SNOWMEN
By
James Melzer
* * * * *
Smashwords Edition
Snowmen
James Melzer
Copyright 2010 James Melzer
Published on Smashwords by James Melzer
No part of this eBook may be reproduced in any form
without the expressed written consent
of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons or places
is unintended
Stay tuned after the story for a three-chapter preview of
James Melzer's new novella
HULL'S LANDING
Available now on wherever eBooks are sold
SNOWMEN
Edgar brought out the hose, which was a strange thing to do in the middle of winter, but necessary in order to put the finishing touches on his display. He uncoiled it, foot-by-foot, from around back of the house where it was attached to a rusting faucet. When he was finished, Edgar paused to catch his breath, which could be seen coming from his mouth like tiny spirits. Trudging through the snow, careful to use the footprints that had already disturbed it, Edgar returned to the back of his bungalow and turned on the water. He then went back to the nozzle in front and turned the hose on the army of snowmen on his front lawn.
The sound of the water coming forth was the only noise that could be heard for a country mile, and out here in the rural landscape of Pennsylvania, a country mile was exactly what separated Edgar from his neighbors. He grinned as the hose did its job. Making sure to hit every nook and cranny of the snowmen, Edgar was pleased with years display.
It had taken him two months to plan, and like every year, this one topped the one previous. Soon, people from all over the county would be driving by his house and stopping in the sub-zero cold of a Pennsylvania winter, just to get out of their cars and admire Edgar's snowmen. Although he had been doing his displays for many, many years, they hadn’t really become an attraction until more recent, when the local newspaper had done a story on him. That was just by chance, too. A young reporter with a flat tire and nowhere to go but Edgar's. He saw the display and while waiting the two hours for a tow, he had talked to the old man about this fascination, and a week later the story had run. Complete with a panoramic photo of Edgar’s front yard.
* * * * *
Williamsport Gazette
Let It Snow, Man
Greg Johnson
Every year Pennsylvania gets dumped on by foot after foot of snow, and while many of us abhor the inconvenience this causes, one man has taken the snow and turned it in to a work of art.
Edgar Davies lives on the outskirts of the small town of Muncy. His house, a bungalow, is situated smack dab in the middle of nowhere, flanked on either side by woods. His closest neighbor is far enough away that if trouble were to befall him, Davies’ screams wouldn’t even be heard.
None of that bothers Edgar though. The peace and quiet of the country are his best friends, and in the winter, Davies spends his retired life building, of all things, snowmen
As kids, the sculptures we all built were rudimentary at best. We would gather our friends, roll up the packing snow like a sleeping bag until the balls were big enough, and then we would stack them one on top of the other. Some of us drew faces on them with our fingers, while the more industrious would gather sticks and old mittens to decorate our snowmen. When the warm weather hit, the winter sculptures were left to melt away until next season, when we would do it all over again.
Edgar Davies, though, has taken one of our favorite winter past-times and turned it into a passion. Every year he methodically plans, sometimes months in advance, his display for the current season. Three years ago it was a classic manger scene, with three wise snowmen and a baby Jesus made out of the white stuff, and placed in a homemade crib. Two years ago it had been a scene from Edgar’s favorite movie, It’s a Wonderful Life, with a snowman George Bailey behind a wooden counter, and four others in line in front of him.
This reporter came across Edgar by chance, and when asked about this unusual art form, Davies replied, “I just like snowmen.”
To make his displays last, he sprays them with water throughout the entire winter, most times in the dead of night when the temperature is at its lowest, in order to freeze them over for lasting effect throughout the season.
While not many people ever get the chance to see Davies’ displays, he says he’s not in it for the publicity. “It’s just a way to pass the time, you know, keep my hands busy. Idle hands are the Devil’s playground, as they say.”
Well there’s certainly nothing demonic about Edgar, or his snowmen, and he says he’ll keep doing his displays every year, until the good Lord decides that it’s time for him to go home.
Amen, Edgar. Amen.
* * * * *
The article had run without Edgar’s permission, but it was no bother to him. He took it all in stride, and when the people began showing up at his house, he welcomed the company. As much as Edgar enjoyed being out in the country all by himself, even he got lonely once in a while, and the interaction with the spectators was a nice release.
When he was done spraying down this years display, he did everything he just did, only in reverse. Shut off the water, roll up the hose, pack it away until next week, when it would be time to do it all over again. At the moment, his part of the State was enjoying a cold front, and while others may have been complaining—not Edgar. It was the perfect time to set up his snowmen, and he now stood in front of them. Lighting a cigar, he admired his handy work with nothing but the light of a bloated moon in the sky.
