In the week after Barnesville had its brush with TERROR the local media had a field day with it. Partly because nothing else particularly thrilling was going on in the world and partly because no one could figure out the point of it. Was it a political statement? Was it just a random act of vandalism? Was it a warning of things to come? Could the Good Chief look any more harried and irritated? It had taken a couple of days but all of the affected areas had been cleaned, and now that it had been scrubbed out of sight it was mostly out of mind for those who had jobs other than TV ratings or finding out who was responsible.

Or if you were Johnny Wicker.

Johnny thought it was the funniest fucking thing he had ever seen and he laughed and carried on about it so many times that the Good Chief brought him into the police station for questioning.

“Ah, he ain’t got shit an he knows it,” Johnny said that evening at Sandy’s. “Just like always, he wants to bring me in and be the big man, try an make it look like he’s doin’ shit, but he’s got his head so far up his own ass he’s deaf an blind.”

We were sitting at one of the back tables, and since Johnny had guided me back there when we got there I hoped he was looking to talk about my other criminal enterprise.

“Anyway,” he lowered his voice, hunched over his fifth or sixth beer, “I been talkin’ to some people about what you said. You figure anything else out yet ‘bout it?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a couple more details worked out, but we’re going to need supplies and shit like that. I haven’t made up a full list yet.”

“Well shit, man, you better get to gettin’. We’ve got just a little over a month before the whole festival thing happens, and after that we’re gonna have to wait a whole other year. I don’t know about you, but I bills to pay fucker.”

“Yeah, I know. Look, how many guys do you think we can get? I mean, I’m new at this, but the more guys we get involved the more it’s going cost us, right? Splitting the take and all that.”

“Splittin’ the take. Listen to you, tryin’ to sound like a goddamn pro. Yeah, that’s usually how it works. I mean, I’m still tryin’ to figure out how you get all that shit when you’ve got crowds of people everywhere.”

“That, strangely, I have worked out.” Hopefully.

“An you gonna share any of that, son, or am I just supposed to guess?”

“Look, I know I’m new at this, but really, all you need me for is the idea. I tell you the whole idea, then what the hell do you need me for?”

Johnny leaned back and took a drink while he studied me. It was a look he hadn’t given me in the entire time we had been friends, and I suddenly realized how little regard he had for me. Sure, I was all fun and chummy when I said “that book-smart shit” or when I was buying rounds, but when it came down to it, I was more court jester than grand vizier. It shouldn’t bother me, but it hurt to realize how little someone thinks of you. Even if that person was a sociopathic redneck troglodyte.

“Okay, so here’s the thing,” he finally said. “I can get maybe four guys. I’m gonna be blunt with you, son, they are going to give a fart in a windstorm about you. These are people not to be fucked with, and I’m gonna be vouching for you, and that means that I need to know if you’re gonna have crazy dipshit plan that no one in his right mind could pull off. I mean, I don’t want you tryin’ to pull some Mission: Impossible shit and think that we can get lasers and harnesses and shit like that.”

“Really? Well shit, then the whole plan’s off, because I was going to have us all get fake plastic heads and make everyone think that we were celebrities.”

Johnny leaned forward again and put his hand over mine. I was about to wonder what the meaning of this sudden vaguely homoerotic contact was when he began to twist two of my fingers back. The pain cut right through my next cleverly prepared smart remark and a fair amount of my beer buzz. It occurred to me that this was what my Dad always warned me about: my smart mouth writing checks my ass couldn’t cash.

“Listen to me,” he said, leaning in close to me. “I’m already on probation, I got no job, and here you are bein’ smart with me about maybe havin’ some plan to get rich quick. That’s all well and good, but if you fuck it up for me I’m gonna end you. You got me? You’re lucky I can vouch for you, because there’s no way your sorry drunk ass is any kind of cop. And if you think you can play me, or my brother, then you’re barking up the wrong motherfucking tree. You got me?”

“Your . . . brother?” He gave my fingers another twist. I closed my eyes and though about Monica. I thought about when they lifted her up and placed her in the black body bag, sealing her up so as never to be seen again.

Hurt like that made bent fingers feel like nothing.

“Yeah,” he said, shoving my hand away and wiping his hand on his jeans. Like of the two of us, I’d be the one carrying the disease. “He’s the one I talked to and he knows a couple of other guys that are looking for a good payday. Y’see, that’s how you know when you can trust someone. When they’re family.”

