goodness
Do, Do Not, there is no try. ~Yoda

He who does not punish evil commands it to be done.~ Leonardo Da Vinci

Come To The DarkSide....We have cookies.~~V

Snapshot7.62
* * *
Posts: 359
Joined: Mon Mar 24, 2008 10:54 pm
Location: South Dakota

Re: But with a Whimper

Post by Snapshot7.62 » Thu Aug 19, 2010 10:38 pm

All right, another Ponyboy story!
Suizen wrote:CZ is made of sex. Angry, ass slapping, hair pulling, filthy, dirty sex.

User avatar
Ponyboy314
* * * * *
Posts: 1118
Joined: Thu Oct 26, 2006 3:12 am
Contact:

Re: But with a Whimper

Post by Ponyboy314 » Fri Aug 20, 2010 12:38 am

Bumpy, which was all anyone ever called him, was actually Alvin Furlong, and how he ever got the nickname ‘Bumpy’ was something that even he didn’t know. He couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t called that, and whatever that nickname meant, no one, not even his parents ever told him, and as they were both deceased, they were certainly unlikely to tell him now. He headed off to the Plessy house within seconds of getting the call from Henry.

Bumpy Furlong was a real lifer in Red River. Born and bred he was, and had always planned on growing old and dying there, but still did a stint in the Air Force just to see the world for a while before getting down to the business of his adult life. After four years living the Aim High lifestyle, Bumpy got out and went back where he belonged, and within a couple of years put on the badge and had worn it ever since. Now in his mid-fifties, he had first become a local cop when Henry, his current boss, had not even entered kindergarten yet, but Bumpy played the part of the wise old elder well to the point that he served as a good guide to Henry as he worked his way into the hearts of the people. He was tough and reliable, always there whenever Henry or anyone else needed him. On his belt, both on-duty and off, was a prehistoric Smith and Wesson Model 10 revolver, which while out of place now, had been the law enforcement weapon of choice “back in his day,” and in a world of Glocks and Berettas, he had no intention of retiring his trusty old sidekick. In fact, as long as they would have him, Bumpy had no intention of retiring anything. He was in for life or until his body shrieked at him to stop. His body was still doing fine for an old fart, though.

It was about ten minutes after Chief Henry Dane called him and had him look into whatever was rattling Russ Tillman at the Plessy house that Bumpy radioed back to the boss. Plessy’s house was a few miles outside of town, barely within Henry’s jurisdiction, and as far as Red River’s residents were concerned, that place was the most remote of anyone who could call themselves a local. The house (such as it was) was not on the main road, but a dirt and gravel path led up to it in a clearing about four miles up. It was certainly remote and it was not for nothing that Leland Plessy had lived there for decades without the first thought of moving crossing his mind.

“Adam Zero Three to Adam Zero One. Chief you there?”

“Right here. Go ahead, Bumpy.”

“Yeah, I’m down here at the turnoff, and I’m with Russ Tillman…he’s pretty shaken up. Isn’t speaking or anything. All he’s doing is pointing up the road to Plessy’s place. Won’t talk at all. What do you want me to do? Stay here with him or head on up?”

“Bumpy, go ahead and give him another minute. If Russ doesn’t say anything, then head up and wait for me there. Whatever has him freaked out, I want to see for myself. Adam Zero One to Dispatch.”

“Dispatch here. Go ahead Chief.”

“You get that? I’m heading out to the Plessy place myself. I’ll radio in when I get there.”

“Okay, Chief. Take care out there.”

Henry headed out to the edges of town, wondering what the hell was going on. Not much out here could really spook a person, short of a mountain lion or a black bear lumbering into someone’s yard, which happened from time to time. But the thought that kept Henry’s mind occupied for the ten minutes it took to get to the turnoff where Russ Tillman sat in silence was that Russ was hardly a man who scared easily, and he’d seen a few things in his life that could scare most people out of their boots.

Russell Tillman was one of the three postal workers who serviced Red River and some of the outlying areas, but now nearing fifty, he had certainly lived his share of life until then.