A few minutes later, and Edgar went back inside to get warm with a hot chocolate. He hung up his coat and shook off his boots. The clock said 2:30 AM.
Best get some sleep, he thought. Tomorrow they’ll come.
* * * * *
Whether it was the cold, the work, or just Edgar getting on in years, his sleep was restless. He kept drifting in and out, tossing and turning, and his dreams were filled with snowmen. Big snowmen. Some were ten feet tall, others were twenty, and they all had the same characteristics. Black tops hats, twig arms and buttons on their chest. Just like the old cartoons. Only these snowmen were out for blood. Edgar cowered as they towered over him, opening their frozen mouths to reveal razor sharp teeth. They snapped their jaws like white sharks, trying to catch a piece of his flesh. It was almost too much for Edgar to handle and in the morning, he sat and sobbed on his bed. For so long he had loved his snowmen, why had they come to him with such malice? He trembled at the thought of something like he had just dreamed actually happening. They were just snowmen, right?
Once calm, Edgar showered and had his grapefruit breakfast. He sat at the kitchen table alone, looking out the window at this years display. His lips puckered at the sour taste the doctor’s orders fruit left in his mouth, before dumping it out and making some bacon. Screw the doctor. The morning news was on the radio, and a story came on that caught his attention. While the bacon sizzled in the pan, Edgar turned up the volume to catch a glimpse of the report.
A week ago some hunters had gone missing in Edgar's part of the county. Right before one of the worst snow storms in the States history. While search crews had been unable to find them, they had turned up their hats and gloves, and in the cold of Pennsylvania, there was not much hope for them to be found alive unless they had burrowed themselves in a nearby cave and were keeping warm by fire.
Edgar was now half listening, half cooking, as his bacon was done. Nice and crisp, just the way he liked it. “Ah, just what the doctor ordered,” he said while forking it onto a plate. The story about the hunters intrigued him. In his younger years he too enjoyed hunting. He couldn’t possibly imagine what folks would be doing out here though. Not much to hunt other than foxes and rabbits. All the bears were in hiding for the season, and no deer were allowed at this time. Poachers? Nah, not in these parts. Sooner or later they’d turn up, he imagined. Probably not where anyone would ever find them though.
After breakfast he prepared to go out in the cold. His jacket was dry, but his boots were still a bit wet on the inside from the snow, so Edgar put on a second pair of socks. It was going to be a long day out there, best to dress as warm as possible. He threw on a second sweater. Just in case.
The front porch had iced over during the night, and he had to be careful going down the steps. He slipped once and almost fell, but caught himself on the wooden railing. He’d have to do something about that later. Right now all that mattered was the display that he had worked so hard on.
Based on previous years, Edgar expected a good turn out of kids for this years showing. He had thought long and hard about what he would do with his snowmen. He came to his wits end, not coming up with any new ideas, until late one night when he was up watching cable. There was a showing of Transformers on, and that’s when it hit him. Robots! Kids love robots.
Edgar would take the man out of snow, and make robots. It would be a challenge to build, but he was up for it. He got out his camera and took pictures of the television while the movie still played. He would use them as reference. While he certainly couldn’t build anything as elaborate as Hollywood, he suspected that he could at least put together a nice display that would amuse the children, who would be sure to show up in droves this year.
He started the conventional way, by rolling the snow until it was in a big round ball. Edgar then took his chainsaw and carved away the edges, making blocks rather than balls. To keep them all in alignment, he used a base, piercing the blocks until they sat firm one on top of the other. There were five snow robots in all this year, totaling fifteen blocks. Each had a large one at the bottom, a medium sized one in the middle, and a smaller one on top serving as the head.
When he had finished, Edgar stood back and admired them, but there was still something missing. The ones on television had been colored. Red, blue, yellow, green. Lots and lots of colors. That’s what was missing. Edgar solved the problem by buying spray paint, and doing his best to match the colors with the robots in his pictures. They weren’t perfect, but it was close enough. He had never used color before, and he hoped to hell that it held up, or else the display just wouldn’t work. They’d look like abstract sculptures instead. Something Salvador Dali would have done. It had worked though. The paint and blocks had held up, even against the water he had been spraying on them for the past week. “Not bad for an old man,” he had said when it was all over.