“You’ve obviously never been to Thanksgiving at my house,” I muttered. He’d have to hurt me a lot more than that to keep my mouth shut. I put my hand under the table and tried to rub some feeling into my fingers without being too obvious about it, although I was sure I was still flushed with pain and embarrassment.

Johnny laughed and slapped my face again with his playful, bear-like paws. “I’m not tryin’ to be hard on you, son. I’m just telling you, if my brother thinks this is a waste of time . . . well, shit, he doesn’t take kindly to that.”

“Look,” I put my hand back up on the table. There really wasn’t any point in trying to feign toughness when you’re light years away from tough. “I get that this is serious business. Believe me, I get it. This is something that I’ve been thinking about since, well shit, probably since before the corner.”

“Before what?”

“Before my daughter got killed.”

“Oh you were planning on becoming a master thief way back then, huh?”

“No, it’s just . . . y’know how your mind just wanders? You read things or see things in movies and go ‘Oh man, that’d be easy to do,’ and you begin to think about what’s around you how you could do something like that. That’s all it was up until now, but after she died and I realized that I didn’t have anything left I thought fuck it: What do I owe this town? What do I have left? There’s nothing else I want in the world so I may as well try something like this. I mean, I had a business here, I helped plan the Spring-fucking-festival a couple of years ago. I know what they do and how the other store owners think and how I can make this a huge fucking pay-off.”

“How huge?”

“It depends on the day. If the festival is going well, the weather’s good and the tourists are out maybe 10 to 20 thousand total. If we stay at five guys that’s about two to four grand a man. And I think five works fine.”

“That’s it?” His beer stopped halfway to his mouth, a puzzled look on his face.

“What do you mean, that’s it? That’s a decent amount of money.”

“It ain’t exactly retirement money, if you know what I mean.”

“Well it could be more. I don’t know. Like I said, it depends on the day.” My hand was beginning to shake under the table.

“So it could be less?”

“I . . . I don’t think so. I mean, if it’s raining or they don’t do the right kind of promotions–”

“Rain? Promotions?” Johnny dropped his glass to the table louder than I would’ve liked. “This is the kind of shit I’m talkin’ about. What the fuck are we supposed to do if it rains, just call it off?”

“No,” I said, trying to keep my voice level. “There’s stuff we can do if it looks like that’s going to happen. We can work it out.”

“Work it out? How the fuck are we supposed to work it out if we think we’re gettin’ four grand a piece and we only get two? Not to mention the fact that I can’t figure out how you’re going to get all that in the first place.”

“It’ll work, trust me!” I realized I was dangerously close to begging. If it turned to that, if he saw how desperate I was to get this to work out it would all be over. He rolled his eyes at me and I took a long drink of my beer.

“Look,” I said once my potential histrionics were washed away. “I get that this isn’t a huge payday but it’s a hell of a lot more than what we’ve got right now. It’s not just about the money, it’s about sending a big fuck you to this town. I don’t know about you but I want out. I want to put this whole fucking town in my rear view mirror, but my money is dwindling and the only thing I have left is a house that has about twenty more years left on the mortgage and I’m not going to wait around to try to sell it. I just want to be gone, and this is the money to do it with.”

“And you think you’ve got it all figured, don’t you? Some big ‘ol foolproof plan?”

“Yeah, I do.”

He just sat there, giving me that ‘Should I step on a bug’ look for almost longer than I could stand.

“Okay, fine. I’ll call Ray and tell him the deal, but you need to have your shit figured out. If you don’t, well shit, son. It’s a good thing you don’t have anything left to lose.”

I suppose it shouldn’t be a surprise that Greg Marshall turned out the way he did. Granted, if I had a Dad like the Good Chief I’d be a complete fuck-up too. Growing up in a small town where your Dad is the chief of police would be bad enough, and that plus him being a holier than thou Bible-thumper must do wonders for your popularity. Young Gregory soon found a way around that stigma by doing things to prove he was cool, like vandalism and selling drugs.

Hence, G-Rock.

I’d imagine it’s the kind of thing that can make family dinner a little awkward. “Gee son, how was your day at school” “Well, don’t you remember Dad? You caught me with a dime bag during a random locker search.”

Since graduating a couple of years ago he and his two minions moved into one of the houses on the outskirts of town so as to expand on their criminal activities. They didn’t bother with having jobs or doing anything to account for they made their living and it was only a matter of time before they caught the attention of the Sheriff’s Office or the State Police. At that point Daddy won’t be able to turn a blind eye to it anymore.

