JUICE: The Crimson Clone

What If

Every issue completes an intellectual voyage of deduction.

From that spark of awareness and discovery through cerebral dispute to ultimate destinations of blatant denial or unyielding conviction. The process is unavoidable.

It is a truism that, the depths of skepticism notwithstanding, the course to determination must always encounter the obscure What If.

To fully ponder the ambiguity of existence, one must envision the unimaginable, engage the unknown and embrace the What If.

Rise now from the slumber of blissful ignorance.

Awaken to the reality of What Is.

-- Caleb Westland

1 -- GAME OVER

Forget about Juice.

Forget the money. Oh God, the money.

What sadistic twist of fate had briefly satisfied my greatest aspirations? Why grant me but a fleeting glimpse at the rewarding future of my dreams before plunging me into a quagmire of terror?

But, there it was. Another death.

He had been a friend and his murder was my fault.

Staring at his broken body, my guts were hot mush erupting into the back of my throat. I hadn’t actually killed him. Of course, not. Yet the fear and desperation that gripped me now threatened to tilt the teetering scale that balanced what was left of my sanity.

That body in the grass should be me.

Lucid cognizance was a dull hum of confusion. Even now, facing the murderer, it was difficult to acknowledge the reality of my situation.

To die.

I stood there in a half crouch, heaving with a dizzying mixture of adrenaline, anxiety and exhaustion. Pain lanced through me in throbs and my whole body ached from the battering I had just endured. But my physical damage wasn’t even registering as an issue right now.

It was cool, even for early October in Murphy, North Carolina. I was in front of the old Victorian house on Campbell Street. With the half-moon hidden by an overcast sky as midnight approached, the old house presented a less-than-inviting aura. Local children argued that it was a house to be avoided at night, making it the ghostly topic for many a campfire story.

Now, a gentle breeze joined forces with a streetlight a hundred yards away to blanket the old Victorian in wavering shadows. Huge Maple trees towered as permanent sentries at both front corners of this century-old landmark. Night sounds consisted of little more than the crickets and katydids. It would have been – should have been – peaceful, if not a bit ominous.

The whole scene exuded a spooky tranquility that shrouded my altercation on the path just inside the hedge line. The rapid thumping of my own heartbeat pounded in my ears and shocked disbelief kept my eyes locked on that crumpled body a few feet away. I squinted through stinging tears and my brow pushed together in a contemplative reflex.

Appalled, my jaw fell slack as shifting moonlight separated the shadows to reveal a hulking form just behind my friend’s prone corpse. The bald man in a tight blazer was on his feet again. It was the one my brain referred to as Delivery Man. The repulsive ogre who had attacked me without provocation.

And somehow my brain deduced that he had killed my friend. A friend trying to rescue me from his deadly intentions, which put the resulting murder squarely in my blame column.

Even in the swinging shadows, I could see the dark moisture that covered Delivery Man’s right arm – starting just above the elbow – down to the dripping fingers curled around a ten inch section of limp spinal column. A ghastly remnant of the slaughter performed just moments ago. Strings of gelatinous fluid stretched between his gory trophy and a puddle of goop forming in the grass.

Two Festers for the price of one. Delivery Man grinned with those ghastly teeth and followed it with a menacing chuckle. No further delay. You were warned.

Whatever a Fester is… you can shove it up your fat ass, you sumbitch! You killed him! You insane motherf----- ! My verbal barrage cut short at a hoarse shriek when stark realization slammed home like a red hot poker.

I was in deep shit. For real.

Bald dude wasn’t here to deliver a message. He didn’t want to just scare me or rough me up. He meant to turn me into a puddle of liquid history. And apparently, he would enjoy it.

What did I do to deserve this?

And for the first time in my life, I knew genuine fear. I understood it for what it really was. I flashed on a lifetime of memories at the precise moment I felt the bone chilling, blood curdling adrenaline shot to my heart.

Oh, shit! I spun and lunged toward the car.

Twenty feet separated me from the Chevy Impala idling at the street’s edge. Three running strides should have been enough. Should. If I hadn’t just had my ass handed to me. My legs churned. My chest heaved from exertion and the world slowed down around me.

Just a bad dream, right? Wake up.

Like running in water, my legs seemed to be pushing me through invisible sludge. The harder I pumped, the slower I progressed against the thick, invisible current of resistance. Dream-running sucked.