Russell, like Bumpy, was raised in Red River from his earliest memories, but had been born in Farmington, a tad bit inside the New Mexico state line in the Four Corners area. After graduating high school, he joined the Marines and the next twenty years of his life wound up belonging to the Corps. During his two decades as a life-taker and heartbreaker, Russ had been in Beirut in 1983 (when the marine barracks were bombed, many of those killed had been friends of his), Panama hunting Manuel Noriega over Christmas in 1989, and a year after that, sat pretty in Saudi Arabia waiting for the order to bitch slap Saddam out of Kuwait. He got married after returning from Desert Storm and had a son not long after, and a daughter a couple of years after that, and missed Somalia but wound up on alert when things in Bosnia hit the skids. He retired after twenty years around the time the millennium turned over and came back to Red River to just hold a straight job and raise his kids in peace. Now with nine years carrying mail, he looked forward to hanging that mail bag up for good in another decade or so and living off a military pension with a civil service pension as the cherry on top. As a marine, Russ had seen the world as he had hoped, but had finally seen enough of it and now just wanted to see his kids grow up, his wife grow old with him, and watch the trees from his porch with a beer in his hand. He had so far been chugging right along on that plan, and in the ten years since he had come back to his hometown, nothing had happened to make him think twice about his decision to retire back to where, in his words, “things made sense.”

When Chief Dane arrived at the turnoff, he saw that Russ Tillman was just as Bumpy had described: sitting in his mail truck, engine off, not moving hardly at all. He parked behind Tillman and got out, tapping gently on his window.

“Russ? Russ? You okay in there? I have Bumpy at the Plessy house right now…can you tell me what you saw up there? Anything?”

Leland Plessy had a mailbox on the front of his house, hanging off the wall right next to the front door, having been lost in the shuffle when the town got the funding to replace many of the private mailboxes with the communal kind, the type which need to be opened with a key. That shift had certainly made Russ Tillman’s life easier, but since Plessy’s property had not been included due to a clerical error (or whatever it was), it still meant driving up here and up the path to his house and walking the mail up to the door, and while that sounds like something that barely constitutes a minor inconvenience, anyone trying to drive that path up to Leland Plessy’s in a driving snow and wind in January could say that yes, it was inconvenient, and no, that inconvenience was not minor.

Russ Tillman did not look at Henry. He just pointed his finger up the path, not moving his head or even his eyes as he did so.
"If you have a milkshake, and I have a milkshake, and there's a straw, there it is, that's a straw...and my straw reaches...acrosssssssss the room, and begins to drink your milkshake. I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE! SLURRRP! I DRINK IT UP!

User avatar
Hoppy
* * * * *
Posts: 7898
Joined: Wed Sep 26, 2007 6:39 pm
Favorite Zombie Movies: all of them. except Diary of The Dead.
Location: MA :(

Re: But with a Whimper

Post by Hoppy » Fri Aug 20, 2010 2:26 am

sounds like were going to be missing a deputy real quick. :cry:
No one has a sense for the dramatic.

User avatar
Ponyboy314
* * * * *
Posts: 1118
Joined: Thu Oct 26, 2006 3:12 am
Contact:

Re: But with a Whimper

Post by Ponyboy314 » Fri Aug 20, 2010 3:15 am

Henry had never really seen anything like this, either on the Santa Fe force or here in Red River. What is was…was just something that Henry couldn’t explain if he had to. The closest he could get to the expression on Russ Tillman’s face was…shell shock. He looked as though something had drawn Russ’s gaze into the beyond, and what he saw staring back at him had caused the light in his eyes to flicker out from the fear. Apart from the slow, robotic hand that had raised itself to point the way up the road to whatever had laid siege to his mind, he was unresponsive.

Henry got back on his radio. This was something beyond his experience.

“Adam Zero One to Adam Zero Three. Bumpy, everything okay up there?”

“Well, I’m okay if that’s what you mean, Chief. But this…”

“What the hell happened? What happened up there? Russ has totally gone over the mental high dive. Something really spooked him. What the hell do you see?”

“It’s…it doesn’t make much sense, Chief. I think you’d better come up here and see for yourself.”

“Damn. Okay, hang on. I’ll be up in a minute, and keep your eyes open.”

“You can count on that last one, Boss.”

Henry keyed his radio again. “Adam Zero One to Dispatch.”

“Go ahead, Chief.”

“I’m out here at the turn off to Plessy’s place, and Russ Tillman is in shock. He’s not injured but his mind…well, I need Martin out here. Have Martin take him to the clinic and see if they can get him to snap out of it. Don’t bother with an ambulance or anything like that. Just get Martin out here and keep it on the down low. Then, contact the post office and tell them to send someone to pick up their truck. They can deal with that one themselves.”

“You got it, Chief. Is it…that bad?”