It’s funny. You’d think that the Good Chief was enough of a hypocrite that he’d want a little cut of his son’s operation. No, he was above all of that. He’d rather take $100s to forget about speeding tickets and make sure that the flag was protected from gays than dip into sinfulness like that.

I’m sure Greg was as thrilled at the notion of driving his father nuts with a stunt like this as I was. After watching the Good Chief argue with camera crews and refuse to give any statements, I headed home to send my regards to G-Rock and congratulate him on a job well done. My high had been lessened a bit my the Good Chief’s thoughtless forgetfulness but it had been replaced by the high of my first attempt at organized chaos going so smoothly.

When I decided to get this whole thing started I’d figured the internet would probably be the best way to get in touch with Greg, and finding him online had turned out to be no trouble at all. Greg loved pimping himself out on the various social networking sites and included plenty of thinly veiled references to his misspent youth and current money-making enterprises.

Once I found him I created a generic email account, set up a mostly empty profile and sent him a message. It took a little doing, but I finally got a response

4corners: I’m looking for a source to get some weed and I’ve heard that you’re the man to talk to in the Barnesville area.

GtotheRock!: Yeah Im sure U R. Why don’t U look somewhere else NARC!

4corners: Not a narc, I’m just not really into walking up to a bunch of skate guys and ask for a dime bag. I’m sure you’d think that I was a Narc even more if you know who I was. I asked around, and Johnny Wicker said you had some good stuff.

GtotheRock!: Oh yea U know Wicker so I’m sposed to be all OK here’s sum smoke WHATeve, man

4corners: From what I hear, you’re my only option in this town, so what do I have to do to prove that I’m not some kind of cop? I can do pretty much anything but tell you who I am, and I can pay you well for the anonymity. About 3 to 4 times your normal prices.

GtotheRock!: make it 5 and we have a deal.

Ever the business man, our little GtotheRock! Daddy would be so pleased. He was the one that came up with the abandoned road marker drop spot. It was the kind of thing only a locally bred bad-boy would know about. Of course, going out there was a whole other story. I had visions of going out there and getting my ass kicked by a bunch of skateboarding drug dealers.

The only thing that would alleviate my anxiety was copious amounts of liquor but that had the added bonus of making it almost impossible to find a broken cement marker in the dark. I managed to find it without getting completely lost, left my money and staggered home. If my new drug-dealing friend was a man of his word there’d be a bag of weed I didn’t even want waiting for me the next night.

I returned, just as inebriated as the night before and lo and behold there it was. It looked like my name dropping of Johnny Wicker was enough to make Greg think twice about just taking the money and running, which was good because that would’ve changed the plan dramatically. On the way home from my intoxicated weed pickup, I thought one of the Good Chief’s deputies was driving up behind me and I tossed it down a sewer grate.

I guess just handling it was enough to make me paranoid.

From there, my messages were about how much I enjoyed his product, and how it was the only thing that made living in this town bearable. I was hoping he hadn’t just bagged up some oregano or something really terrible, but I figured my unusual paranoia about delivery had done enough to make me seem like a total freak. I hoped that as long as I paid money he was willing to put up with me and my bizarre methods. If he was giving me crap weed than all the better for him.

Of course, once I started talking about how much of a pain this town was GtotheRock! was only too happy to expound about it. I made a side remark about the Good Chief and how much a pain in the ass he was, and that was enough to open the flood gates. He was more than happy to go off on his old man, talking about what a giant hypocrite he was and how he made it so hard for him to just be who he was and do what he wanted.

Because every dad should give their son a chance to be a jobless, skateboarding drug dealer while covering up for his illegal activities. Anything else would be uncivilized.

Then came the ideas on what it would be like to really do something to piss his Dad off and make him look like a fool. Well gee, I told him, I happened to have a great idea for just such a thing. So great, I wish I could do it myself. Even greater than that, I’ll pay you to do it, just as long as you follow some simple instructions.

From start to finish it had taken almost a month for the whole thing to get rolling, including a week where I was sure I’d blown the whole thing since it took him a week to email me back. Turns out that week was his birthday, and the present he was giving me was an anxiety attack.

Once I got home from surveying his handiwork I sat down at the computer, logged onto my profile and sent him a note.

4corners: That was truly excellent work, and that little bonus you included in the package really made my day. I’m going to think up some more ideas for us to terrorize this little dipshit town with. If you get any bright ideas, let me know.

Of course, Greg’s version of a bright idea was to burn down the town offices building (y’know, where the cops and mayor work) or find a way to dose the whole town with acid. As much as I enjoyed his enthusiasm for our adventures in vandalism I needed to make sure he didn’t try any of that ridiculous Saturday morning cartoon shit on his own.

