Tuesday, December 27, 2011

A Man, A Musket, And A Murder Vol 4

Far from home, smelling foul, and in an unfamiliar bar, detective Vic Musket sat perched atop a large bar stool.  It was not often that he made it to bars, and much preferred drinking out in public where he could make lewd gestures at passing women.  "Give me three shots of the house whisky." Vic barked, loud enough to get the attention of the half a dozen or so truckers that sat around him.  They were all stereotypical fat, unshaven rednecks in overalls and foam hats with oil advertisements and such on them.  It was clear that the sign outside offering $5 showers didn't stir up much business here.

"You got it, fella.  Three bucks."  The bartender said.  Vic thought of asking why the shots were so cheap, but decided not to look this gift horse in the mouth.  After one swig he knew the answer.  This whisky was piss.  

"I needed that.  Got my car wrecked up the highway a bit, now I have no way to get down to Dallas to see my daughter get married."  Vic laid that bait out to see if anyone was going that way.  In his limited hitchhiking experience a trucker is usually willing to give a ride to anyone headed their direction.  Helps to keep sane when the roads start to turn into endless straight lines out west. 

"Yer car was wrecked up, my ass!  You that queer boy they locked up last night.  I saw you come in when they was lettin' me out the drunk tank."  The biggest redneck of the bunch chimed in, clearly looking for trouble.

Vic turned to look at the meaty bastard through the smoky bar air.  "Must have been somebody else, Susan.  I just drove in this morning, and hit a deer at about 60 miles an hour.  Bambi messed up my car real good.  You must have me mistaken for someone else."

"No, sir!  That was you all right.  Cops couldn't stop makin' jokes about what you had planned for that rubber wiener you were carryin'.  You a queer boy fer sure!"  The brute stood up for emphasis and walked over to the bar, making it clear he was at least a half foot taller than Vic.

"Look, friend,"  Vic changed his tone "I don't want trouble.  I just need to find a ride to Texas."

"Well I'll be goddamned if I am gonna let some sissy faggot into my rig!  In fact, yer lucky I don't chain you to the trailer and drag you down to Texas!  I tell you what, sissy boy, I'll give you a ride all the way down to Dallas if you can beat little old me in a friendly arm wrasslin' contest."  The man sat down at the nearest chair with his elbow firmly planted on the table.  For emphasis he turned his cap around to the back.

Vic looked the much larger man straight in the eyes, removed his jacket and took a seat opposite him.  He slowly rolled up the sleeve of his right arm exposing the paleness beneath, and breathed deeply.  His left hand plucked the lit cigarette out from his lips and snuffed it out in the empty ashtray between them, and grabbed a hold of the man's massive hand.  "Ready."  Vic said.

SLAM!  Vic lost almost before the contest even began, his hand crashing painfully onto the table.  "Ha!  I ain't never gonna lose to no queery city boy!  Get out of here, sissy!  I ain't givin' you no ride!" Came the man's immediate victory cry.  

Vic didn't respond, and didn't get up to leave with his tail between his legs like everyone expected.  He just reached into his pocket for another cigarette, lit it and sat back.  Calmly, he replied "Aww, c'mon Susan.  Can't I get a ride?  I'll suck yer dick!"

The man turned and charged Vic like a wounded animal, clearly incensed at the nerve of this stranger who lost at arm wrasslin' and still was talking shit.  Vic quickly flicked the lit cigarette at the beast and hit him dead in the face, raining fiery embers all around and leaving him disoriented.

"Fuck!" Cried the large man as he crashed through a wooden table and fell face-first into the floor.  Vic calmly stood up and walked over the downed man, dropping a heavy boot into the back of his head.  All four limbs tensed up and the man started immediately snoring, relieving everyone that he was still alive after the brutal stomp.  

CLACK, CLACK!  The familiar noise of a pump action shotgun being readied came from behind Vic.  The bartender glared at him from over the barrel.  "Get out of here, mister.  Before I do something we both regret."

That was all the invitation he needed.  He downed his last shot and grabbed his jacket before storming out the double doors.  "Great" he thought. "I guess I had better start walking." 

"Hey, mister!  Hey!"  A woman came running put of the bar after him.  At least he thought it was a woman, although she looked akin to the meaty bastards inside.  "I'm headed down through Dallas!  I can give you a ride!"

Vic smiled.  Things were finally looking up.

To be continued...

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