“I’ll fill you in later. Just get Martin out here and get the people at the post office to deal with their truck.”

“No problem.”

Henry headed back to the mail truck, knowing that it probably wasn’t going to matter anyway. “Okay, Russ? I have one of my officers coming out here to take you to the clinic, okay? Just hang tight and wait for him. And don’t worry about your truck. That’s getting handled. Okay?”

Once again, that robotic hand just raised and pointed back up that road.

A shiver went down Henry’s spine. There was something otherworldly, almost supernatural about the way Russ was acting. Again, Henry hadn’t seen this sort of thing before, but he had seen something similar. His third year on the Santa Fe force, a woman had been brought to his station and placed in one of the interviewing rooms after narrowly avoiding an attempted rape. Henry had been assigned to just stand in the room and make sure she didn’t go spastic until one of the detectives from the Sex Crimes Division could come down and begin taking her statement. That meant about half an hour of standing with his arms folded, trying to look reassuring, trying to do anything but look nervous or bored, and in that half an hour, he alternated frequently between both.

They did not exchange a word, but one time, for about ten or twelve seconds, the poor woman raised her head and turned her gaze towards Henry, in a similar robotic fashion to the one Russ Tillman was using, as though someone behind the one-way glass was controlling her with cheap animatronics. There was nothing human in the way she moved, nothing whatsoever, and when their eyes met, there was barely anything human in those, either.

The look, that was the one thing that now came back to him in all its nerve-racking glory. That look…it was similar to Russ’s look…blank, as though her whole existence was a book with all the words edited out. It seemed to Henry that the mouth of hell, or someplace as frightening, had opened in front of her and left something in her mind that would forever remind her that dark terrors lurk on this earth, and that she had already come face-to-face with one of them. Her eyes did not look at Henry, they looked through him, as though his face was the door to infinity and he was simply blocking her view.

It was the face of someone who has seen a nightmare walking in the waking world.

Henry had never forgotten that look, though he hadn’t exactly thought much on it, especially since taking the chief’s position here in Red River, but now it came back to him. He was pretty sure no one tried to rape Russ Tillman, but if his mind was anything like that poor woman’s all those years earlier, it must have been something…something from beyond the limits of human fear.

Again, Russ’s expression, or lack of it, was not exactly identical, but similar enough. Just…just similar enough.

“Just hang in there, Russ. You’ll be all right.”

Police Chief Henry Dane got back in his cruiser, and as he backed up and headed up the path to Leland Plessy’s house, threw a desperate glance over his shoulder, hoping and praying that Martin Turner, his best friend and a good officer, was already arriving.

But the road leading back to Red River was still empty as Henry went up that path to see what had reared its head and scared Russ Tillman into a mindless state.
"If you have a milkshake, and I have a milkshake, and there's a straw, there it is, that's a straw...and my straw reaches...acrosssssssss the room, and begins to drink your milkshake. I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE! SLURRRP! I DRINK IT UP!

User avatar
Ponyboy314
* * * * *
Posts: 1118
Joined: Thu Oct 26, 2006 3:12 am
Contact:

Re: But with a Whimper

Post by Ponyboy314 » Fri Aug 20, 2010 4:58 am

Henry tried to shut the thoughts out of his head as he made the short drive up to the home of Leland Plessy, but only with partial success. How could he hold a mental bastion against the state of Russ Tillman? What could bring his mind to the brink and judge nudge it over, just enough to reset the timer? What could do something like that to anyone, let alone a retired marine who’d seen his share of shit pits in his time and still came out swinging?

Now that was a thought that nibbled on the ass-end of his mind as the trees along the path parted and the property of one Leland Plessy manifested itself before him.

Henry parked just outside the ancient (and long overdue for repair) barbed wire fence that surrounded the house and about half an acre worth of property. There was no gate, and either there never had been, or at least hadn’t been one for ages. Even “back in his day,” when Alvin “Bumpy” Furlong was out of one uniform and freshly in the one he still wore thirty or so years on, there hadn’t been one, and Leland Plessy was already living here in this house that would have made a Detroit crack house look like the Playboy Mansion. And even back in those days, the house was much like Plessy himself: beaten and broken, and no one wanted to be around it.

