King of the Horseflies

King of the Horse Flies

By V.A. Joshua

*********

Copyright 2014

V.A. Joshua

*********

From one thing comes another. Some are good, but some are very bad.

-King of the Horse Flies

Under a cloudy, dimly lit sky, a dark haired fellow walks down a wet Northern California road. His clothes are scraggly and brown with dirt and grime. From a distance, it would appear as if it were his own flesh that lay rotting against his broad torso. He carries a backpack made of black canvas that is worn and used just as badly as the leatherette boots he wears. He stops and removes his long, tattered brown hair from his face and sniffs the damp air as he surveys the area.

He walks to the other side of the road that is still wet from the fifteen minutes of rain that he was so fortunate to miss. He looks down both sides of the highway to see if anyone may be watching. Not a soul. He stretches out his arm towards the brush on the side of the road and makes a lifting motion with his wrist as if to say, “
Up, up, up
.” Slowly, a mangled possum carcass rises from the weeds. Its head and limbs dangle and drip water and blood from its rotting flesh. He winces and slightly moves his face away from the stench that surrounds the animal’s body.

“Aww,” he sighs.

He rotates the animal as it dangles mid-air, examining it.

“If you taste as bad as you look and smell, I think I’ll starve a couple more days.”

As soon as he drops his hand, the lifeless creature plops back onto the soggy grass and rain drenched ground. The stranger continues his travel for a half of a mile before reaching a road sign. “
Safe, 2 miles
,” the sign reads. “
Hmm, right
,” he says to himself, and he continues his walk towards the town.

The stranger makes his way into the city limits and sees another sign that should read “
Safe, population 236
.” Instead, the local bandits and mischiefs have added two words in front of the town name: “
Not so
.” The first building that stands out is the local church, mainly because at dusk a light fixture that sits at the base of the cross illuminates it around this time of the evening. Just as the stranger examines the worn red and white sanctum, a priest walks out of the squeaky double doors, closing them behind him.

“Father,” the stranger mutters in a deep bass voice reminiscent of Barry White.

The priest nods and stares at him as if Darth Vader was walking down the street holding up a peace sign. He says to himself, “
So far, so good
.” Continuing his walk, he notices a woman around thirty-four years old dressed in a purple flower-patterned dress walking with her eight-year-old daughter in a similar dress, except hers is decorated with mini Dora the Explorer patterns. The mother shifts her daughter from the right outside shoulder closest to the street to her left side, not making eye contact as they walk by the stranger. He walks on, readjusting his backpack in frustration.

He notices a small diner just before getting into the main part of the town. He makes his way to the rundown wooden diner to possibly clean up, eat, and not stick out as much as he has so far. The stranger opens the front door that chimes as he walks into the eatery. The aroma smells of bacon and coffee as he makes his way to the counter to sit.

After placing his bag in the seat, he looks around the room and notices three other people, all of whom are seated separately and scattered throughout the shop. One is a long–haired, redhead male dressed in dingy blue coveralls, more than likely a mechanic. He faces the front door, but is half turned around, looking back at the stranger as if to say, “
What in the world are you doing in this place?
” From the looks of his jagged and discolored teeth, the stranger could argue the same point. The stranger then turns and looks the other way and sees a local sheriff sip on what is surely coffee.

“We don’t do handouts here,” the waitress says.

The stranger looks over at the dirty blonde standing behind the counter smoking a cigarette.

“I’m not looking for any,” he says as he grabs a wad of balled up one dollar bills from out of his back pack and puts it on the counter.

He glances over to see if the sheriff is looking. The sheriff has his head still pointed down at the paper, but his eyes are pointed up, looking in the stranger’s direction.

“Well, what do you want?” the waitress asks.

“Chicken fried steak, if you got it, and some coffee,” he replies.

“Lucky you,” she says as she walks away, “cause that’s all we got.”

The stranger looks over and sees the mechanic sliding from out of his booth and starting to walk over

in
his direction.

“
Here we go
,” the stranger says to himself.

“I think it’s time for you
ta get going, bud,” the mechanic says.

“Listen, I don’t know what your problem is, and personally I don’t care. I’m just
gonna have a meal then I'll be out of your wonderful town,” the stranger replies.

“Quit being a turd, Jerry,” the waitress spouts.

“Shut up, Lucy. I’m just trying ta get some thangs straight with our new friend here.”

The mechanic grabs the stranger by the shoulder and turns him around on the bar’s swivel chair.

“What part of get going don’t YOU under—?!”

Before he can finish his response, the stranger grabs the mechanic’s hand off of his shoulder, slams it on the counter,
then stabs through it with a butter knife from the setting in front of him.

“
Ahhh!” the mechanic screams in agonizing pain.

Just as the stranger turns to see where the sheriff is, he gets smacked right in the face and is knocked unconscious.

Chapter 2

MY NAME’S CARVER

The stranger lies on a bed in a dark jail cell with rusty bars and a bad-smelling toilet.

“What’s your name, sir?” a young, pale skinned, red-haired deputy sheriff asks.

He pokes the stranger with a night stick through the jail cell’s bars.

“Hey, wake up!” He turns to the Sheriff. “I think you killed him, sir.”

“Naw, he ain’t dead. If he was dead, he’d know it.”

The sheriff gets up from his desk and picks up his coffee cup half-filled with seven-hour-old cold coffee.

“Get up, boy!” He throws the cup of coffee on the stranger. Immediately he pops up, not knowing where he is.