Wakeup wakeup wakeup!

Pain stabbed my shoulders as I began my second real-time stride. Delivery Man clamped a heavy grip on them from behind.

His full weight was on me by the time I entered my third stride. There was hot breath on the back of my neck and another guttural growl sounded just behind my right ear. Short, thick legs circled my waist from behind and the force of the impact coupled with my momentum to propel me forward as one knee buckled.

Hands outstretched, our combined impetus thrust me against the car door. My face met the window with a sick thunk and I felt important bones shatter.

The glass held.

Crap! Not a fair fight. Game over, man!

Thoughts flew past my mental window. Images. Color. Blurry faces. Incomplete recollections.

Does your life really flash before your eyes just as it ends?

So much to do. Why me? Why now?

Then that beautiful face was at the car window. A small hand slapped at the other side of the glass. Her visage blended terror and shock. Gorgeous blonde hair bounced across her forehead and cheeks as she shook her head in helpless panic. That dainty hand pounded the tinted glass again.

She screamed something, but I couldn’t make it out.

The woman I loved was worried about me and my heart missed another beat. She cared about me. How cool was that?

Wait. The woman I loved? Was that really the frame of reference my brain used for her?

Admit it, old man. You know you do.

My face slid painfully slow down the door, leaving a wet, dark colored smear across the side panel.

Damn… I should have slept with her.

Delivery Man bent and flipped me over. It seemed effortless. I was little more than a child’s rag doll to be tossed about. Kneeling, he leaned in and assaulted my nostrils again with that foul breath. There were veins protruding from his temples and his forehead glistened with perspiration.

And just as those black eyes rolled upward, I saw something else. Surprisingly, it wasn’t satisfaction or even intensity, as I might have imagined. Something else showed in his empty pupils.

Disdain? No, not that.

I swallowed hard one last time as I registered his complete loathing for me.

Delivery Man didn’t enjoy killing me. Nor did he shy away from it. Indeed, it seemed more like he was here to complete an unpleasant chore. The same look I had seen on my father’s face when he’d recently removed a furry carcass from the wooden mousetrap in his garage.

In Delivery Man’s eyes, I was filth. Something akin to unclean vermin.

In a different situation, I might have contemplated the reasons for his contempt – speculate on who had sent him – and why had I been targeted. For now, however, my thoughts couldn’t coordinate the sustained conformity to launch a single query. Rational thought slipped away, replaced by swirling eddies of recollections and questions. I stared upward, stunned into silent submission.

So, this is it? Just lay here? Will it hurt?

I was losing it. Slipping away. The pumping in my ears quickened, yet now seemed to echo from a great distance.

Like all Festers… ssssooo pathetic, he hissed at me through clenched teeth. Die knowing… that you will not be the last.

His lips curled back in a vicious snarl and that wet arm raised for the finishing blow, flinging grisly body fluids into the air. I saw it coming down towards me. Watched its slow motion arc and squeezed my eyelids tight.

Please, God. Protect my daughter.

How weird is that? To know exactly when you’re going to die.

It just ain’t natural. Knowing, that is.

What went wrong?

Four minutes ago, I was on top of the world. I had restructured my business. I had a plan and it was working. For cryin’ out loud – I had Juice! It was mine – untold wealth within my grasp. The world was about to come knocking.

And the woman I loved had just asked me to run away with her.

I had stepped through the looking glass and touched my elusive fantasies. But the rabbit hole was a horrifying bottomless pit and now I would die.

I guess it’s true. Having everything you want dropped in your lap doesn’t guarantee you’ll survive the impact.

2 -- OFF RAMP

Reflecting on my life’s journey has never been a priority. The twists and detours in my trek through obscurity were too numerous to recall. I just had a goal and moved toward it, rarely analyzing the efficacy of my actions to reach that goal. But, I now believe the off ramp for me – the series of events that converged to rewrite history – began when I met Caleb and his entourage.

Them. The family of misfits that seemed to hail from everywhere. And yet, from nowhere that made sense.

The void of my life would suddenly surge with uninvited relationships just as my struggles for self importance would come to startling fruition. The rewards I drove myself to achieve would burst into reality. Success beyond my wildest imagination would finally be within reach. Unless some greater galactic force screwed it up for me.