Leland Plessy was not exactly Red River born and bred, no more than Henry was, though he took a very different path to this high place in the mountains of New Mexico, his beginning about as far away as one could get from Red River and still be within the continental United States, that being Fishkill, New York. Like so many others, like Bumpy, Russ Tillman, and George Sturgis, his travels had taken him into the service, but only because Uncle Sam didn’t take no for an answer in those days. He graduated high school and with zero college prospects, the local draft board didn’t wait long, and that was 1966, a bad year for those who didn’t want to serve in the armed forces and didn’t have a connected family to get them out of it. He wound up in basic training and had his turn in Tigerland, then humped a ruck in the worst shit holes in Vietnam for the next ten months of his life until his second Purple Heart made him a two-timer, sending him back to the States with the worst sort of mental imagery still nibbling at his brain like a swarm of chiggers, and as far as anyone was concerned, it had never stopped nibbling.

After a few months trying and utterly failing to get his head straight back in Fishkill, where he had already become an old man at twenty, he got a letter from a friend from his platoon, who offered him a change of scenery. His war buddy was from this tiny speck of real estate in the Land of Enchantment called Red River. It was peaceful and quiet, and just the place to leave all of one’s ills at the door. His family owned a feed store, and rented property to new arrivals, and the offer was made plain: come on out, there’s a job and a home waiting. Leland Plessy took the offer for lack of anything better on his plate.

But those images would continue to haunt his every step like a nosy roommate.

His friend took over the store in 1986 when his father died, and he himself had followed dear old dad to heaven after serving his time in hell in 2003 of a heart attack, leaving it to his own son, resulting in a thirty-something punk calling the shots, and who couldn’t quite grasp why this doddering old relic that his old man insisted on keeping around seemed afraid of his own shadow and only spoke when someone asked him something, yet he kept Plessy around because that’s what his father wanted, plain and simple.

For all of that time, going all the way back to the autumn of 1968, the tiny house that his buddy’s father rented to him for dirt cheap had continuously fallen into disrepair, and only with great reluctance did his new boss go out to see any of it for himself. He had his own flashbacks from his time in Europe when it was all about Nazis instead of Commie gooks, but his welcome home had been much better than the kind that whiny college kid protestors gave, and he felt only pity for the young man who his son had tried so hard to give a second chance at life.

And it was on this very property, where the sad, quiet old man who always made people nervous when he was nearby, that Henry got a glimpse of what had cracked Russ Tillman.

Henry walked cautiously onto the property, past the fence with no gate, and continuously felt as though some sinister presence was watching him from the trees, waiting for him to drop his guard, even though Bumpy was here and didn’t seem nearly as spooked as Russ had been, but was obviously hoping to get this done and be somewhere else.

As if Henry needed any help seeing what had brought them to this place on a day that would otherwise be little different than any other, Bumpy was pointing to a dead body, but it certainly had not been Leland Plessy when it was still alive.

“Jesus Christ…” Henry said.

“Guess again, Chief.”

“Bumpy, where the hell is Plessy? Any sign of him at all?”

“Sorry Chief. Nothing out here, not a peep from the house. If he’s looking at us right now, he’s quiet as Helen Kellar after taking a vow of silence.”

Clearly, this had tossed Russ Tillman’s mind off track, or it would have been a hell of a coincidence, but Henry had little trouble keeping it together and Bumpy could claim the same. It was just a dead body. Any cop who ever dealt with a fatal traffic accident (both Henry and Bumpy had, more than once) had seen worse than this, and how it could have had such a mentally debilitating effect on Russ was confusing, but nothing else up here was out of the ordinary, so it was this poor dead bastard or nothing. But Russ had done twenty in the Corps, and after Beirut, Panama, and Desert Storm, during which he saw at least some combat, how could this one dead body be enough to whack his brain out of tune?

None of this made sense, and in Red River, usually everything made sense.
Last edited by Ponyboy314 on Fri Aug 20, 2010 5:47 am, edited 4 times in total.
"If you have a milkshake, and I have a milkshake, and there's a straw, there it is, that's a straw...and my straw reaches...acrosssssssss the room, and begins to drink your milkshake. I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE! SLURRRP! I DRINK IT UP!

Cascade Failure
* *
Posts: 140
Joined: Sat Nov 29, 2008 6:40 pm
Favorite Zombie Movies: one's with zombies...duh
Location: Near the casinos

Re: But with a Whimper

Post by Cascade Failure » Fri Aug 20, 2010 5:31 am

Good start. Nice to see you back to writing Ponyboy.