“See, he
ain't dead. My deputy asked you a question. I think it’s rude of you not to answer him.”

“The answers yes if he asked if I think you’re an idiot,” the stranger replies, wiping the coffee off of his face.

The sheriff exhales.

“You’re not in the position to have humor right now, boy. You’re under arrest for assaulting a public citizen. Which I just so happened to witness first hand. So let’s quit the Andy
Griffithing and tell me what your name is before things get tense.”

The stranger looks at them both then rolls his eyes.

“Carver…my name’s Carver,” he replies.

“Carver?
Carver what? Is that your first or last name?”

The stranger takes a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Ha, ha,” the sheriff chuckles.

“Listen here. I’m trying to be polite by not stepping in that cell and stomping the dust out of you that the good Lord put in, okay? So quit your games and tell me what your full name is.”

“I said I don’t know. I woke up in the desert four months ago without knowing who or where I was. I wasn’t even sure what I looked like till a week after that.”

“Ricky, open the cell.”

The sheriff stands six foot six, two hundred and sixty-six pounds without an ounce of hair on his head. He has a graying Fu Manchu mustache and dark circled eyes that would break any ordinary man just by looking at him. The deputy sheriff hits the lever that opens the cell entrance to Carver. The Sheriff walks in followed by the deputy with their batons out and begins to attack Carver. With every swing the sheriff takes, he asks a question.

“What!?
Is!? Your!? Damn!? Name!? Boy!?”

“Carver,” he screams as he’s balled up in the fetal position.

“Wrong answer!”

The sheriff picks him up off the floor and grabs him around the neck, slamming him against the cell’s back wall.

“How about now? This jog your memory?” as he chocks him.

The sheriff holds him there nearly a minute before letting him go. Carver gasps for air.

“Nothing?” the sheriff asks. “Either you’re telling the truth or you’re hiding something. I’m leaning towards hiding something.”

The sheriff and the deputy walk out of the cell together, both breathing heavily.

“Hell, for all I care, you’re the king of the horse flies. We’ll get your prints in the morning and run ’em. No sweat. For now, lights out, stranger.”

The deputy turns off the light switch as they walk out of the building.

“Enjoy your night, stranger,” the deputy says sarcastically.

Carver sits in the dimly lit room with blood still dripping from the top of his nose after being knocked out in the diner. He feels his nose to see if it’s broken; it’s not, but it hurts like a son of a gun. The room’s quiet except that he can hear the faint sound of a clock ticking and the occasional car driving by on the still wet street. He’s alone, just like he’s been for the past four months, walking every type of road that one can encounter. He’s slept in tunnels, caves, sewers, trees, underpasses, and cardboard boxes. He can add a jail to that list now.

Carver hears scratching or the sound of something moving. Experience would tell him that it’s more than likely a mouse or some sort of rodent. The sound gets closer, but this time it’s followed by a squeak. Definitely a mouse. He keeps as still as possible in the hopes the rodent will make its way towards him. He slowly takes off one of his brown leatherette boots and angles it so the heavy heel is facing outward. The grayish mouse comes into view as it peeks its tiny head in front of the cell. It sniffs the air then bolts inside towards Carver. He takes a whack at the mouse but misses. He swings two more times before finally connecting.

“Got you,” he screams.

“
Let’s get out of here,”
he mutters under his breath.

He immediately manipulates the dead mouse so that it takes to the air and splits it in half. Mouse blood drips on floor next to the blood from Carvers nose. He directs it out of the cell then towards the lever used to open the cage. The mouse’s body wraps around the handle then begins pulling it towards him. A loud clank is heard as the cell door opens. He stands up, trying to stuff his foot back into his boot. Just as he walks out of the cell, the front door opens and the light
comes on. It’s the deputy sheriff, Ricky. They lock eyes.

“What the hell? How'd you?”

Carver swings his arms towards the mouse wrapped handle and shoots it towards the deputy, covering both of his eyes.

“
Ahhh, my eyes!” Deputy Ricky screams.

Carver grabs his backpack sitting on the sheriff’s desk then bursts through the double doors of the station and is immediately illuminated by a street light. He looks up at the lamp as if he had just been spotted by a prison spotlight and the alarm just sounded. The sheriff sits in front of the station lounged back in his patrol car listening to Kathy
Matteas’ “18 Wheels and a Dozen Roses.” He sees Carver step out of the building with backpack in tow.

“
What the hell?
” he asks himself.

Carver sees the sheriff fumbling inside trying to get out of the driver’s seat. He leaps down the front stairs that consist of eight or so steps and runs around the backside of the station. He hasn’t had to run like this since he was chased by a pit bull that jumped its fence. You would expect that sort of thing when you walk through the neighborhood alleys in the city of angels. Surprisingly enough, that was the
only conflict he had to deal with walking through the violence infested streets of southern California. Now here he is, nearly 200 miles from the violence he was sure to encounter in SoCal in a town called Safe. Already he’s been harassed, knocked out, and beat to the point where he was told he would get the dust knocked out of him that God put into him.

“
I need to get out of the open
,” he thinks to himself and runs to the tree line that surrounds the town.

The sheriff gets out of the car with his gun drawn, but he doesn’t have a clear shot so he fires a warning round in the air. Carver ducks but keeps running. The sheriff runs up the stairs and through the station’s front doors.

“Ricky!?” he shouts.

He hears water running in the break room in the back.