My life, scattered and at times, misdirected, would drift into the exit lane towards the junction of Impossible Avenue and Unexplained Boulevard.

My Success and Caleb’s Family.

It’s still unclear, even now, whether one factor was the result of the other or if the two were brought together via some morbid law of attraction. But the path I traveled would encounter this crossroad – and the unavoidable decision it created. Left or right. Right or Wrong.

Live or Die.

In retrospect, I guess I never had a choice. For the record, I firmly believe the future is not prewritten. Yet, there’s no doubt in my mind that the collision between Caleb’s world and mine was inevitable. The impact would ignite a chain reaction of terrifying events in which I would play a part.

But the importance of that part was yet to be determined.

At the time, all I knew was that my journey of more than 39 years had become bogged down and tiresome. A result of my over zealous efforts that had multiplied unchecked. While chasing bigger dollars, it seems I had become a victim of my own one-step-forward-two-backward approach to life. And I had been reluctant to admit this fact until just recently.

So, in the summer of 2008, I resolved to make significant course changes of my own. My off ramp into chaos was dead ahead and I subconsciously veered toward it.

Go big or go home.

As I recall, my normal life – before them – ended in late August. It was unseasonably hot in Western North Carolina. The nights cooled off nicely, but at 4:30 on a Tuesday afternoon it was just plain sticky.

Maybe I should get a dog.

I took a long pull on the icy Mountain Dew, swallowed hard and returned it to the cup holder between the seats. Highway 74 West stretched out before me through the windshield. Leaving the small town of Andrews in my mirror, I motored towards Murphy, about 15 minutes ahead.

Facing the late day sun made me squint and I longed for the drive to just be over. More than two hours in the car since leaving Asheville and my thoughts weighed heavy. The sun was scorching away my remaining patience. I needed a shave and a fresh shirt.

Not one of those scrappy little hair balls. I mean a real, man’s-best-friend kinda’ dog.

Reaching into my breast pocket to extract a cigarette, I inserted it between my lips, touched Bic flame to the tip and pulled hard. A heavy sigh blew smoke all over the dash, where it hovered briefly before escaping through the window I kept down about three inches.

Little doggies were only good for Paris Hilton types to dress up in frilly costumes and carry in expensive handbags. A mid sized dog was what I needed. A man’s dog. One that could ride next to me with its head out the window. A true companion to share my lonely hours in silence without complaining and rest its head on my lap after a long day.

Lord knows I can’t get a woman.

I ran tired fingers through my light brown hair, pushing it backward even as a few loose strands dangled down over my eyebrows. I usually kept it well groomed, allowing myself that tiny bit of vanity. But, now it brushed the top of my ears and swooped in waves to a point just below my collar line in back. It wasn’t a mullet. But if I didn’t get a trim soon, the jokes would start.

Shit, I’d probably just end up with a dog that humps my leg.

I shifted my weight, realigning my butt cheeks and spreading my thighs. Crotch itch was a bitch. The Chevy Impala was comfortable enough for someone my size. But, my belt buckle was carving a small groove into the underside of the roll that pudged over my jeans.

My name is Doral Knobel. Just Dak to anyone I’ve met more than once. I have to admit that the 225 pounds I usually carried so well was now pushing 235 from too many hours on my butt. I kept the seat all the way back to accommodate my 6’2" frame.

Almost new, the car was a dirty gray color. The tinted side windows were nice, but the fireball sun was dead ahead right now. I took a short drag on the smoke and adjusted the overhead visor to shade my eyes as blue smoke trailed from my nostrils. Thank God for air conditioning. Even with the window cracked, I kept the AC blower cranked up.

Who am I kidding? Even a dog would run off after a couple days with me.

Digging hard with my free hand, I tried to make an adjustment in the constricted area below my belt. Why did a long drive in snug jeans always produce a nagging itch in the worst place? It didn’t seem fair.

Note to self… the guy who invents anti-itch jeans will make a killing.

Maybe I could undo the snap. Reach in. Fix the problem. Of course, that’s when a truck driver would pass by and give me one of those looks.

My luck, I’d put the car in a ditch with one hand stuck in my pants.

I could picture the headlines in Murphy’s weekly paper, The Cherokee Scout.