User avatar
FrANkNstEin
* * * * *
Posts: 1341
Joined: Fri Jan 08, 2010 4:37 am
Location: Austria

Re: But with a Whimper

Post by FrANkNstEin » Fri Aug 20, 2010 5:58 am

What a pace when it comes to updates! :D

Big J
*
Posts: 50
Joined: Sun Jun 06, 2004 10:04 am
Location: Missouri

Re: But with a Whimper

Post by Big J » Fri Aug 20, 2010 10:25 am

Hells yeah!

Good story thus far, PB.

User avatar
Ponyboy314
* * * * *
Posts: 1118
Joined: Thu Oct 26, 2006 3:12 am
Contact:

Re: But with a Whimper

Post by Ponyboy314 » Sat Aug 21, 2010 2:17 am

“Well I can’t say I ever expected to see anything like this in Red River,” Henry said, matter-of-factly, though his voice blatantly betrayed his concern that there was something about this scene that went beyond a simple dead body, something that went far enough to leave Russ Tillman in a near-catatonic state.

“Chief, there’s a few things about this that aren’t making a damned bit of sense. No sign of Leland Plessy, a single dead guy from God-knows-where…”

“Okay, first things first,” Henry said. He leaned close to the dead body, and once again, he felt far more confusion than revulsion. “Bumpy, get that notebook out and start jotting down the details.”

“All rightie.”

“Let’s see. Adult male, probably late twenties or early thirties, flat on his back. No weapon nearby, so he was possibly unarmed. Apparent cause of death, gunshot to the head, close range. Hey Bumpy, take a look at this.”

Bumpy leaned close and Henry didn’t have to say a word to know what had caught the Chief’s attention. There were two more holes in this poor bastard, right in the heart, deliberately placed with the precision of Sergeant York. Someone had shot this man twice in the heart and once in the head. Clearly, this was not a case where a gun accidentally went off during a struggle. The man appeared to have been executed.

“This is damned weird, Chief. Two to the heart and one to the head? Did Plessy really think that this guy was getting up after a couple of shots hit him right in the ticker?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Bumpy. We don’t know if Plessy did this. Seriously, he’s a little out there, but a murderer? I can’t get there.”

“But Chief, this guy…we’d know him if he was from around here. He’s closer to the house than the fence. Plessy was always a little paranoid, so he could have warned the guy off but the guy didn’t stop, you know?”

“And so he shot him three times, finishing him off with two to the heart?”

“You think the one to the head was first?”

Chief Henry Dane scanned the area further, and just motioned for Bumpy to get his pen ready to do its job again.

“Make another note, Bumpy. Bits of what appear to be skull and brain matter, several feet behind the body. If this man was shot after taking two to the heart, during which time he would have damned well been lying on his back, there’s no way in hell that his brains would be that far behind him. They’d have just pooled up under where the back of his head used to be.”

“So let me get this straight, Chief. Someone, probably Plessy, shot this guy through his head, probably at close range, and then what…put two more in his heart just for fun?”

“We’re just taking down what the scene tells us for now. We’ll figure out what all this means later. Anyway, this much is weird. Look at this guy. Look at his face. He looks like he’s been dead awhile, and this had to have happened today, unless Plessy didn’t get any mail yesterday, or Tillman’s going blind and still manages to pass his driving test. Anyway, have a look at this, too. That’s weird.”

“What’s weird, Chief?”

“Look at his ankle. Large bloodstain. Soaked right through his pant cuff and all over his shoe.”

“Damn, you think that he got hit there too?”

“I don’t know, it’s possible. But three expertly placed shots and one all the way down on his ankle? Crap, takes a piss-poor marksman to hit the ankle by accident, and between here and the house…you think Plessy was that bad a shot?”

“Nope, not at all.”

“So maybe that wound was caused by something else. We’ll get the medical examiner up from Taos and see what they have to say about it. But I just can’t figure it. How does a dead body look all gray and nasty after only one day lying in the sun?”

“You got me on that. Hell, looks like he’s a couple of weeks in the hole at least.”

“Yeah, yeah he does. So, a guy who looks like he’s been dead a while but only could have been dead for a few hours at most, with a nasty wound on his ankle caused by God-knows-what, two shots to the heart and one to the head, those ones to his heart delivered after he was already on the ground with the back of his head popped clean off, had no weapon of any kind, at least that we can see, and you don’t have to be the hot brunette from Crossing Jordan to see…”

Henry walked methodically around to the pile of brains and skull fragments a few feet behind the dead body’s head. He stepped back a bit and closed one eye, using the flat of his right hand to visually draw a straight line from that brain pile right through the body’s head, all the way to the house.

