by Lorenzo Porricelli (Blue~Master~Horizon)
The hound dog lazing on the veranda rug raised an eyelid at the approaching figure and stretched his paws. He opened the other eye and slightly raised his head to give a full stare before falling back into a hot afternoon slumber.
“Ol' Blue,” said the man who stepped up to the porch and scratched the dog’s belly, “where’s your master at?”
“I’m right here, Cholly,” said a man who stood in the doorway behind a screen door. “I saw you coming down the driveway.”
“Mr. Palmer,” said Cholly, “Chester Gould’s coming to kill you.”
“Now Cholly,” said Mr. Palmer, “it’s awful hot, you want some iced tea?”
“He’s crazy, Mr. Palmer,” said Cholly, as he turned and looked to the road, “He blames you for his wife leaving him.”
“That boy is just silly,” said Mr. Palmer, “I’ll set him straight.”
“Not this time,” said Cholly, “He knows you and Suzy were over in Fillow together and then she left.”
“He’s dumber than a fencepost,” said Mr. Palmer, “The boy’s a fool.”
The dog lifted his head and barked once, and Mr. Palmer and Cholly looked out and watched a Camaro on the horizon speeding down Crowley Road followed by a cloud of dust.
“That’s him,” said Cholly, “He’s so mad he’d chew through a picket fence.”
Mr. Palmer entered the big house and returned to the veranda in a few seconds, loading shells in a 30.06 shotgun. He set the weapon just inside the screen door. “No need to excite the boy any more than he is,” said Mr. Palmer, “but I’m not just going to let him kill me.”
“He said he was going to kill you,” said Cholly, “but I may have exaggerated a bit.”
Mr. Palmer cursed. “You’re the fool, Cholly,” he said as he spit off the porch.
With a screech, the Camaro turned off Crowley and onto the gravel driveway, shooting stones from its tires until it spun to a stop in front of the porch and a slim, young man pulled himself out through the driver window and made for the veranda with a baseball bat in hand.
“Where is she, old man?” he shouted, “Tell me or I’m going to bust your skull.”
Mr. Palmer grabbed the shotgun from inside the front door. “Chester Gould, I was your Little League coach and taught you how to throw a screwball, and you were darn good with it. But I will blow you away if you take one more step. Give me that bat.”
Chester flung the bat at Mr. Palmer but Mr. Palmer raised the shotgun and fired, bursting the bat in midair. Cholly screamed. A piece landed and hit Ol’Blue, who shook off the heat and rose and let a howl out into the fray.
“Now look what you done,” said Mr. Palmer, “You scared Cholly and got Ol’ Blue all riled up.”
‘You’re lucky you got that gun, Mr. Palmer,” said Chester, “But I know you were in Fillow with Suzy, all cozying up, and now she’s gone.”
“Just get your butt home, Chester,” said Mr. Palmer.
“I’m going to kill you,” said Chester. He turned to walk back to the car but pulled a knife from his belt and flung it at Mr. Palmer. Mr. Palmer was off guard, but it was the knife handle, not the blade, that hit him in the shoulder.
Ol’ Blue sniffed the knife. Cholly took a flask from his jacket and slugged it.
“Chester, you do have a fine looking wife,” said Mr. Palmer, “but how did a jackass like you ever get that girl? She’s way too nice for a hothead like you.” He snatched the flask from Cholly and took a swig. Ol’ Blue lay out on the rug again.
Chester jumped in the car through the driver window and started the motor. He peeled out and headed up the driveway weaving from side to side, firing rocks as a fuselage into the air.
Cholly and Mr. Palmer watched him head up the quarter-mile drive. But the car pulled a U-turn and Chester floored the gas pedal and down-shifted as the Camaro shot straight back down the driveway with dead aim right at the two men on the porch.
“This is bad,” said Cholly and he ran the length of the house on the veranda and cowered up against a kitchen window.
Mr. Palmer took aim and fired, and the front tire on the driver’s side blew and the car lost a little speed. But the tire shredded and fell away in an instant, and through a firestorm of sparks, the rim grooved the driveway better than a John Deere cultivator on a spring planting day.
“Head for the hills,” said Mr. Palmer and he dove through the screen door.
The Camaro’s rim shrieked and the car hit the broad, stone veranda steps and shot straight into the air spinning and whirling like a missile on a death spiral. It landed smack on the veranda roof, and was stationary for a few seconds. But the roof supports soon groaned and an earsplitting crack announced the roof’s collapse and the Camaro bounced as it hit the porch floor and broke both axles.
Chester Gould was trapped in the car and pounded the windshield. The driver side was crushed and stuck beneath the porch line, and the passenger window was blocked by debris and a tire jammed in the window space.
