| General Fiction posted June 27, 2019 |
  |
word lover's club shorty
Baa, Baa
by LIJ Red
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
"I got a call from a developer about the old black dude called the Goat Man," Bleaker County Sheriff Nate Bedford began. "No, not the well-known Ches McCartney who migrated north and south among the Appalachians, but Ol' Floy who is still alive and winters in Texas and summers in Tennessee, driving his goat cart more east and west."
His probationary part time deputy, Tommi Sansen, complained, "So. Somebody has to mess with a popular tradition, and I can guess who gets the shit end of that stick!"
"I dunno her name, but she's wearing size four cowboy boots and Daisy Dukes," Nate grinned. "Charge. Give no quarter. Oh, the thickets behind the High Hope Baptist cemetery are not part of the developer's land."
Tommi smiled at her boss, relieved. "Well, awright. I'll have the old fart relocate to the briar patch."
"The goats will love that."
The tall hills swallowed the sun early, and created several hours of cooler daylight, so the hundred-pound deputy blasted out of the county seat and into the Blue Ridge Range on her latest scooter, a 150 Elite ten years older than the meter-and-a-half lawbitch. The blast was rather mild. The winding, climbing empty county two-lane was spotted with twigs and foliage from trees uprooted and dumped into the road by a vulgar sunset thunder-boomer three days earlier. Salt and sand still made shallow drifts on the pavenment's edge from last winter's uncouth blizzard. All these factors, plus frequent whitetails of limited intellect, made Tommi proceed with care.
The Goat Man was walking by his cart on the up side of a foothill. The trained goats not pulling in the traces walked in a column behind the cart. Tommi did a U-turn and stopped beside the aromatic old man, whose straw hat and overalls were faded almost as white as his hair and beard. Hand letters on the side of his wooden cart said I AM SENT ME.
"Well, rats. Now I don't get to slapjack you and wave my gun around and order you to move along," she said.
"Dat city boy in the hunnerd dollah shirt, he got plumb red in de face. Voice gittin' all shrill en high. Think he got PMS er sumpin."
"There's no open land anymore. But the deacons say the thicket behind the graveyard at the church you just passed is available."
"An' heah you comes dragassin' on your little Jap mopud after me an' my babies has drove two hunnerd yahd fuddern we hadda in this hot shade."
Tommi rubbed her tiny thumb and forefinger together.
Floy shook his ursine head. "Yeah, Ah knows. Wurl's little bittiest fiddle play hearts and flairs. Haw, you smelly soambitches, Haw!"
"And clean up after yourself." Tommi buzzed away, out of the path of the left-turning ten-goat team.
Not even the lowest crack ho in Hotlanter would have done what the Goat Man suggested as the deputy zipped away.
The day slowly faded, and summer stars appeared. The scorpion crawled boldly in the south.
Tommi's cell groaned across the table-top. She left her book and bed and answered, "My Lord High Sheriff!"
"Got a whole pile of cars and a swarm of ambulances on the scenic causeway,"Nate said. He sounded weary.
"On my way."
"No. No! The pastor's old lady says there's a second woodstock busted loose behind the church. Go shoot the damn Goat Man."
"Terminate the festivities with extreme prejudice. Got it. What happened on the four-lane?"
"A cute spotted fawn and its dam caused a Lexus to brake sharply. A Mustang rear-ended the Lexus and a Ram rammed the 'Stang, and a BMW hit the Ram and..."
"I get the drift. I'll call when I finish with Goat Man."
Tommi heard the bass notes as she hung a right past the red-brick churchouse and entered the cemetery loop driveway. The turning area was full of cars. Tommi blinked. A Ram2500, a BMW, A Camaro, a Lexus, and a Mustang. Her neck hairs tickled. A ghost Woodstock?
She dismounted, unnoticed. A sedate Honda generator was humming in the trampled sedge. The goats were settling down to snooze in the weeds at the rear edge of the lot. A gibbous moon was clearing the dark jagged eastern skyline. Amps and speakers were ringed around the Goat Man's cart and a score of listeners filled the clearing. Five ancient hippies, tattooed and hirsute, were doing better than most on keyboard, electric catarrh, horns and drums. Goat Man stood in the middle, holding a mike and singing in a voice deeper than Tartarus and rougher than the Gloryland Way.
"Toebone connected to de footbone
footbone connected to de anklebone
anklebone connected to de shinbone
now, hear de Word of de Lawd!"
Hands from the shadows closed on Tommi's waist. She smelled the familiar perfume an instant before the hands touched her, fortunately, or she would have been an injurious explosion of heels, elbows and claws.
"I hollered before I was hurt," the pastor's whitehaired wife whispered. "Go about your rat-killing unless you want to join me and listen for a while. That old goat can really blat."