“Just as I thought, Bumpy. Close range shots. No more than thirty yards, and I’d wager that this happened a lot closer than that.”

Bumpy went to stand where Henry was, and used the same method to draw a line to where the shots were likely to have come from.

“You’re right, Chief. Couldn’t have come from the house. No window there, where this all lines up.”

“Exactly. Now, let’s see what’s between here and there.” Henry led Bumpy along the invisible line they’d both drawn in their heads until he saw something that made him stop. “Look at this, and make a note. One shell casing, .30-30 Winchester, about five yards in front of the body, and another over here, about two yards further away.” They kept going until they got to the porch, or what passed for it. “No others. Three shots…where’s the other shell casing?”

“I don’t know, Chief. Wind didn’t blow it around, that’s for sure. Hasn’t been any all day.”

“Right, but…which of these shell casings was the fatal shot? This is sure as hell what I’m not getting. Two to the heart…they had to come from right on top of the guy, if he was lying down when it happened, which he had to be, since that head shot had to be the first one. What are these shell casings doing this far in front of him? One to the head, could be either of these…two to the heart…where’s the third? How come there aren’t two casings practically on top of the guy, or behind him?”

“Plessy had a Winchester lever-action of some kind, Chief…my dad had one. When that thing ejects, the shell tumbles up and over, and lands pretty much right at the feet of the shooter.”

“Exactly, but no casings are on or near the body. Where are those ones? None of this is adding up. We aren’t piecing this together until we get forensics up here. First, let’s show ourselves in. I doubt he’s home, but something inside could show us what the hell happened, if Plessy finally lost his game pieces or anything like that.”

“Chief, how come his truck’s here but he isn’t?”

“He might be, or maybe he ran off after this happened. Whatever the case is, I want to know what the hell went down. After we have a look inside, and I’m pretty sure we have probable cause here, call me crazy, we’ll have Erika call our buddies in Taos and have them send us a forensics team. With any luck, there wasn’t a plane crash in Taos and they’ll be available.”
"If you have a milkshake, and I have a milkshake, and there's a straw, there it is, that's a straw...and my straw reaches...acrosssssssss the room, and begins to drink your milkshake. I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE! SLURRRP! I DRINK IT UP!

User avatar
Mr. E. Monkey
* * * * *
Posts: 9106
Joined: Sun Sep 30, 2007 11:38 am
Location: Utah

Re: But with a Whimper

Post by Mr. E. Monkey » Sat Aug 21, 2010 2:48 am

This is really good. :D
SMoAF wrote:'Tis better to light a flamethrower than curse the darkness.
Beowolf wrote:Disasters are terrifying, but people are stupid.
wee drop o' bush wrote:THE EVIL MONKEY HAS WON THE INTERNETS! :lol: Image
Image

User avatar
Ponyboy314
* * * * *
Posts: 1118
Joined: Thu Oct 26, 2006 3:12 am
Contact:

Re: But with a Whimper

Post by Ponyboy314 » Sat Aug 21, 2010 3:34 am

This was already officially the weirdest day of Henry’s ten-year career in law enforcement.

Nothing outside added up. Two to the heart after one to the head, but no shell casings? Shooting an unarmed man with a messed-up ankle? But even with all that, what had caused the lights in Russ Tillman’s head to flicker out? The only good thing so far was that Tillman had held it together for long enough to call the station, but apparently hadn’t lasted long after that. Maybe after their time up here was done, they could get to the clinic and see what Tillman could tell them, if the Doc could do anything to snap him back to reality, that is.

Despite the near-certainty that Leland Plessy had pulled the trigger (though Henry was hesitant to make that final mental leap to absolute certainty), both he and Bumpy kept their weapons holstered and stood directly in front of the door, which big-city cops would have scoffed at. But then, things were different in a small town like this. Whatever really happened here, it was easy to suspect that Plessy had, at least in his own mind, a damned good reason to do what he did, and whatever demons Vietnam had sent home with him, killing a man for his own personal amusement? That was a leap that neither Henry nor Bumpy were willing to make. So, their hands were at their sides, their trigger fingers were not twitching, and they made no effort to stand where a bullet was unlikely to fly.

Henry knocked on the door, believing that Leland Plessy was probably freaking out in the woods a mile away, trying to make sense of whatever happened to him that resulted in a John Doe lying face-up in his front yard.