* * * * *
The first car arrived just after 10:00 AM. Edgar was out on the front lawn, putting some finishing touches on the arms, packing them down with more snow. They too, were held in place by a base, and Edgar tugged on them to make sure they would hold. Rock solid. Good.
He heard a scream and turned around to see a little girl behind him. It was not a scream of terror, but one of delight. “Mommy! Mommy! Transformers!” Her mother joined her at her side and smiled. “Edgar, they’re wonderful,” she said.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Can I swing on them?” asked the girl.
“You sure can, honey,” said Edgar while bending down to her level. His back cricked but it was worth it to see the joy in her eyes. “Just don’t hang on ‘em too long or their arms might fall off.”
“I won’t.”
She went and began swinging on the arms of the snowmen robots like they were a jungle gym. She laughed and screamed and went zigzagging between them. This is what it was all about.
And that is how the day went for Edgar.
More cars showed up, lining the streets as far as the eye could see. Children took turns playing on the display, and their parents thanked Edgar for all his hard work and effort that went into this years show. Around noon, he went inside and made hot chocolate with the help of some of the other adults. He had prepared food for the kids in the way of cookies and other pastries. Some he had bought and some he had made by hand, yet they all tasted the same. The children sat in the front yard in their snow pants and hats and gloves, chowing down on their snacks and drinking their chocolate before going back for another round of play. Edgar smiled and smiled at all of it. It made him feel alive, like he had a purpose. At different times throughout the day he caught himself getting choked up, and had to turn away from everyone to wipe at his eyes. Since his wife had died more than ten years ago and he had no children of his own, this was the closest thing to family that he could remember.
As the day wore on, Edgar noticed that the numbers were beginning to dwindle. No new faces were showing up, and those that were still there were beginning to thin out. Different sets of parents came and said their good-byes, and Edgar hugged their children like they were his own. They were polite and said please and thank-you. Some of the young men even shook his hand. He told the adults that they had delightful kids, gathered up the Styrofoam cups on his yard, and before he knew it, the last car was driving away, with a little girl waving at him from the back window. Edgar waved back, and another year was over.
* * * * *
Reflecting on it later, Edgar was pleased at how it all went. The snowmen robots had not come to life, nor had they harmed anyone. They had held up through it all, and although some were chipped in a few places and no one else would come to see them, he would continue with their upkeep until the warm weather came for good. Then he would dismantle them and let the snow melt away, while throwing their bases in the wood chipper.
It was a good year. The best ever. Edgar smiled as he walked up the steps to go inside.
Unfortunately for Edgar, he hadn’t done anything about the ice yet. His foot came down on the wrong place, on the wrong step, and he went soaring into the air. Backwards. He had enough time to see the faces of all the children he had pleased over the years, their parents, his dead wife, and the snowmen he had seen in his dream, coming to get him. Then Edgar hit the ground at the wrong angle, breaking his neck.
* * * * *
When spring came to Muncy, Pennsylvania, it came like no other spot in the State. The waters ran high, the trees at the base of the Appalachians blossomed with such color, and the birds of the area came out from the cold of winter to sing their song. It was beautiful.
For Joan Babbit, it was a time of peace, new life, and enjoyment. She relished the warm climate, taking long drives to clear her head, admiring the scenery. On this day she was driving along a country road, like any other road perhaps, only something up ahead caught her eye. Contrasted against the green of the landscape was red. Bright red. Like a jacket. She saw a small bungalow and pulled over to the side of the road.
Joan got out of her car and approached the house. Five lumps were in the front yard and one was near the steps. “What the...”
She moved in for a closer look, and that’s when she saw the bodies. Six of them. One of them was Edgar's, and the others belonged to the missing hunters that he had used to make his snowmen.
They hadn’t quite made it to the wood chipper this year.
Joan’s throat opened wide as a scream loud enough to scare a flock of birds into the air came out of her.
And now a sneak peek at the new novella
By James Melzer
HULL'S LANDING
Available now wherever eBooks are sold
ONE
She had been shackled to a bed in the basement for six months. Not ropes. Not nylons. Not handcuffs. Shackles. The kind that cut into your wrist and eat away at your skin like a disease, causing wounds that never heal over because they're constantly gnawing at dried scabs with their steel jaws. She had grown used to staying still while they raped her, projecting her mind to another place in order to dull the pain that always came from their rough hands grabbing at her naked flesh. Once in a while their thrusts shifted her body, causing the shackles to dig in to her wrists, and her eyes to fill with tears as the shock brought her back to the moment until she could flick it away again. She always ignored the blood that trickled down her forearm, as well as the blood that ran down her thighs. Tonight was no exception.