This was just the tip of the iceberg and needed him free and able to follow orders. The plan depended on it.

That night I dreamt of the corner.

It wasn’t the first time my waking nightmare entered my dreams as well. Generally speaking I was too wasted to dream at all, but some nights I feel asleep too close to sobriety like I was some sort of horrible Icarus, plummeting down into torturous dreams.

Like most of them I’m standing on the corner, watching Monica as she begins to cross. There’s the roar of the car and the squeal of the tires and I actually think “It’s going to be okay. She hears it, and she’s staying put. This asshole is going to drive right by.”

It’s amazing how self-delusion can find its way into your dreaming life.

The car rushes down the street and fishtails around the corner, and just like that day it corrects itself and heads right towards her. She’s freezes in the middle of the street and then she’s airborne. As she rolls over the hood and off the windshield everything slows down and unlike that day I can see the driver and passenger.

I’m driving and high-fiving Greg who’s sitting next to me.

I try to look away but my eyes fall on Monica, who is still in mid-air, her body bent at impossible angles. Even upside-down and bloody I can see that she’s staring back at me, and I can make out the expression on her face.

She’s disappointed.

If there’s anything remotely good about her death it’s that she never got a chance to give me that look in real life. Just seeing it in my dreams makes me want to never wake up.

Chapter Six

I woke up that morning in my hallway. My pants were around my ankles and for a minute I thought I’d wet myself. I wasn’t mad or grossed out, just filled with the resigned disappointment you get when you realize you’re a grown adult that’s pissed on himself. There’s nothing you can do other than just look down and go “Well, I thought I was better than that. Guess not.” It’s a bizarre mix of humbling and liberating.

I realized that I hadn’t pissed myself and had a dim recollection of finally making my way home, loosening my pants and trying to walk my way out of them. Not a high degree of difficulty when you’re sober, but when you’re as drunk as I was it requires a level of dexterity only found in your Olympic athletes. What I’d mistaken for piss was in fact the moisture my pants and legs hand picked up from crawling around in the woods in the middle of the night.

I stepped out of my pants with an ease that would’ve put my drunken self to shame and looked around for the package I’d brought home last night. Rather, the package I hoped I’d remembered to bring home and not just leave in the woods. Or by the side of the road.

I didn’t get frantic when it wasn’t in the hallway. Nor when it wasn’t by the couch. Or in the kitchen. Or the bathroom. Okay, that’s a lie. Checking the bathroom was desperate, panicked mayhem. So was the tearing through piles of incredibly dirty clothes on the bedroom floor. I may have just been in my boxers and a t-shirt, but I was burning up with that sudden, frantic fever you get when things began to spiral out of control. I hadn’t felt this way, since . . . well, that just made things hotter.

I squatted down on a pile of clothes, trying to put myself back into that gibbering, gleeful drunken state I was in on the way home. It had been a while since I had felt that happy, and I had no idea what I would’ve done. Not remembering was new, and it filled me with a sick unease that it’d started just as I was setting everything in motion.

I looked up at the door across the hall from mine.

I wouldn’t have, would I? There couldn’t be enough liquor, could there be?

I got up and walked towards the door. I reached my hand out towards the knob, feeling my heart race so fast that I thought it would pop-goes-the-weasel right out of my chest the second I touched to doorknob.

My hand almost closed over it when I remembered.

I turned, wiping my hand on my shirt and heading down the hall and out of the house. Sure enough, the package was there, leaning against the side of the house next to the door. I’d put it there so I could fumble with my keys to get the door open. That was most likely a clever trap by one of my sober and most masochistic brain cells, since I didn’t lock my door anymore. Hell, it probably made me forget just to see if I was crazy enough to open the door to her room.

“Ha! Fuck you, brain!” I hollered, shaking the package triumphantly in the air.

There was a clatter on the pavement and I looked across the street to see Becky Reynolds standing and staring at me, the Barbie dream car still wobbling on the walk from where it had dropped out of her grasp. For some reason she seemed shocked to see a grown man shaking an overstuffed padded envelope in front of his face and screaming profanities at his own brain while in his underwear. Thankfully, the button on the fly of my boxers was closed so I didn’t add an anatomy lesson to the trauma.

Becky just stood there motionless and I waned to say something and try to explain why my brain should go fuck off, what that meant, and why some men make certain choices of undergarments, but I realized that was a pre-Corner instinct. The package in my hand and the conversation I had yesterday with good ‘ol Johnny Wicker meant those feelings should be long dead.