Mr. Palmer stepped out on the porch and went to the car. “Move,” he shouted.
Chester hit the glass with his fist, and Mr. Palmer raised the shotgun again and by pointing the the barrel, directed Chester to move over. Chester didn’t and Mr. Palmer could see him screaming and making obscene gestures.
“Don’t shoot him, Mr. Palmer,” said Cholly, who peeked around the corner.
“Why not,” said Mr. Palmer.
The shotgun blast took out the windshield, but not Chester. Chester climbed through the empty shell and stood as close to Mr. Palmer as he dared.
“You want to kill me, old man, shoot,” Chester shouted.
“You’re out of the car now, aren’t you?” said Mr. Palmer.
Ol' Blue saddled up to Chester and wiped his nose on Chester’s pant leg.
“My car is ruined,” said Chester.
“And so is my veranda and a bit more,” said Mr. Palmer.
“My car! I need it!”
“Just call the police and say it was stolen. I’ll say some crazy drove down the road and took off into the woods.”
“You’d do that for me, Mr. Palmer?” said Chester
“I did for your wife,” said Mr. Palmer, “I guess I have to do for you.”
“What do you mean,” said Chester.
“She busted up her car and was afraid you’d go crazy. I wonder why she would think such a thing? I took her to a friend’s shop in Fillow to get it fixed early this morning. She’s probably home by now.”
Chester started running up the meadow. “Thanks, Mr. Palmer, I owe you!”
Mr. Palmer waved. “I’ll give you some time before I call the police, get home.” Mr. Palmer pulled a biscuit from his pocket and fed it to Ol’Blue.
The screen door opened and a young woman poked her head out. She was half-dressed. “It’s getting late, Mr. Palmer, I have to get home before Chester finds out I was with you,” she said.
“Don’t worry, Lil,” said Mr. Palmer, “we got time. Chester ain’t even made it past the end of the meadow. Get dressed and we’ll go.”
Lil ran to Mr. Palmer and put her arms around his neck. “You are so smart, Mr. Palmer, honey.”
“I’ll get the car started,” Mr. Palmer said, “Go get dressed.” Mr. Palmer headed to the barn to get his car.
Cholly sat down near Ol’ Blue and swigged from the flask. “Mind if I lay down here a spell, Ol’ Blue,” said Cholly, as he put his head on Ol’ Blue’s hind legs, “I seen enough for one day. Yes indeed.”
Ol' Blue’s eyelids drooped and shut
The hound dog lazing on the veranda rug raised an eyelid at the approaching figure and stretched his paws. He opened the other eye and slightly raised his head to give a full stare before falling back into a hot afternoon slumber.
“Ol' Blue,” said the man who stepped up to the porch and scratched the dog’s belly, “where’s your master at?”
“I’m right here, Cholly,” said a man who stood in the doorway behind a screen door. “I saw you coming down the driveway.”
“Mr. Palmer,” said Cholly, “Chester Gould’s coming to kill you.”
“Now Cholly,” said Mr. Palmer, “it’s awful hot, you want some iced tea?”
“He’s crazy, Mr. Palmer,” said Cholly, as he turned and looked to the road, “He blames you for his wife leaving him.”
“That boy is just silly,” said Mr. Palmer, “I’ll set him straight.”
“Not this time,” said Cholly, “He knows you and Suzy were over in Fillow together and then she left.”
“He’s dumber than a fencepost,” said Mr. Palmer, “The boy’s a fool.”
The dog lifted his head and barked once, and Mr. Palmer and Cholly looked out and watched a Camaro on the horizon speeding down Crowley Road followed by a cloud of dust.
“That’s him,” said Cholly, “He’s so mad he’d chew through a picket fence.”
Mr. Palmer entered the big house and returned to the veranda in a few seconds, loading shells in a 30.06 shotgun. He set the weapon just inside the screen door. “No need to excite the boy any more than he is,” said Mr. Palmer, “but I’m not just going to let him kill me.”
“He said he was going to kill you,” said Cholly, “but I may have exaggerated a bit.”
Mr. Palmer cursed. “You’re the fool, Cholly,” he said as he spit off the porch.
With a screech, the Camaro turned off Crowley and onto the gravel driveway, shooting stones from its tires until it spun to a stop in front of the porch and a slim, young man pulled himself out through the driver window and made for the veranda with a baseball bat in hand.
“Where is she, old man?” he shouted, “Tell me or I’m going to bust your skull.”
Mr. Palmer grabbed the shotgun from inside the front door. “Chester Gould, I was your Little League coach and taught you how to throw a screwball, and you were darn good with it. But I will blow you away if you take one more step. Give me that bat.”
Chester flung the bat at Mr. Palmer but Mr. Palmer raised the shotgun and fired, bursting the bat in midair. Cholly screamed. A piece landed and hit Ol’Blue, who shook off the heat and rose and let a howl out into the fray.