LOCAL MAN KILLED IN BIZARRE ZIPPER ACCIDENT

Officials Puzzled

I could just see my mother’s face. That would be priceless.

A Van Halen classic filled the car and my fingers drummed along on the steering wheel. No rap crap for me. Not this guy. Country music was tolerable on a slow day. But nothing beats good Rock n’ Roll. Power ballads. Blazing guitar riffs.

Oh, yeah.

I still loved to sing along when I was alone. Now, however, I drove in silence – consumed by brain fatigue.

My destination was – and always had been – a place of comfort and contentment. I don’t need massive wealth. Just enough significant income to eliminate stress and worry. I run my own businesses. My daughter and parents are my primary concerns.

But, for me, financial success has been an elusive objective. Unconventional methods have usually paved my path. Nothing illegal, of course. But, I’m no rat in a maze. The 9 to 5 dead end trap isn’t for me.

Doing whatever it takes. Putting in the hours. Sacrificing the small pleasures. Full speed ahead. That’s me, for sure. No rat. No maze. Go big or go home… and you make your own cheese.

Checking the speed control to ensure it was set at 60, I glanced at the empty passenger seat. Just enough room for a big dog. Or a patient woman. But, since I had neither – and no prospects – I inhaled smoked and drove with my shoulders slumped.

Unfortunately, if I’m being brutally honest, I’m not always as smart as I should be. My ambitions and confidence tend to get me into hot water. That doesn’t make me a bad person or an idiot. I’m just saying, sometimes I get in over my head.

And that was the modus operandi that I needed to amend. I was spread too thin. Too much overhead and not enough income. Not enough hours in the day.

I’d been toying with some ideas and postponing some tough decisions for several months now. But the resolve to consolidate my projects and streamline my life had solidified over the last few weeks. I wasn’t getting any younger, as much as I hated to admit it.

The past three days spent at DataOne had been uneventful and unprofitable. DataOne, in Asheville, was a small data processing facility with a few political names on its short list of clients. As a majority owner, I had a vested interest in its success, but it wasn’t growing and neither was my personal bank account.

Worst of all, it no longer held my interest. I was bored with it. That meant that DataOne was on the chopping block. It was some of the fat I planned to trim in an effort to get my life under control.

On the up side, I had made some significant contacts in the political world since taking over the company two years ago. I believed in keeping my black book full of names with clout. You never knew who might be helpful down the road.

Approaching the intersection at Marble, I dabbed the brakes when the traffic light changed to yellow. Something on the back seat slid onto the floor with a thud. I glanced back over my shoulder before realizing I really didn’t care. I shrugged and turned forward, sucking on my cigarette.

The back seat was a black hole of despair and disarray. A physical manifestation of my life, if I chose to recognize the similarities. It was littered with boxes, files, papers, fast food bags, a brief case and other assorted junk that made up my mobile office. The debris field extended to the trunk where I kept duffel bags and a couple of plastic trash bags. Clothes, shoes and other personal necessities for my life on the road.

I had a habit of keeping it simple. Jeans and assorted sneakers or flip flops were all I ever wore. There was only one pair of khaki Dockers in one of the duffels. The rest of my attire was usually a T-shirt or Polo. As long as it had a pocket for my notes and smokes, I didn’t much care what it looked like. Hanging on the side hook in the back seat were two Oxford button-downs I kept for the occasional business meeting. Somewhere among the litter was a wrinkled tie that matched either shirt.

It’ll come in handy if I decide to hang myself. God knows I need a friggin’ break, I muttered out loud. There were four credit cards in my wallet – three were over limit. Push was coming to shove and I was running out of things to shove.

I devoted 70 to 80 hours a week to my projects, most of it sitting behind the wheel of this car because I was too spread out. Another side affect of my not-so-organized approach to business.

The downside was that I had no life. No me time. And even if I did, there was no one special to share it with. It was a lonely, boring life I had endured these past few years. Traveling back and forth between my different businesses – Asheville, Murphy, Marietta, Atlanta, Dalton – I often felt like a hamster on the wheel. Running hard and getting nowhere.

The rat I had sworn I would never be.

Ah, what th’ hell.

I reached down to address that nagging itch and that’s when I noticed the large white SUV idling next to me with the window down. A gorgeous female eyed me with a sly smirk.

Oh, crap!