Becky solved the dilemma for me, turning and sprinting into the house. I was surprised she stopped to open the door and didn’t just leave a nine-year-old sized hole in the screen. I turned and headed back into the house, closing the door just as I heard her mother call after Becky to ask what was wrong.

The kid had been through a lot but fuck her, y’know? She still got to play in the yard.

I lost my interest in the package. I tossed it down on the couch and made myself some eggs.

Full and slightly less hostile, I opened the package. It improved my mood. Tremendously.

Inside were two cans of spray paint with neon yellow caps, a note, and what looked to be a couple of ounces of weed. I picked up the weed, opened the bag and inhaled deeply.

Glorious.

I picked up the cans of paint and shook them. Each one made an echoey sound of emptiness. This too put a smile on my face. I picked up the note and read its dirty handwritten scrawl.

Dude,

This was a GREAT fukkin idea! It was 2 fukin funny, and Marshall is going to SHIT HIS PANTS MAN! I first though U were pretty gay but MAN, this is going to go down in Histroy. I put in some chronic b cuz I should be paying YOU 4 these ideas. Let me know what’s next!

G-ROCK

Oh G-Rock, you came and you gave without taking.

The real bonus will be if you actually listened to what I had to say didn’t just do what comes naturally, which is being a fucking idiot. Or a fukkin (or fukin) idiot. Of course, I’m not going to turn down free weed. I may be depressed to the point of criminal sociopathy but I’m not a moron.

It took me a while, but I found an old pipe that hadn’t been used, or cleaned, since a little while after I opened the Pizza Barn. Because you know, I was a responsible business man then. Ironic, giving up weed to go into business mainly supported by stoned college kids. I packed it, smoked it, and I say god damn he could use a remedial English course, but ‘ol G-Rock was MENSA when it came to weed.

I sat on the couch pleasantly stoned for about a half hour, and then realized that if I didn’t hurry I’d probably miss all the excitement that the empty spray cans and semi-literate note of enthusiasm represented. This time, I remembered to put on some pants before heading outside.

I realized that I had to concentrate to keep myself from skipping in anticipation as I walked into town, but as I came around the corner that was the arbitrary start of the “downtown area” I found myself chuckling with an over inflated sense of pride and amusement.

Sprayed on the pavement in neon yellow letters was the word TERROR, in a similar hand of a note left in the woods. I turned and there on the side of the hardware store I was standing in front of was that same scrawling word.

TERROR.

I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Standing at the door of the hardware store, looking at the big glass window that also had been TERRORized, was Al Pruitt. He was older than God and the shop’s owner, which was fitting seeing as how it was one of the oldest businesses in one of the oldest buildings in town. His flabby skin was etched with scowling disappointment.

“Goddamn disgrace is what it is,” he said to one of the people gathered in front of the store. “What the hell kinda childish idiot does something like this? Makes no goddamn sense!” People nodded emphatically in time with his swinging jowls. I stepped away before I could be drawn into the vortex of their disappointment in modern culture and when I turned to face the rest of the street I found myself elated.

TERROR was everywhere.

TERROR was on almost every store window on the street. TERROR was sprayed on the side of almost every building. TERROR sprawled out marvelously on the street and sidewalk. TERROR made its presence felt everywhere you looked with screaming yellow obnoxiousness.

There were about 30 people in various little clutches up and down the street. Of the almost two dozen stores that made up metropolitan Barnesville, they had all been victims of TERROR. I strolled up and down the street, trying to put an appropriate level of concern and dismay on my face as I surveyed G-Rock’s TERRORtastic handiwork.

The cozy country antique store. The video store. The supermarket, the internet café, the retro clothing store, the arts and crafts store. All TERROR. Even, it pained me to say, Sandy’s.

“Who would do something like this?”

“It’s just damn stupid if you ask me.”

“Those damn college kids, think they’re so fucking funny!”

“Terror? Is that a threat? Is it more of that political nonsense?”

For every two little clutches of confused old-timers there was a smaller group of younger kids, the teenagers and the twentysomethings, that shared my deep amusement in the whole thing. As I reached the center of town I noticed there were two areas untouched by the TERROR’s radioactive neon fingers. Central Bank was in one of the old town buildings, all gray stone and completely untouched.

