Chapter 16
Michael Hunt had just received some good news and bad news. His doctor had just informed him that they would not have to put a pin in his wrist. He had decided to just put the arm in a cast and see if the bones would mend on their own.
He felt confident, but gave no assurance. Michael was fine with that. He just wanted out of the hospital. Sandy had snuck him in some food, but he needed something other than hospital and fast food. The bad news was the OSBI agents were not through with him. They were hinting about arresting Michael, who maintained his innocence.
He had just about convinced them to release him without any kind of arrest. Chief Arnold had been in contact with the OSBI agents and told them Michael did not shoot the guy and was not any risk of flight.
That seemed to help, although they seemed to have their doubts.
Michael was just glad that he wasn’t going to have to go to the slammer upon release. He still had other worries, though.
------
Big Uns seemed a little disappointed. Squiggy had kept her from dancing for the shooter. She really didn’t understand how her dancing would get somebody to talk, but apparently it had.
“Quit that dancing, Big Uns,” Squiggy said again. She couldn’t help herself. That old country music got her a moving and a grooving.
She continued to jiggle a little, but stopped with the whole clothes removal. “What for?”
“For a while,” Squiggy said. “We need to talk to this here feller that was wanting to shoot my buttocks.”
Albert looked a little relieved. “Whoo, thanks.”
“Don’t be thinking me,” Squiggy said. “Now why was you wanting to kill me?”
“I was told to kill you.”
“By who?”
Albert started to clam up. One wrong word and he would be toast.
“Best start talking, boy,” Squiggy said. Albert continued to hold his silence. “Mule, switch that CD to the eighth song.”
Mule walked over to the CD player and stared at it. “How do you do that?”
“Easy, you just keep hitting the button until it shows eight on it.”
Mule turned the power on and off several times. Then he turned the player over to the radio, followed by switching between AM and FM. After that, he messed with the tuner and the volume.
“What the crap?” he said. “I can’t find no eight.”
“That’s cause you’s ate up with it,” Squiggy said. He walked over to the player and set the track. Within seconds, a Backstreet Boys song came on.
“Please, no!” Albert said.
It was too late. Big Uns was controlled before. Now she was spinning around all through the cellar. Her hair was flying through the air and her breasts were bouncing hard enough that she almost blacked both eyes.
Mule was amazed. “Hot dog! She must like that song.”
Big Uns nodded and continued to do dance moves that likely had never been seen before. “I like to dance!” she said.
She twirled over in front of Albert and shook her head, letting her hair whack him in the face. Some of it got lodged in his mouth and he spit it out.
“Please, somebody stop her!” he said.
“You ready to talk?” Squiggy said.
“I can’t! They’ll kill me.”
Squiggy walked over to the CD player and switched the song. Slowly, the Bette Midler song Wind Beneath My Wings started playing. Big Uns stopped in her tracks. She tilted her head back, closed her eyes and started singing.
There was a good reason why Big Uns never made it big with her singing. Mainly, it was because she couldn’t. She was loud and screeched enough that everybody covered their ears.
“Crap fire,” Squiggy said. “That’s almost too painful for me!”
“Squiggy, I’d rather you let the feller go instead of hearing her sing,” Mule said.
Whatever Big Uns lacked in talent, she made up for in enthusiasm. She was belting out the song with all her effort. Inside the cellar made it even worse.
"Please stop!” Albert said again.
“You talking?” Squiggy said.
“Yeah, I’d rather die than hear her sing.”
-------
Chief Arnold was still not moving all that great. He was still limping, even worse when somebody might see him walking, of course. He was worried about his town. Langford used to be a peaceful place and all he had to worry about was arresting Mexicans and breaking up domestic disturbances.
Not anymore, though. Now people were getting killed in his town. And buildings were getting blown up. That just wasn’t right. Chief Arnold always thought he was a decent lawman. But never had to worry about people actually shooting at him before.
The chief knew he was in over his head. He could either quit or change. What he had decided was to change. Gone would be the friendly local cop. Instead, Langford was about to see the second coming of Buford Pusser of Walking Tall fame.
He stopped his cruiser in front of the Last Call. The chief doubted any of the new people would be in town or at the bar, but this would be good practice. Unlike Buford, the chief decided a 2x4 probably wouldn’t work. He had never mastered baseball and struggled to even hit a whiffle ball thrown slow and underhanded.
The chief thought long and hard before deciding on his weapon for intimidation. He got out of the car, grabbed his weapon and walked toward the entrance. Three drunk cowboys were sitting on the ground outside the entrance, trying to sober up enough to get home.
One of the three looked up and blinked. That was right before he snorted. “Hee hee,” he said. “Is that a jump rope you’re carrying?”
The chief hoped people would think it was a whip. He had even painted it black. “No, it’s a whip,” the chief said. “Watch this!”
He snapped the jump rope and made a loud pop. The second cowboy laughed. “That wouldn’t even leave a scratch.”
“You wanna find out?”
“Sure, if you don’t mind a butt kicking.”
The chief decided they were not worthy and walked inside the bar, making sure everybody saw him limping. The bartender watched him enter and stand in the center of the tables.
Nobody was paying any attention to the chief. That certainly wasn’t the plan. Chief Arnold was a little insulted. He grabbed the whip/jump rope off his shoulder and popped it on the ground.
He nipped one of the waitresses on the leg. “Watch it, you dork!” she hollered. “I’ll be sticking that jump rope where the dadgummed sun don’t shine!”
“It’s a whip!” the chief said. “The crap’s gonna stop!”
“What crap would that be?” asked a drunk cowboy who was halfway falling out of his chair.