“Now look what you done,” said Mr. Palmer, “You scared Cholly and got Ol’ Blue all riled up.”
‘You’re lucky you got that gun, Mr. Palmer,” said Chester, “But I know you were in Fillow with Suzy, all cozying up, and now she’s gone.”
“Just get your butt home, Chester,” said Mr. Palmer.
“I’m going to kill you,” said Chester. He turned to walk back to the car but pulled a knife from his belt and flung it at Mr. Palmer. Mr. Palmer was off guard, but it was the knife handle, not the blade, that hit him in the shoulder.
Ol’ Blue sniffed the knife. Cholly took a flask from his jacket and slugged it.
“Chester, you do have a fine looking wife,” said Mr. Palmer, “but how did a jackass like you ever get that girl? She’s way too nice for a hothead like you.” He snatched the flask from Cholly and took a swig. Ol’ Blue lay out on the rug again.
Chester jumped in the car through the driver window and started the motor. He peeled out and headed up the driveway weaving from side to side, firing rocks as a fuselage into the air.
Cholly and Mr. Palmer watched him head up the quarter-mile drive. But the car pulled a U-turn and Chester floored the gas pedal and down-shifted as the Camaro shot straight back down the driveway with dead aim right at the two men on the porch.
“This is bad,” said Cholly and he ran the length of the house on the veranda and cowered up against a kitchen window.
Mr. Palmer took aim and fired, and the front tire on the driver’s side blew and the car lost a little speed. But the tire shredded and fell away in an instant, and through a firestorm of sparks, the rim grooved the driveway better than a John Deere cultivator on a spring planting day.
“Head for the hills,” said Mr. Palmer and he dove through the screen door.
The Camaro’s rim shrieked and the car hit the broad, stone veranda steps and shot straight into the air spinning and whirling like a missile on a death spiral. It landed smack on the veranda roof, and was stationary for a few seconds. But the roof supports soon groaned and an earsplitting crack announced the roof’s collapse and the Camaro bounced as it hit the porch floor and broke both axles.
Chester Gould was trapped in the car and pounded the windshield. The driver side was crushed and stuck beneath the porch line, and the passenger window was blocked by debris and a tire jammed in the window space.
Mr. Palmer stepped out on the porch and went to the car. “Move,” he shouted.
Chester hit the glass with his fist, and Mr. Palmer raised the shotgun again and by pointing the the barrel, directed Chester to move over. Chester didn’t and Mr. Palmer could see him screaming and making obscene gestures.
“Don’t shoot him, Mr. Palmer,” said Cholly, who peeked around the corner.
“Why not,” said Mr. Palmer.
The shotgun blast took out the windshield, but not Chester. Chester climbed through the empty shell and stood as close to Mr. Palmer as he dared.
“You want to kill me, old man, shoot,” Chester shouted.
“You’re out of the car now, aren’t you?” said Mr. Palmer.
Ol' Blue saddled up to Chester and wiped his nose on Chester’s pant leg.
“My car is ruined,” said Chester.
“And so is my veranda and a bit more,” said Mr. Palmer.
“My car! I need it!”
“Just call the police and say it was stolen. I’ll say some crazy drove down the road and took off into the woods.”
“You’d do that for me, Mr. Palmer?” said Chester
“I did for your wife,” said Mr. Palmer, “I guess I have to do for you.”
“What do you mean,” said Chester.
“She busted up her car and was afraid you’d go crazy. I wonder why she would think such a thing? I took her to a friend’s shop in Fillow to get it fixed early this morning. She’s probably home by now.”
Chester started running up the meadow. “Thanks, Mr. Palmer, I owe you!”
Mr. Palmer waved. “I’ll give you some time before I call the police, get home.” Mr. Palmer pulled a biscuit from his pocket and fed it to Ol’Blue.
The screen door opened and a young woman poked her head out. She was half-dressed. “It’s getting late, Mr. Palmer, I have to get home before Chester finds out I was with you,” she said.
“Don’t worry, Lil,” said Mr. Palmer, “we got time. Chester ain’t even made it past the end of the meadow. Get dressed and we’ll go.”
Lil ran to Mr. Palmer and put her arms around his neck. “You are so smart, Mr. Palmer, honey.”
“I’ll get the car started,” Mr. Palmer said, “Go get dressed.” Mr. Palmer headed to the barn to get his car.
Cholly sat down near Ol’ Blue and swigged from the flask. “Mind if I lay down here a spell, Ol’ Blue,” said Cholly, as he put his head on Ol’ Blue’s hind legs, “I seen enough for one day. Yes indeed.”
Ol' Blue’s eyelids drooped and shut