“Leland? It’s me, Chief Dane. Are you in there? If you are, please answer the door, and please make sure your hands are empty when you do, okay? We’re not here to hurt you, we just want to ask you about what’s happened. If you don’t answer, we’re going to come in, all right? Again, no one’s here to hurt you.”

They gave it about twenty seconds, but Plessy didn’t answer the door, and what’s more, they heard nothing but a thunderous silence inside, something that cops rarely like to hear before entering a building with the chance of an armed suspect inside, since it could mean that no one was home, but it could easily mean that someone was making an effort to not be heard.

Henry looked at Bumpy who just nodded. It was time to see for themselves.

“Okay, Leland. We’re coming in. Make sure you don’t do anything that could make us nervous, okay? We just want to talk.”

The front door had proven to be unlocked, and as Henry opened it, it creaked like Scrooge’s door did in the movies when Jacob Marley made a midnight house call. That creaking sound raised Henry’s (and Bumpy’s, though neither showed it) tension level, as the sound echoed through the trees and even seemingly off the surrounding mountains, getting nothing but louder as the door finally came fully open. But that eerie sound had not been augmented by a gunshot or the sound of a lever-action rifle being racked. That was at least something.

Now Henry’s hand unconsciously moved slowly towards his duty weapon, a new-fangled Kimber M1911 he had bought just before taking up his post at Red River, one with fancy snakeskin (real ones, that it) grips and a stainless steel frame. But his hand did not reach the grip. It froze inches away, just as the rest of him froze upon seeing what awaited them in the living room of the late Leland Plessy, who, like Russ Tillman, had lost his head, but in something of a more literal sense.

The inside of Leland Plessy’s house was not exactly as bad as the outside, meaning that while he hadn’t cleaned in a while, the ceiling fan wasn’t quite falling down and studs did not show through huge holes in the dry wall, but this was the kind of place that kept home improvement shows on the air.

But stacks of unopened mail, furniture with a good coat of dust on them, and paint chipping off the corners of his walls were the least of Henry and Bumpy’s problems. At the moment, even the dead man outside was only second fiddle. What now took the top spot in messed-up crap in their minds was Plessy, sitting in an ancient Lazy Boy, his Winchester between his knees, a gaping hole under his chin, and chunks of his brain decorating the ceiling above where his head used to be.

“Aw, Christ-a-mighty…” Bumpy eeked out.

“Out front, now,” Henry said, in a voice that radiated authority.

They walked in both calm and steady fashion out front to the porch, where Henry took off his sunglasses and wiped some new beads of sweat away from his eyes.

No one threw up or freaked out. Leland Plessy, with or without his brains still in his skull, was not the first dead body for either of them, not even counting the one that had greeted them in the front yard. A shattered head still left Plessy coming off looking better than a few auto collision victims they’d met a time or two, but still, neither could have expected it and both did an admirable job collecting themselves and getting back to the task at hand.

“Okay Bumpy, let’s…let’s just call Erika and have her get those forensics people from Taos up here. Whatever really happened here, it’s just not adding up. Maybe they can piece it together.”

“You or me, Chief?”

“I’ll call her. I don’t need a go-between when I’m dealing with my own girlfriend.”
"If you have a milkshake, and I have a milkshake, and there's a straw, there it is, that's a straw...and my straw reaches...acrosssssssss the room, and begins to drink your milkshake. I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE! SLURRRP! I DRINK IT UP!

User avatar
Ponyboy314
* * * * *
Posts: 1118
Joined: Thu Oct 26, 2006 3:12 am
Contact:

Re: But with a Whimper

Post by Ponyboy314 » Sat Aug 21, 2010 6:45 am

“Adam Zero Two to Adam Zero One. Chief, come in.” Henry immediately keyed the radio hanging off his epaulet. Martin Turner was calling.

“Adam Zero One to Adam Zero two. Go ahead, Mart.”

“I have Russ Tillman with me and we’re on our way back, but something’s wrong with this poor guy, Chief.”

“Tell me something I don’t know, Mart.”

“I mean, I tried to speak to him, you know? Tried to see if I could help him snap out of whatever’s got him, but…it’s weird. No matter what I said, he kept doing the same thing.”

“What was that?”