Five of them stood in line waiting for their turn to get inside her. Stroking their cocks in order to keep the blood flowing, they drooled like animals. It was like this every weekend, like clockwork. Saturday night in Zoe, come see the show. Once, it may have been two weeks earlier, it could have been six; they had double-teamed her. One getting underneath, and ramming himself into her ass, while the other one on top forced himself in. That lasted for five minutes until the one on the cot beneath her started to complain that it was too hot, and he couldn't come. After that they went one at a time.
While she may have been far away in her head, Zoe could still smell them on her, their scent penetrating her nostrils like putrid air. Musty. Dank. Sweaty. Old Spice and pizza mixed with stale beer and cigarettes. It lingered long after they left, and clung to her skin when she lay crying in the darkness, trying to ignore the throbbing in her belly. They had never smelled that way before all this happened, had they? She couldn't remember.
"Come on, man. Time's up," one of them said.
The man inside gave a final grunt and emptied himself into her. A bead of perspiration fell from his forehead and onto Zoe's cheek. She watched it all in slow motion through long blonde hair stuck to her face like tentacles, and with her legs spread, waiting for the next one to violate her. The shackles nicked her ankle as he heaved himself off of her, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. She would not give them that satisfaction.
"How was she?" one of them asked.
"Little dry tonight, might want to lube it up a bit before you go in."
"Fair enough."
The limp one went to the corner and started to get dressed. Last-in-line checked his watch, and seeing that he still had thirty-minutes, went over to chat. He was more concerned with the situation than his dick at the moment, which was flopping around like the broken neck of a duck.
"Hey. Can I talk to you for a second?"
"Yeah but make it quick, missus is waiting for me to help put the kids to bed. She always lets them stay up a bit later on the weekends."
"Oh, yeah. Right. Well, listen. I mean, how much longer is this going to go on for? She's been here for, what, seven months?"
"Six."
"Six. Yeah, whatever." He chewed at a nonexistent hangnail.
"Look. You know the way this works. We've been through it before. We keep going until the time is right."
"It just seems like it's taking longer than usual."
"Hey, if you don't like it, you're more than welcome to leave," he said while buttoning the shirt sticking to his chest in the dampness of the basement.
"I know."
"And yet you stay."
He looked at the naked one and reveled in the notion of power clothes gave one man over another. They all stood there in line with no garments, and there he was fully dressed in slacks, shirt and socks. The clothes made him feel secure, while the rest of them seemed vulnerable to even the slightest breeze
"Look, why don't you just go get back in line and we can talk about this tomorrow over breakfast. Okay?"
The smaller man caught his eye for a second and nodded. It would be better to talk about it tomorrow, when the madness was over. For the time being, anyway. He knew it would never be over. After Zoe there would be another and another and another. It had been that way for as long as he could remember. Like an ancient ritual passed on from generation to generation.
"Yeah. Okay," he said.
"Good boy."
As the man put on his boots, kneeling down to lace them, he watched the bare ass walk back to position at the end of the line. He'd have to remember to tell the others to keep an eye on him, but not tonight. Tonight they were having a good time, and it was best not to spoil it.
He put on his hat, cinched his belt a notch tighter and walked up the wooden steps. They moaned under the weight. Maybe tomorrow he'd have three strips of bacon instead of four. That was his last thought as he stepped out of the basement, the light seeping in for a second before he closed the door on them all, trapping Zoe in the darkness for a little while longer.
TWO
Hull's Landing wasn't big enough to have a police force. It relied on the Pennsylvania State Police when trouble arose, but after the Coxwell incident, residents of the town took it upon themselves to start their own volunteer force in hopes of cracking down on what little violence did crop up.
You remember the Coxwell incident, right? It was all over the news back in '06. After finding out that his wife was cheating on him, Charlie Coxwell took matters into his own hands and decided to torture her for seven straight hours. Screams could be heard coming from inside their three-bedroom bungalow all up and down the street. When Grace Hargrove, the Coxwell's 83-year old neighbor knocked on the door to find out what all the fuss was about, Charlie put a slug in her gut. The woman laid out on the lawn bleeding to death in the sweltering heat of the midday sun. By the time word got around what was happening, it was too late.