I let go of my crotch and grabbed the wheel with both hands, feeling the rush of color spread across my face. The woman licked her lips playfully, tossed back long sandy hair and pushed sun glasses into place as the tinted window slid up to block my view.

Geez… gimme’ a break.

The light went green and I stomped the gas. Sucking the last of the smoke, I flicked it over the top of the open window and reached for the Mountain Dew again.

I was currently a partial owner in three businesses. And there were three that I owned out right. Some were losing money, some were doing okay and one, Elite Concepts, was on the brink of a huge windfall. A new product I was about to release would definitely bring in the big bucks.

Of all my ventures, Elite Concepts was my favorite and I wanted to give it more time. Inventing gimmicks that people just couldn’t live without satisfied my creative urges and marketing them in clever ways was the type of challenge I enjoyed embracing.

And I had a genuine hunch about this newest creation. Sure, I’d had these feelings before. But, this time, I was convinced I was on the right track. My new project would shower me with long awaited rewards.

It just had to. Overhead was killing me.

Gotta’ spend money to make money.

As if my own life wasn’t frustrating enough, the rest of the world was also going to hell in a hurry. The Big Cheese from Texas was driving endless nails into his political coffin. The Muslims were taking over the world. The Chinese controlled all the purse strings and Wall Street was doing its impersonation of the Titanic. Dwarfing all this was news that some unknown black guy thought he had a snowball’s chance of becoming president of the United States.

Who knows? His competition was weak. A woman most people were fed up with and some other pasty-faced wannabe’s who were willing to say all the right things and prostitute themselves for the highest office. They were all bloodsuckers living off the people, as far as I was concerned.

And yet, none of that seemed important right now. I just couldn’t devote the mental effort required to give a shit.

I needed a break. Maybe, a little luck. Borrowing from Peter to pay Paul was an exhausted option. Peter wasn’t even taking my calls these days. It was time to reconfigure the way I did things and streamline my activities. Recapture some semblance of normalcy.

Do or die.

Removing the cell phone from my belt clip, I flipped it open and thumbed the buttons. After two rings, there was a click.

Hello?

Hey, Dad. It’s me. Just pulling into Murphy now… I’ve got a few stops to make and it’s been a long day. Where are you right now? I had called my father’s cell phone.

My parents were remodeling an old Victorian house as an investment project. Restoring it would be more accurate. Gordon and Ann Knobel were hard working, consistent, reliable and devoted.

Dad told me he was home and mom was preparing supper, but he’d be at the Victorian the next day. However, he’d be heading home early. They had dinner plans with some neighbors and he asked me if I’d ever heard of the Westlands.

Don’t think so. Listen, give Mom a hug and I’ll see you tomorrow some time. I really want to talk to you. My dad agreed and I snapped the phone shut, tossing it onto the seat next to me. My watch displayed 4:45. Patty usually left the office by 5:00 and I knew I could catch her if I hurried. Leaving the 4-lane at the first Murphy light, I made a right and then turned left on the Old Road towards the old home that served as a converted office building, just off Regal Street.

Leaving the keys in the Impala, I tromped up the porch steps that fronted the simple gray ranch with white shutters. There was no signage and no lettering on the front door. From the outside, it just looked like an old house. Inside, it just looked like an old office.

Stained carpet, dark paneling and dim lighting were the better features. Slanted floors and crooked walls gave it what Patty called character. The window AC hummed and I could hear water running in the kitchen, located near the back of the building. The living room now held two old desks, assorted rickety chairs and dented filing cabinets. The flat screen TV in the corner was the only thing with any modern luster.

I headed down the narrow hall past the small bathroom and entered the kitchen/dining combo to find Patty rinsing a coffee mug in the sink. Her purse and a crumpled Wal-Mart bag lay on the counter next to her keys.

Hey, Patty, I said and pinched her on the elbow. She jumped and I gave her my biggest grin.

Dak! You goofy pain in the butt! Why didn’t you call? Patty Mare was in her late forties, pleasantly plump and her short strawberry hair was naturally wavy. Her round cheeks turned bright red easily and she had an infectious smile. About 5’7 in her flats, Patty wore khaki Capris pants and a light blue sleeveless blouse. She punched me in the belly. I oughta’ whoop your butt for sneakin’ up on me."