Oh thank god for you G-Rock. Dumb as a post, obedient as a hound. The tiny park in front of the building was equally undisturbed as was the old cobblestone drive-thru where a rail-thin schoolmarm-eqsue woman sat, eyes narrowed and scanning the street as if the paint wielding maniacs would return and try to catch her unawares. I wouldn’t have been surprised is she had a loaded shotgun in her lap, cocked and read to show those damn punks what TERROR was all about.

Across the street from the bank was the record-slash-head shop, and it too had been spared. I could see from the street the rotund figure of the Good Chief Marshall wagging a finger at the bearded hippie that owned the store. I strolled in to take a closer look. After all, it wasn’t every day you got to see a peace officer wielding all the gravitas of Mayor McCheese.

“Jesus John, I don’t know how many other ways I can say it, man! I was home all night with my wife and my kids.”

“Don’t you swear at me, Farley! I can find out where you were! Don’t you think I can’t. I’m sure you find this whole thing downright amusing, don’t’cha?”

Farley tugged on his graying ponytail with a growing sense of annoyance. “Look man, you can give me all the grief you want, but I am clean here. I’m not the only place that wasn’t tagged and I don’t think you were over at the bank this morning trying to figure out where they were last night. This is still America.”

“Don’t you try to trot out the flag with me, boy!” The Good Chief jabbed a leathery thumb at the display of buttons next to the counter that had various anti-corporate, anti-military and otherwise anti-John Marshall sentiments on display.

“It’s a free country, man! I have a right to free speech!”

“Yeah, do you think that include spray painting the whole town?”

“This is bullshit and you know it!”

I almost felt sorry for the guy. The only reason Farley’s store wasn’t tagged was same reason the bank wasn’t: security cameras. In the whole, trusting, “nothing bad happens in middle America” town, the bank was the only building with security cameras. While I was no expert, I knew enough that the security camera in the ATM directly across the street from the store might pick up anyone who was spraying it or the street outside. Better safe than sorry, and it was a delightful added bonus that the one non-tagged store was the one that offended the Good Chief’s high moral sensibilities.

After all, everyone knew no good and upstanding citizen would dare mock that good ‘ol US of A. Why anyone who did that may as well be an enemy of freedom. A TERRORist, if you will.

“Chief! Chief!” One of the freshly minted local cops skidded to a halt in the doorway of the record shop. “Channel 8 is here. And someone said that they heard Channel 10 was on the way.”

John Marshall snapped shut his little black notebook of law enforcement cues and hints. “Damn media vultures.”

“Careful there, Good Chief, you almost let a cuss word slip there.”

He turned and scowled at me, and Farley broke into a wide grin. Okay, apparently I was stoned just enough that I couldn’t keep my inner monologue as inner as it should have been. “You better watch it . . . you.” The Good Chief said, jamming his notebook into his shirt pocket. I grinned as he walked past, his eyes scouring me up and down, face screwed up as he tried to power his giant stone gears of thought. In my own little THC haze I just thought his face was funny, and then I realized what it meant.

He had forgotten me.

It had been a little over a year and a half, but he had somehow managed to forget me. Probably her too. The corner had come and gone, he’d gotten on the fucking news and swore to bring killers to justice, and then sat on his grimy little hands forgetting all about it. There may have been a small chance that I’d feel sorry about what I was doing but that annoyed-quizical “I know I’ve seen this guy before but I can’t place it” look annihilated that.

He was going to get exactly what he deserved.

“That was priceless, man,” Farley said, strolling over. “It’s good to see you though, dude. I haven’t seen you in like, forever.”

“Fuck off.” I brushed passed him and followed after Good Chief Forgetful. How hard was it? Even a burnout loser know-nothing like Farley could recognize . . . well, another burnout loser, but still. I was on the chamber of commerce for fuck’s sake. We had met at least two or three times, in a small town where you see most everyone at least once a week. But no, the Good Chief had more important things to do. Like be on the news and swear to God.

Well, we’ll see how he liked being on the news now.

The addition of G-Rock’s little bonus made me forget about how I had planned to call the news myself, but it’s nice to know that some things unfolded as they should, regardless of my helping hands.

“One side, man.”

There was a clatter of wheels on pavement and I stepped aside just as a lanky, disheveled skateboarder rolled past me. He sported a black hooded sweatshirt adorned with colorfully anecdotal patches telling people to fuck off and a grey knit cap pulled down just enough so that the curly edges of an early stage mullet peeked out of the bottom. He was trailed by two other skaters, and the three of them looked like they just came off the line at the disaffected recent high school grads factory.