Charlie boarded up the house with his wife inside and proceeded to torture her. Cutting off her sagging tits, pulling her toenails out, and sewing her vagina shut with fishing wire.
It took the State Police five hours to respond, the first trooper on the scene admitting to the crowd of onlookers, "Had a hell of a time finding the place." An hour later Charlie blew off his own face, but not before putting a bullet between Claire's eyes.
Town council decided enough was enough after that whole deal. They got permission to be able to deputize, and those on the volunteer force were charged with the ability to arrest, confiscate and detain any suspect of criminal activity until the Penn Troops could arrive to assess the situation. It was a small solution to a small problem, really.
Before the Coxwell incident there hadn't been much in the way of crime in Hull's Landing. A few drunken fights, teenage vandalism and the occasional stray bullet from a hunter; but nothing to get all worked up over. Compared to some of the bigger boroughs, Hull's Landing was like a Norman Rockwell painting. Hell, even after that whole Coxwell thing, not much happened in town.
Up until Rita Clemens showed up, that is.
Whenever an outsider made their way to the town, it was major gossip. Where did she come from? Why is she here? Rita was the talk of Hull's Landing for at least two months. You could go into Drake's Café on Lycoming Street at any point in the day and hear the locals dishing on everything from her not driving American to the curtains she had up in her windows. Like hens in the coup, they were constantly clucking.
Then Rita Clemens made an appearance at the town meeting in late August, and everything changed.
It turned out Rita was originally from Pittsburgh and worked as a member of the Bureau of Police for nearly ten years. Upon hearing that she was not only a Pennsylvania native, but a protector of the state, everyone warmed up to her. When Rita asked to be a member of the Hull's Landing volunteer force, the town accepted her with open arms.
Finally someone who actually knew what she was doing, which was more than could be said about that bumbling oaf Chief Walker. Walker had been shucking his duties thanks to his part-time truck driving job for as long as anyone could remember. While Rita's experience may have put some of the resident's minds at ease though, there were others in town that still couldn't accept her as a local. She would always be the outsider to them. When you have a secret to hide, any chance of someone impeding on your plans kind of puts a damper on things. Rita was one of those go-getters, and that was the last thing they needed.
"Morning Miss Clemens," came the greeting from behind the counter of Drake's as the newcomer made her way to a stool.
"Harry, I been here six months now. I think you can call me Rita."
The old man blushed and shook his head. Harry was old school polite, and had been taught the correct way to treat a lady. Calling Miss Clemens 'Rita' was akin to shacking up with her for the night, in his mind. He set a cup of black coffee down in front of her as she picked up the menu, which she fiddled with every single time she came in there even though they both knew what she was going to order.
At seven o'clock in the morning, Drake's was already a bustle of activity. Some were grabbing breakfast on their way to work in Williamsport, while others just sat there with nothing better to do with their time. Rita scanned them all out of habit, trying to see despair in their eyes. Despair sometimes brought about desperate actions, and in a town where 95 percent of the people had spent their entire life, anything could happen at any time. People eventually snapped, if for no other reason than to escape the mundane routine that their days had become.
Before she could set down the menu, Harry brought her the usual. Two eggs sunny-side up, three strips of bacon and a buttered biscuit. No home fries, which was another reason for some not to like her. Who didn't eat home fries? Rita never said anything, but she found Harry's potatoes a little on the greasy side, and at her age she didn't want to chance a blocked artery. The eggs and bacon were enough, she figured. Why tempt fate any further?
"Any word on the Spencer girl yet?" asked Harry while cleaning up the counter from the previous body that had sat beside Officer Clemens.
At that, all the noise in the café stopped, and Rita felt every eye shift toward her. Why did Harry have to bring that up now? It was a perfectly good start to the day.
Harry, suddenly realizing that he should have known better, shrugged his shoulders in apology, which caused his arthritis to hurt, and therefore his face to contort in a grimace.
Rita sipped her coffee for a little longer than she normally would have, and when she realized that no one was forgetting about Harry's comment, she had no choice but to put the cup down and clear her throat.
"Um, no Harry. Not yet."
He nodded, praying that Sam Shuman would leave well enough alone. Unfortunately for Harry, and even more so for Rita, his prayer went unanswered.
Shuman, a heavyset man who had been a part of Hull's Landing since he was knee high to a duck, made his way to the counter and plopped his fat ass down beside Rita. The stench of his rotting teeth was nothing compared to the coffee he used to try and mask the quart of Pabst he had already pounded back that morning.
