Zebra Skin Shirt_A Strattford County Yarn by Gregory Hill

Author:Gregory Hill [Hill, Gregory]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781942280514
Amazon: 1942280513
Publisher: Conundrum Press
Published: 2018-07-02T00:00:00+00:00

42

On the way back to Holliday, a half mile out, I pass my ditch-bound semi for—what is it now—the fourth time? The sixth time? The front portion of the tractor portion of the tractor-trailer has collided with the ditch, crushing itself flat.

Our driver remains seated in the middle of the road, jaw even more slack than it was last time I saw him. I hope he appreciates the fact that he isn’t in the truck, as otherwise he’d be highly perforated.

The truck’s underslung fuel tanks remain intact, but I doubt they will remain so for much longer. I watch for several heartbeats. A sharp streak creeps up the center of the windshield and then spreads until the safety glass is decorated with spiderwebbed traces. It’s hypnotic. I could watch this for days, but I won’t.

To Cookie’s Palace Diner.

Things have progressed. Old Timer’s face has assumed the stern look of a patriot whose yellow ribbon magnet has gone missing from the tailgate of his pickup. He has knocked over his music stand, presumably without taking the time to digest the letter I’d so carefully composed. He’s reaching toward the back of his britches where—lookee!—a small pistol is wedged into his big butt crack. Christ almighty. What’s with these people? I’m going to have to start frisking them before I start freaking them out.

Old Timer’s eyes are focused squarely on Cookie, who has now completely emerged from the kitchen. Cookie, it should be noted, is carrying a meat cleaver. His expression suggests that he’d happily remove the hand of whoever is responsible for all this goddamned nonsense. For reasons that I can’t entirely suss out, this expression is directed toward Old Timer. Perhaps they have a history of distrust.

Sandy may or may not have attempted to read her note, but the emerging conflict between Cookie and Old Timer has proven to be too much of a distraction for her to focus on some silly words on a magical sheet of paper. Instead, we find her with palms raised, aimed, respectively, at the two men. Her face is begging the participants to engage in a moment of self-reflection. As in, “Cool it, you dopes.”

Bless her soul, Vero is the most lovely human on earth. She’s in her chair, as upright as a yoga instructor. Further contributing to the yoga-look, her mouth is in the self-satisfied smirk of one who knows something that everybody else doesn’t. Completing the picture, her eyes—her lovely brown eyes—are closed in a state of gentle contemplation.

She has read my note, she has understood my note, and she’s ready to get the hell out of here.

With great care, I lift Vero into the air and flatten her into a horizontally-floating magician’s assistant pose. With her arranged thusly, it’s a cinch to drag her feet-first thru the air.

I pillage one final bottle of water from the Palace’s fridge and bid the occupants adios, but not before I pluck the gun from Old Timer’s crack and remove the cleaver from Cookie’s fist.

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