“You’re fixing to see!” the chief said and stalked away toward the dance floor.
He felt confident, but gave no assurance. Michael was fine with that. He just wanted out of the hospital. Sandy had snuck him in some food, but he needed something other than hospital and fast food. The bad news was the OSBI agents were not through with him. They were hinting about arresting Michael, who maintained his innocence.
He had just about convinced them to release him without any kind of arrest. Chief Arnold had been in contact with the OSBI agents and told them Michael did not shoot the guy and was not any risk of flight.
That seemed to help, although they seemed to have their doubts.
Michael was just glad that he wasn’t going to have to go to the slammer upon release. He still had other worries, though.
------
Big Uns seemed a little disappointed. Squiggy had kept her from dancing for the shooter. She really didn’t understand how her dancing would get somebody to talk, but apparently it had.
“Quit that dancing, Big Uns,” Squiggy said again. She couldn’t help herself. That old country music got her a moving and a grooving.
She continued to jiggle a little, but stopped with the whole clothes removal. “What for?”
“For a while,” Squiggy said. “We need to talk to this here feller that was wanting to shoot my buttocks.”
Albert looked a little relieved. “Whoo, thanks.”
“Don’t be thinking me,” Squiggy said. “Now why was you wanting to kill me?”
“I was told to kill you.”
“By who?”
Albert started to clam up. One wrong word and he would be toast.
“Best start talking, boy,” Squiggy said. Albert continued to hold his silence. “Mule, switch that CD to the eighth song.”
Mule walked over to the CD player and stared at it. “How do you do that?”
“Easy, you just keep hitting the button until it shows eight on it.”
Mule turned the power on and off several times. Then he turned the player over to the radio, followed by switching between AM and FM. After that, he messed with the tuner and the volume.
“What the crap?” he said. “I can’t find no eight.”
“That’s cause you’s ate up with it,” Squiggy said. He walked over to the player and set the track. Within seconds, a Backstreet Boys song came on.
“Please, no!” Albert said.
It was too late. Big Uns was controlled before. Now she was spinning around all through the cellar. Her hair was flying through the air and her breasts were bouncing hard enough that she almost blacked both eyes.
Mule was amazed. “Hot dog! She must like that song.”
Big Uns nodded and continued to do dance moves that likely had never been seen before. “I like to dance!” she said.
She twirled over in front of Albert and shook her head, letting her hair whack him in the face. Some of it got lodged in his mouth and he spit it out.
“Please, somebody stop her!” he said.
“You ready to talk?” Squiggy said.
“I can’t! They’ll kill me.”
Squiggy walked over to the CD player and switched the song. Slowly, the Bette Midler song Wind Beneath My Wings started playing. Big Uns stopped in her tracks. She tilted her head back, closed her eyes and started singing.
There was a good reason why Big Uns never made it big with her singing. Mainly, it was because she couldn’t. She was loud and screeched enough that everybody covered their ears.
“Crap fire,” Squiggy said. “That’s almost too painful for me!”
“Squiggy, I’d rather you let the feller go instead of hearing her sing,” Mule said.
Whatever Big Uns lacked in talent, she made up for in enthusiasm. She was belting out the song with all her effort. Inside the cellar made it even worse.
"Please stop!” Albert said again.
“You talking?” Squiggy said.
“Yeah, I’d rather die than hear her sing.”
-------
Chief Arnold was still not moving all that great. He was still limping, even worse when somebody might see him walking, of course. He was worried about his town. Langford used to be a peaceful place and all he had to worry about was arresting Mexicans and breaking up domestic disturbances.
Not anymore, though. Now people were getting killed in his town. And buildings were getting blown up. That just wasn’t right. Chief Arnold always thought he was a decent lawman. But never had to worry about people actually shooting at him before.
The chief knew he was in over his head. He could either quit or change. What he had decided was to change. Gone would be the friendly local cop. Instead, Langford was about to see the second coming of Buford Pusser of Walking Tall fame.
He stopped his cruiser in front of the Last Call. The chief doubted any of the new people would be in town or at the bar, but this would be good practice. Unlike Buford, the chief decided a 2x4 probably wouldn’t work. He had never mastered baseball and struggled to even hit a whiffle ball thrown slow and underhanded.
The chief thought long and hard before deciding on his weapon for intimidation. He got out of the car, grabbed his weapon and walked toward the entrance. Three drunk cowboys were sitting on the ground outside the entrance, trying to sober up enough to get home.
One of the three looked up and blinked. That was right before he snorted. “Hee hee,” he said. “Is that a jump rope you’re carrying?”
The chief hoped people would think it was a whip. He had even painted it black. “No, it’s a whip,” the chief said. “Watch this!”
He snapped the jump rope and made a loud pop. The second cowboy laughed. “That wouldn’t even leave a scratch.”
“You wanna find out?”
“Sure, if you don’t mind a butt kicking.”
The chief decided they were not worthy and walked inside the bar, making sure everybody saw him limping. The bartender watched him enter and stand in the center of the tables.
Nobody was paying any attention to the chief. That certainly wasn’t the plan. Chief Arnold was a little insulted. He grabbed the whip/jump rope off his shoulder and popped it on the ground.
He nipped one of the waitresses on the leg. “Watch it, you dork!” she hollered. “I’ll be sticking that jump rope where the dadgummed sun don’t shine!”
“It’s a whip!” the chief said. “The crap’s gonna stop!”
“What crap would that be?” asked a drunk cowboy who was halfway falling out of his chair.
“You’re fixing to see!” the chief said and stalked away toward the dance floor.
posted by Craig Hall | 4:57 PM
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