Up ahead the Good Chief was pleading, and loosing, with the ethnic field correspondent to pack up and go, explaining that there was no story here, we do this every other week. She wasn’t buying it, her keen reporters instincts telling her that there was a story and she was going to get to the bottom of it. The camera guy was standing and getting reaction shots of the town in utter shock and confusion when the skateboarders rolled by, hooting and clapping.

“Yeah!”

“This is kick ass, man!”

“You wanna inner-veiw me, I’ve been terrorized!”

“Hey!” Shouted the Good Chief. “Get those skateboards off the sidewalk and get out of here!”

The lead boarder popped his board up in the air and landed down on the pavement, the other two behind him following suit. The three weaved around the group of police officers and reporters like pack animals, and the leader looked back at the Good Chief with a buck-toothed grin.

“See you later, pop.”

The Good Chief scowled and turned red as the reporter asked who those young men were. I resisted the urge to pop my head into the little group and say, “Excuse me, my good representative of the Fifth Estate. I’m sure you know our friend here, Barnesville Police Chief John Marshall, but perhaps you did not know, as he seldom makes it aware, the leader of those young band of ne’er-do-wells was none other than the Good Chief’s own flesh and blood. The apple of his eye. Young Gregory Marshall.

“Known, in some circles, as G-Rock.”

Chapter Five

****

It was a little shack, tucked up against the side of a cluster of boulders in the desert. Calvin, John, Herman and Zeke rode up on their dinos, stopping the beasts in a semi circle around the entrance.

“Hey!” Zeke called at it, stepping down off his dino and strolling casually forward. Calvin and the others followed suit. The place wasn’t much, just some sheets of metal leaned up against each other and tied to some wood. The entrance was tall and wide and covered with dirty cloth that flapped in the breeze.

“Maybe he ain’t home,” John said, taking a handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiping the grime from his face that had built up over the ride.

“Naw, lookit that,” Herman said, gesturing toward the roof of the shack with hat. It was hard to see in the bright sun but there was a small trail of smoke coming from a small stove pipe in the back.

“Who the hell cooks inside in this heat?” Calvin said. He’d grown up in the north and had never gotten used to the desert heat. He often looked back to the time before he started running with a gang and getting himself thrown out of town as the best times of his life, but maybe that’s just because it wasn’t so damn hot then.

“I don’t care,” Zeke said with a sneer, twisting the over-sized ring on his finger as walked up to the entrance. “He’s on our land, and that means he’s got to pay.” Herman and John followed close behind, but Calvin hung back to stand in one of the small spots of shade the rocks provided.

“We know you’re in there,” Zeke yelled, kicking at the wood that framed the entrance. “C’mon out!” Still nothing. Zeke spun his ring again in irritation.

“The hell with this,” he muttered, grabbing the cloth that served as a door and yanking it down. Zeke was big, close to seven feet and as strong a man as Calvin had ever seen, and pulling the cloth so suddenly brought down several piece of wood with it.

The interior of the shack was small, probably not big enough for the four desperadoes to have all stood inside together, much less the figure sitting near the back of the shack wrapped in robe with a hood pulled down over his or her face. There was a small fire in front of him and a pot sat on a cooking rack on top of it, steam rising and escaping out the rudimentary chimney in the ceiling. There was a large roll of blankets in the far corner, taking up nearly half the shack but other than that the place was empty.
“You broke my door,” the figure said in a buzzing, electronic voice. Calvin’s hand dropped down to his repeater instinctively. It didn’t make sense, but the voice sounded similar to the Bots his folks had warned him about when he was a boy. Calvin had only seen them and heard their shrill, buzzing gibberish once but that was enough; he’d been the only one in his gang to get away from their steel claws and burning lasers.

“What the hell is wrong with your voice?” Zeke said, taking a step back. Calvin gripped his repeater harder. He’d been riding with Zeke for almost five years and didn’t think he’d ever seen him take a step back.

“What’s wrong with yours?” the figure said, still not moving. He was just a bundle of robes, but it looked like he (as strange as the voice was it definitely was a man’s) was squatting down on the ground, arms resting on his knees. He could only make out one hand, holding a long metal spoon, but it was wrapped in cloth bandages. Whoever he was he must have been practically roasting in that get-up, especially that close to the fire.

Zeke narrowed his eyes and took a step forward into the shack. “You’re some kind of smart guy, huh? If you’re so smart, then maybe you can answer why you’re camped out on our land.”

“Maybe because I didn’t know it was your land. Didn’t see a sign.”

“Everyone knows that the desert west of White River belongs to the Scorched Earth Gang,” Herman said, taking a step inside next to Zeke.