"When the hell are you people going to start doing your jobs and find that girl?"
Rita knew the pain he felt; that the entire town felt, but that was still no excuse for Sam's behavior. It may have been the alcohol talking, but Officer Clemens was having none of it.
"Sam, we're doing all we can to track down—"
"Bullshit! That girl's been gone for six months and you ain't got shit. No clues, no leads, no nothing. What the hell are we paying you for?"
She was tempted to remind him that she wasn't being paid, but let it pass. No need to instigate him further. It would be like adding fuel to an already blazing fire.
"Sam, I know you're upset. We all are. Believe me, myself and the other volunteers are doing our best to find Zoe."
Sam stood up and spit on her shoes. Harry winced again, but this time it wasn't because of his arthritis. He'd seen Miss Clemens in action before, so had Sam, in fact, which he obviously didn't remember. The other patrons in the café held their breath, waiting for Rita to make a move.
In her Pittsburgh days, there was no way Clemens would have put up with people like Sam, especially when they spit at her. Hell, once she had roughed up a kid because he had whacked his sister on the head with a plastic baseball bat. He may have only been thirteen, but Rita believed in teaching them young to respect women and family. Those were different times though, when she was younger and spryer. Now, pushing forty, Rita was more in tune with her body and knew her limitations. While she could probably still take down someone of Sam's girth, she'd most likely strain her back in the process.
Instead, she pushed her plate to the side, a gesture which indicated she would pay Harry later for breakfast, and got to her feet while pulling her pony tail through the back of her baseball cap. Sam still stood tall in front of her, but she used enough force to brush past him by knocking his shoulder with hers.
"Good day, Sam," she said.
Perhaps a bit surprised at the move, his posture weakened and Harry saw his belly fall over his belt buckle. Still, his eyes were filled with hate, and he spewed it like venom at Rita's back.
"Yeah, that's right. You walk away. Just like you've been doing for the past six months. Can’t find that girl. Can't even get a fucking cat out of a tree. Fucking pigs."
He spit once more as the door to Drake's Café closed in front of him, leaving Sam Shuman to stand in his own shame with everyone watching.
THREE
Chief Walker popped the cap on a bottle of Rolaids, shook five into the palm of his meaty hand and chewed them up much like a child with a bag of M&M's. His mouth still hung open and bits spilled down his chest. He had the worst heartburn in the world, coupled with a headache that kept pounding on his temples like a toy monkey holding a pair of symbols, but he had left the aspirin at home.
Dammit. Just a few more minutes, he thought, and then I'll go in.
He had been sitting in the parking lot of Drake's for ten minutes, watching through the window as Rita Clemens and Sam Shuman exchanged words. He guessed that they weren't "nice to see you," by the look on her face as she so elegantly stormed out of the café.
He pulled the old Stetson lower on his forehead so she wouldn't notice him. Walker didn't feel much like talking. At least, not to her. When the coast was clear, he shifted his weight in the bucket seat of his '88 Mercury Cougar and reached in the glove box for a pack of Pall Mall Reds. His fingers brushed past the cold steel of his revolver and he let them linger for a few seconds as his mind wandered.
He could end it now, if he really wanted to. Drive on over there, put a bullet in the girl's head and forget it ever happened. Except he knew deep down that he would never be able to forget. Not Zoe, or the others who had come before her. Things like that never went away. They burned themselves onto your brain the way radiation burns shadows onto walls.
On the other hand, he could choose to put a bullet in his own head, but that was more of an oxymoron than anything. Walker didn't have a choice. He had given up control when he was in his twenties, the year the Man in the Tennis Shoes came to town. Since then, he had been the one running the show. The whole damn town, for that matter.
Police force my ass, he thought. Fuck it.
Walker clutched the Pall Malls, slammed the glove box shut and unbuckled the seatbelt still strapped across his chest. Danny would be there soon, and although he didn't have a say in anything that went on anymore, he still liked the illusion of control, and that was exactly what getting a seat and ordering early would accomplish to the likes of Danny Wilmott. He grinned as he thought about Danny's bare ass from the night before. Damn thing was so pale you could almost see through it.
He opened the door, and poured himself out onto the pavement. The sun had already heated up the air around him, and that made Walker feel a bit better as it beat down on his face.
"Gonna be hotter'n hell, today," he said to no one.
Chief Bobby Walker had no idea.
To continue reading Hull's Landing by James Melzer, please purchase a copy of the novella on Amazon.com –