"Let's look for something to sit on," Tommi said, drawing her cell to inform her boss. No bars. Oh, well.
"I got a call from a developer about the old black dude called the Goat Man," Bleaker County Sheriff Nate Bedford began. "No, not the well-known Ches McCartney who migrated north and south among the Appalachians, but Ol' Floy who is still alive and winters in Texas and summers in Tennessee, driving his goat cart more east and west."
His probationary part time deputy, Tommi Sansen, complained, "So. Somebody has to mess with a popular tradition, and I can guess who gets the shit end of that stick!"
"I dunno her name, but she's wearing size four cowboy boots and Daisy Dukes," Nate grinned. "Charge. Give no quarter. Oh, the thickets behind the High Hope Baptist cemetery are not part of the developer's land."
Tommi smiled at her boss, relieved. "Well, awright. I'll have the old fart relocate to the briar patch."
"The goats will love that."
The tall hills swallowed the sun early, and created several hours of cooler daylight, so the hundred-pound deputy blasted out of the county seat and into the Blue Ridge Range on her latest scooter, a 150 Elite ten years older than the meter-and-a-half lawbitch. The blast was rather mild. The winding, climbing empty county two-lane was spotted with twigs and foliage from trees uprooted and dumped into the road by a vulgar sunset thunder-boomer three days earlier. Salt and sand still made shallow drifts on the pavenment's edge from last winter's uncouth blizzard. All these factors, plus frequent whitetails of limited intellect, made Tommi proceed with care.
The Goat Man was walking by his cart on the up side of a foothill. The trained goats not pulling in the traces walked in a column behind the cart. Tommi did a U-turn and stopped beside the aromatic old man, whose straw hat and overalls were faded almost as white as his hair and beard. Hand letters on the side of his wooden cart said I AM SENT ME.
"Well, rats. Now I don't get to slapjack you and wave my gun around and order you to move along," she said.
"Dat city boy in the hunnerd dollah shirt, he got plumb red in de face. Voice gittin' all shrill en high. Think he got PMS er sumpin."
"There's no open land anymore. But the deacons say the thicket behind the graveyard at the church you just passed is available."
"An' heah you comes dragassin' on your little Jap mopud after me an' my babies has drove two hunnerd yahd fuddern we hadda in this hot shade."
Tommi rubbed her tiny thumb and forefinger together.
Floy shook his ursine head. "Yeah, Ah knows. Wurl's little bittiest fiddle play hearts and flairs. Haw, you smelly soambitches, Haw!"
"And clean up after yourself." Tommi buzzed away, out of the path of the left-turning ten-goat team.
Not even the lowest crack ho in Hotlanter would have done what the Goat Man suggested as the deputy zipped away.
The day slowly faded, and summer stars appeared. The scorpion crawled boldly in the south.
Tommi's cell groaned across the table-top. She left her book and bed and answered, "My Lord High Sheriff!"
"Got a whole pile of cars and a swarm of ambulances on the scenic causeway,"Nate said. He sounded weary.
"On my way."
"No. No! The pastor's old lady says there's a second woodstock busted loose behind the church. Go shoot the damn Goat Man."
"Terminate the festivities with extreme prejudice. Got it. What happened on the four-lane?"
"A cute spotted fawn and its dam caused a Lexus to brake sharply. A Mustang rear-ended the Lexus and a Ram rammed the 'Stang, and a BMW hit the Ram and..."
"I get the drift. I'll call when I finish with Goat Man."
Tommi heard the bass notes as she hung a right past the red-brick churchouse and entered the cemetery loop driveway. The turning area was full of cars. Tommi blinked. A Ram2500, a BMW, A Camaro, a Lexus, and a Mustang. Her neck hairs tickled. A ghost Woodstock?
She dismounted, unnoticed. A sedate Honda generator was humming in the trampled sedge. The goats were settling down to snooze in the weeds at the rear edge of the lot. A gibbous moon was clearing the dark jagged eastern skyline. Amps and speakers were ringed around the Goat Man's cart and a score of listeners filled the clearing. Five ancient hippies, tattooed and hirsute, were doing better than most on keyboard, electric catarrh, horns and drums. Goat Man stood in the middle, holding a mike and singing in a voice deeper than Tartarus and rougher than the Gloryland Way.
"Toebone connected to de footbone
footbone connected to de anklebone
anklebone connected to de shinbone
now, hear de Word of de Lawd!"
Hands from the shadows closed on Tommi's waist. She smelled the familiar perfume an instant before the hands touched her, fortunately, or she would have been an injurious explosion of heels, elbows and claws.
"I hollered before I was hurt," the pastor's whitehaired wife whispered. "Go about your rat-killing unless you want to join me and listen for a while. That old goat can really blat."
"Let's look for something to sit on," Tommi said, drawing her cell to inform her boss. No bars. Oh, well.