“I guess I’m not everyone,” the man said.

With a snarl, Herman drew his blaster and fired at the pot on the stove. The beam burned through the beaten metal and spilled the boiling water onto the ground. He fired again and the pot toppled over, spilling the chunks of meat and bits of small dino carcass that had been cookiing in it. The man didn’t move

“So is that what you boys do? Go around shooting up someone’s dinner because they’re camped out in your desert?” he said, dropping the spoon into the dirt.

“No,” Zeke said. “not just their dinner. Now I want you to get up and hand over everything you’ve got, and maybe one of those things won’t be you.”

“So you’re in charge, is that it?” he asked.

“Listen!” Zeke said, taking another step forward and jabbing a finger at the stranger. “Get the hell up or–”

The stranger got up. It took all four of them a moment to process that what they though had been bundles of robes was actually just thin cloth. He was at least a head taller than Zeke and at nearly twice as wide. Zeke still had his arm out, pointing angrily, and before he could do anything the stranger leaned down and Zeke’s arm disappeared into the strangers hood up to his elbow with a sickening crunch of bone.

There was a snap as the stranger turned his head, severing the arm. Zeke dropped to his knees and the stranger tilted his head back, the hood falling away from his head. The stranger wasn’t a man at all, but a dino unlike anything Calvin had ever seen. He had a long snout that he tilted back, and Calvin watched as the rest of Zeke’s arm disappeared down his throat. The rest of the cloak fell away, revealing a chest that was mostly wrapped in the same bandage-like cloth that covered both his arms. Underneath that, Calvin could see shining metal that reached all the way up the the dino-man’s neck. Just under his neck Calvin could make out three letters stamped on the metal: R.E.X. The lower half of the dino-man’s body was bare, wide and squat, with powerful legs and a thick tail.

Herman snapped out of his shock and remembered he was the only one who’d drawn his blaster. He pointed it at the dino-man, but there was a metal scrape and a blade extended from his right arm. The dino-man swung the blade, severing Herman’s arm. Herman stared down the stump, looking back up just as the dino-man took a big step forward and plunged the blade into Herman’s chest.

John drew his repeater and fired, missing the dino-man by a mile. It seemed impossible given how large the target was, but John was probably distracted by the fact that a talking dinosaur man had just killed the leader of his gang and one of his friends. He pulled the hammer back and fired again, but the dino-man positioned Herman in front of him to stop the slug. The dino-man reached over Herman’s shoulder with his other hand and there was a crack as bolts of electricity shot out at John, knocking him back. The cloth strips on the arm that blasted John fell away smouldering, revealing a shining metal arm attached the metal armor on the dino-man’s chest. There was another scrape of metal and Herman fell to the ground, unmoving.

The dino-man stepped forward, pulling the remaining cloth off his arms. Calvin realized he was still gripping his own repeater but hadn’t drawn it. The dino-man looked at him as he walked forward, but stopped at John’s still twitching body. Without taking his small, black eyes off of Calvin, the dino-man reached down and grabbed John by the throat. John’s eyes had been fluttering but now bugged out as he was lifted into the air.

“Who’s in charge?” the dino man asked. Even in his panic, Calvin could now tell that the voice was coming from slits in the metal just under his neck.

Calvin could see John’s face getting redder as he kicked at the empty air, his feet a full two feet off the ground. It took Calvin a second to realize the dino-man was talking to him.

“I said,” he repeated, “who’s in charge here?”

Calvin let go of his repeater, moving his arm slowly away from his side. “Y…you…you are.” He looked at the letters stamped into the metal again. “Rex is.”

“Smart,” Rex said, twisting John’s neck with a snap and dropping his now still body to the ground. Rex turned and walked back to where Herman and Zeke lay on the ground. Herman was completely still but Zeke’s eyes blinked slowly and one of his feet was twitching. Rex leaned down and picked up Herman’s blaster, shaking the severed arm off it. He pulled the holster off of Herman’s body and tossed it over his broad shoulder.

“Always wanted one of these. Plus this thing can take a while to recharge,” he said, waving his arm at Calvin. He walked up to Zeke’s dino, pulling himself into the saddle effortlessly. The big, four-legged beast sagged a bit under the weight of its new rider, but Rex patted it gently on its side and made a series of chirping noises that came from his throat and not his speakers.The dino sat up straighter and turned around.

“Now, let’s go meet my gang and get something to eat.” Rex said. He turned his head and spat. Zeke’s ring flew out, hit one of the rocks and rolled off on the desert floor. “I’m still hungry.”