“He hasn’t said a word. Russ hasn’t even coughed or anything. He just keeps…I don’t know…pointing. He keeps pointing back towards where you guys are. He has this look in his eyes…like that thousand-yard stare that you get in combat when you’ve been through too much or whatever. That’s the only way I can describe it. That’s all he does…just points back up to the Plessy house. He’s like a robot. Totally freaking me out.”

“You did put him in the back, right Mart?”

‘Damn skippy I did, Chief. I don’t need him going bat shit right next to me when I’m driving.”

“Okay, just get him to the clinic and tell the Doc that he saw something at a crime scene that spooked him. He doesn’t need to know anything else right now. When you get him there, stay with him. I want one of us there if he says anything, okay?”

“You got it, Chief. We’ll be at the clinic in about five.”

“All right, Mart. Bumpy and I might be up here for a while. Just stay with him.”

“Got it, over.”

“Adam Zero One to Dispatch.”

“Go ahead, Chief.”

“All right, there’s a couple of things I need you to do. I need you to call our friends at the state police station down in Taos. Tell them we have a possible murder-suicide and give them our twenty. We need forensics up here and at least someone from their plainclothes division, anyone who’s handled a murder, okay? I know they don’t get a lot of that down there, but whatever’s happened here is a little beyond us. Tell them that Bumpy and I are on site and we’ll remain here until they arrive. Did the post office send anyone to get Russ Tillman’s truck? I sure don’t need that thing in the way.”

“They’re sending someone now, Chief.”

“Thanks, Dispatch. We’re going to be here for a while, okay?”

“All right. Take as long as you need, and don’t worry, I’ll keep a lid on this for now.”

“Good, and remember that Martin is going to be at the clinic with Tillman until we can get someone else out there to relieve him.”

Henry didn’t know how long it would take for the state police to get a team up there with the resources that a tiny police department like his simply didn’t have, but he knew that they’d arrive as quickly as circumstances allowed.

Anyone who’s seen their share of primetime cop shows (Henry had been a loyal watcher of Law & Order for its entire twenty-year run, but considered Special Victims Unit to be a second-rate knockoff) or cheesy crime flicks would get the impressions that when an investigation overlaps various jurisdictions, there’s plenty of chest-thumping and non-cooperation, as everyone wants the credit for the bust and hold a press conference to talk about how awesome they are. But anyone who’s ever worn a badge knows that such shows get it wrong a lot more than they ever get it right. When something happens that, for one reason or another, requires more than one law enforcement agency to be involved, no one really wants to be the one who screws it all up and drop the ball. A string of rapes or murders across a wide area requires a great deal of information-sharing, and everything goes smoother and the results tend to be better if people put their heads together rather than butting them. Oh it did happen from time to time, usually if the wrong personalities were involved, such as a sheriff up for reelection or some FBI agent wanted to show the local smokies who had the biggest penis, but far more often than not, cops wanted the evil element of society locked in a cage or sniffing cyanide in the state gas chamber, and while getting the credit was all well and good, getting the job done tended to take precedence.

And Police Chief Henry Dane, Red River Police Department, was lucky in that regard. He had established a strong working relationship with more than one group, and was on a first name basis with the Taos police chief, the Taos country district attorney and medical examiner, as well as most of the state police offices in easy reach. His friendly demeanor and willingness to help other police departments when it was needed, regardless of who got the credit when the case was closed, had endeared him to such people just as he had endeared himself to the people of Red River. He had backed them up on more than one occasion, such as two years before the Plessy incident, when one of his people (that had been Officer Madeline Blair, who had the day off at the moment, lucky girl…) pulled over someone near the edge of town for speeding and reckless driving and after running the plates and finding that the car was hot, and that the driver was sitting on a few bags of crystal meth, Henry locked him up but turned him over to the Santa Fe County Sheriff’s Office, who had a warrant on him. True, it could have been a feather in Henry’s cap, but he readily admitted that the Santa Fe Sheriff had first dibs. That and other occasions had done much to earn him a few friends and allies, but also meant that he was owed no shortage of favors, and he was calling one of them in now.

But as Erika was back at the station making the call to his friends in Taos, Henry and Bumpy kept at it, hoping to answer at least a few of their own questions about this bewildering incident at the home of the late Leland Plessy.
"If you have a milkshake, and I have a milkshake, and there's a straw, there it is, that's a straw...and my straw reaches...acrosssssssss the room, and begins to drink your milkshake. I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE! SLURRRP! I DRINK IT UP!

Post Reply

Return to “Fiction”