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That nutty old candy maker up in Wilkes-Barre made it
special for the ani, the Susquehannock Indians, up home. Anna, Benny's mother,
sent it as a part of a 'Care package' to him when he was recuperating in the
base hospital at LeJeune. The accident was where he earned the beauty mark that
took his right eye and frightened small children. Man, thirty-five car pile up,
all caused by one crazy 'breed injun on a motorcycle.
Like Papa-Bear Carl used to say, ‘Yo, gotta know how
to live before you can die a righteous death, my man.’
His spine twinged a needle prick at the memory. On his
backside for months, relearning how to walk. Not cool, being helpless.
The unsweetened gum scorched his mouth while cinnamon
oil melted out of the chicle. Benny sucked in only slightly cooler air through
his mouth and blinked at the sweat poring off his forehead.
The cop's partner trotted out onto the intersection.
He shouted at someone blowing their horn, and began directing traffic with
stiff, quick motions around the, ah, accident. Benny snorted a low laugh at the
politico and sucked in more air as he slid passed. The first cop bellowed and
cursed, his cowboy boots plowed time and again into the cherry pure scarlet of
the Lamb's diamond finish.
Grampa wasn’t so polite.
‘Tisk. Shame to do that to such a pretty car.’
Benny grinned. He killed it and muttered something
un-grandson-like. That politician was corrupting the morals of a miner’s
grandson.
“Don't you know who I am? You idiot. You best stop
laughing. I’ll have you thrown in jail. I want your badge number, asshole. I
want it now.”
Benny cocked an eye at them and inched along behind
the truck. If he thought cussing 'em was gonna work the old dude didn't know
cops very well.
“I do not give a rat's hairy ass,” the cop told
him in a roar equal to an enraged bull terrier. He slapped his holster and gave
the old man a cold smile. “Gimme yo' blasted license.”
For a cop, the dude was nice, polite even. What
happened next so shocked Benny, he nearly ran into the back of the truck. The
politico made a fatal error in judgment. His fist shot out and connected with
the cop's face. Not much, just a soft spat of sound, about like a girl slapping
a guy when neither of them are really serious.
Unable to believe what just happened to him, the cop
stepped back in dead silence and stared at the man. From his time as Tommy
VanTur's personal slave-boy, Benny saw DC cops take a lot of abuse from the
high-&-mighty, but rarely was it more than a cut in salary or a few unkind
(and sometimes actually true!) remarks from the news-rats. But never did a
moneybags get physical. Not a politico. Never.
The bull-necked hillbilly shook his head, hard. Fury
roared over the lean face. Raising his fists, he reached in and dragged the man
bodily through the window. Benny uttered a low whistle. The old dude was bigger
than the cop! And easy 6/6 of pure Arkansas bull.
“Didn't know they could pile shit that high,”
Benny called to the man in the truck. Against his better judgment the man
laughed and shook his head in warning.
Yo, now the cop was acting like a cop. Get them mad
enough and sometimes they'll treat the rich just like they do the poor. Who
cares? It's the middle class that makes things run, not self-righteous
rich-bitches. Like Cindy.
Still, too bad for the old dude. He was most def'netly
up crap creek without a paddle.
Benny gave a low whistle. Man can sure bounce when he
hit the pavement. Even with monster-cop riding him down.
“Gee.”
The Lamb's driver spotted him. Benny rolled passed. In
a mocking respectful gesture, he touched the rim of the helmet.
‘Dammed jack-boot thugs.’
“Quiet, Grampa.”
The man shrieked in outrage. His fleshy arms were
twisted behind him, the first cuff snapped in place. At Benny's grin he threw
off the cop straddling him, clawed his way up the side of the car with complete
disregard for the state of his pampered hands.
He pounded down the lane of slow moving traffic,
screaming in a hoarse voice, “That's him. That's the one who caused the
accident.” Huffing and puffing, he grabbed the sleeping bag on the back of the
‘Sun.
Beyond mere rage, the cop bounced up and darted after
Griffin. The enraged driver turned to explain and flailed his arms. His legs
wrapped with the cop’s tangle net and he thumped to the road.
The shield of Benny's helmet hid a hard, insulting
grin. The old Red Sun picked up speed.
The next light flashed yellow then red. The ‘Sun
wound down, drawing to a stop. Benny's foot rested on the pavement. Even through
the heavy sole of the engineers boot waves of heat pounded at his foot.
Impatient with every delay, Benny scowled at the
light. The Pocono Mountains and home lay less than a day's ride from this
cesspit, Fantasy Land. Six lousy months at Camp LeJeune's Walter Reed Hospital,
every day waiting for the axe to fall. The axe being Cindy-the-Bitch VanTur and
her whacked inna head Project.
So what if he could do weird things like talk to
spirits? Didn't mean he could knock missiles out of the sky, did it? Not that it
mattered to that long legged antisocial bim. Personally, he figured she wanted
him in her bed more than for breeding Janissary slaves for her warped Project.
‘Gotta admit, you had a lot of fun there.’
“Dammit, Grampa.”
Grampa’s whispered snickers changed to a yelp of
pain. Benny grunted and sneered.
“You tell him, Nana Waya.”
Only one dammed good thing had come out of that
hospital stay and that was Sweet-Bottom. God, but if the Project ever nailed
him, Terry Marie Donnelly would be in a training collar and humping her butt off
in a whorehouse like the Manse.
Hell, at least they'd be together. He'd be right
beside her, and not from choice.
Six months rotting in a hospital.
Too long a chunk out of his sixteen years.
Way too long.
Nowhere to go but home. The Project would be waiting
there, too. He touched the knife sewn into the crotch of his jeans.
Sweat dribbled from under the helmet and soaked his
armpits.
“Freekin crap.” He reached up and scrubbed off
some of the perspiration. A gummy, stinging flood poured into his good eye.
Washington, DC, was trying out spring with a
vengeance. Not bad for a February warm-up. The air was sultry. It was steamy.
“As well as seamy.” Benny snorted a laugh. He
scowled. An iron hard fist hit a well-muscled and rock-like thigh. The scowl
twisted the jagged scar that shot through a ruined and hollowed eye socket.
Benny gagged. A stench like something dead hit him full in the face.
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
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