His probationary part time deputy, Tommi Sansen, complained, "So. Somebody has to mess with a popular tradition, and I can guess who gets the shit end of that stick!"
"I dunno her name, but she's wearing size four cowboy boots and Daisy Dukes," Nate grinned. "Charge. Give no quarter. Oh, the thickets behind the High Hope Baptist cemetery are not part of the developer's land."
Tommi smiled at her boss, relieved. "Well, awright. I'll have the old fart relocate to the briar patch."
"The goats will love that."
The tall hills swallowed the sun early, and created several hours of cooler daylight, so the hundred-pound deputy blasted out of the county seat and into the Blue Ridge Range on her latest scooter, a 150 Elite ten years older than the meter-and-a-half lawbitch. The blast was rather mild. The winding, climbing empty county two-lane was spotted with twigs and foliage from trees uprooted and dumped into the road by a vulgar sunset thunder-boomer three days earlier. Salt and sand still made shallow drifts on the pavenment's edge from last winter's uncouth blizzard. All these factors, plus frequent whitetails of limited intellect, made Tommi proceed with care.
The Goat Man was walking by his cart on the up side of a foothill. The trained goats not pulling in the traces walked in a column behind the cart. Tommi did a U-turn and stopped beside the aromatic old man, whose straw hat and overalls were faded almost as white as his hair and beard. Hand letters on the side of his wooden cart said I AM SENT ME.
"Well, rats. Now I don't get to slapjack you and wave my gun around and order you to move along," she said.
"Dat city boy in the hunnerd dollah shirt, he got plumb red in de face. Voice gittin' all shrill en high. Think he got PMS er sumpin."
"There's no open land anymore. But the deacons say the thicket behind the graveyard at the church you just passed is available."
"An' heah you comes dragassin' on your little Jap mopud after me an' my babies has drove two hunnerd yahd fuddern we hadda in this hot shade."
Tommi rubbed her tiny thumb and forefinger together.
Floy shook his ursine head. "Yeah, Ah knows. Wurl's little bittiest fiddle play hearts and flairs. Haw, you smelly soambitches, Haw!"
"And clean up after yourself." Tommi buzzed away, out of the path of the left-turning ten-goat team.
Not even the lowest crack ho in Hotlanter would have done what the Goat Man suggested as the deputy zipped away.
The day slowly faded, and summer stars appeared. The scorpion crawled boldly in the south.
Tommi's cell groaned across the table-top. She left her book and bed and answered, "My Lord High Sheriff!"
"Got a whole pile of cars and a swarm of ambulances on the scenic causeway,"Nate said. He sounded weary.
"On my way."
"No. No! The pastor's old lady says there's a second woodstock busted loose behind the church. Go shoot the damn Goat Man."
"Terminate the festivities with extreme prejudice. Got it. What happened on the four-lane?"
"A cute spotted fawn and its dam caused a Lexus to brake sharply. A Mustang rear-ended the Lexus and a Ram rammed the 'Stang, and a BMW hit the Ram and..."
"I get the drift. I'll call when I finish with Goat Man."
Tommi heard the bass notes as she hung a right past the red-brick churchouse and entered the cemetery loop driveway. The turning area was full of cars. Tommi blinked. A Ram2500, a BMW, A Camaro, a Lexus, and a Mustang. Her neck hairs tickled. A ghost Woodstock?
She dismounted, unnoticed. A sedate Honda generator was humming in the trampled sedge. The goats were settling down to snooze in the weeds at the rear edge of the lot. A gibbous moon was clearing the dark jagged eastern skyline. Amps and speakers were ringed around the Goat Man's cart and a score of listeners filled the clearing. Five ancient hippies, tattooed and hirsute, were doing better than most on keyboard, electric catarrh, horns and drums. Goat Man stood in the middle, holding a mike and singing in a voice deeper than Tartarus and rougher than the Gloryland Way.
"Toebone connected to de footbone
footbone connected to de anklebone
anklebone connected to de shinbone
now, hear de Word of de Lawd!"
Hands from the shadows closed on Tommi's waist. She smelled the familiar perfume an instant before the hands touched her, fortunately, or she would have been an injurious explosion of heels, elbows and claws.
"I hollered before I was hurt," the pastor's whitehaired wife whispered. "Go about your rat-killing unless you want to join me and listen for a while. That old goat can really blat."
"Let's look for something to sit on," Tommi said, drawing her cell to inform her boss. No bars. Oh, well.
Unusual words, unusual application of common words, does that make a story of mystic flair, or gibberish? I had posted nothing as a member of this club , so I had a go at it...with my favorite stock character, the petite deputy who may be the next less qualified law officer after Barney Fyfe...
Club entry for the "Poetic Prose" event in "Word Lovers". Locate a writing club.
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