C’mon… it’s the only fun I’ve had all day. And your cheeks are red again. I chuckled as I turned to sit in one of the flimsy old chairs at the small table where Patty ate her lunch. It was next to a sliding glass door that opened onto the back yard. This was a residential area, so the office actually had a yard. Unfortunately, it would take about two hours of mowing before anyone would ever see it again.

Whatsup? Patty leaned back against the counter, drying her hands on a small towel. She had come to work for me almost six years ago. Although she was technically my assistant/secretary/gopher, she felt more like a favorite aunt. Our interactions were garnished with banter, concern and familial understanding. We were comfortable with the unspoken bond that had formed between us. I counted on her. Trusted her. And anything Patty couldn’t do for me, her husband Larry usually could. Sorry about the grass. I can have Larry cut it on Saturday.

"Don’t worry about it, Sweetie. Least of my problems. Although, you could call the landlord and ask him if the Jungle Look is really what he’s going for here."

And when he asks me about the two months rent we owe him? She crossed her arms under her breasts and waited. Patty oversaw my personal finances and paid my bills, too. That duty included writing her own paycheck every other week – or every third week, if my accounts were in danger of flat lining.

Yeah, well… forget about it. We won’t be here long. I reached for a cigarette, but thought better of it as Patty took a seat next to me. That’s why I’m glad I caught you. Did you find us a building?

As a matter of fact, I did. David Fritz called to tell me the old Remax office was finally available down there on the four lane. The Remax people got all their stuff out.

Did he give you any numbers?

I didn’t ask. We’re broke, Dak. I didn’t think it mattered. Figured if you wanted a new building, you’d just figure out a way to get it. You always do. She gave me her I don’t wanna’ know how you do it look.

Anything urgent come up while I was in Asheville? I tried to change the subject.

Ugh! You’re such a… a… man. Patty tossed the hand towel at me and straightened. A signal that she was ready to go. No. Nothing that can’t wait. Ginger says two of the trucks down in Dalton need tires. Harley says he can make payroll… but wants to go over the forth quarter budget with you. You know. The usual crap.

Yeah, yeah. I responded with a slight eye roll. Listen. In the morning, call David and arrange a meeting for me to talk about that building. Tell him it’s urgent. Maybe he can meet me in the afternoon, okay? I’m going over to Dad’s in the morning.

Yeah, I’ll call you. Patty didn’t have to write it down. She would remember. Sometimes it seemed like she knew what I needed, even before I did.

I stood up and rested a hand on Patty’s shoulder as she rose. Don’t know what I’d do without you, Darlin.’ And don’t worry. I did a lot of thinking over the last couple days. We’re gonna’ turn things around… together. Starting tomorrow.

I know, Dak. I mean… I know you have plans and you mean well. I’ll stick with you, no matter what. But our back is really against the wall in a few places.

I leaned in and gave her a hug. You’re right. And I’ve had enough. Get me that appointment with David. Oh! And try to get in touch with Jerry Roberts for me. Tell him we need to talk. Now get outta’ here or Larry will be calling.

Patty picked up her purse and bag, heading for the front door while I ducked into the small bathroom. Standing there, I stared at the paint peeling off the wall above the commode while the Little General drained his load. My plans raced through my brain and the dull throb of a pending headache was working its way up the back of my neck.

No turning back. Full speed ahead.

There would be challenges. But, the end game would be worth it. I would make this work and I would gain the peace I longed for – or, at least, reduce the confusion. My daughter would have what she needed and my parents would live out their years in comfort.

Hopefully, I would sleep at night.

Yep! Look out World! It’s nothing personal. Just business.

Returning to the car, I piled into the driver seat and turned the key. The cell phone was buzzing on the seat where I’d left it. Missed Call. The display read Shyanne. With an elevated heart rate, I thumbed the voicemail button as I backed the Impala onto the street and gunned it.

My daughter, Shyanne, was 19 and living a couple hours away at Western University. I listened to her explain that she wanted to come home for the weekend and felt my pulse fade back to normal. There was no crisis. She was just missing me. And no, she didn’t need any money. I grinned at that comment.

The message ended with a promise to see me on Friday. Shyanne had only been gone a couple of weeks and the fact that she wanted to come see me was a relief. We were close and I had prayed that going away to school wouldn’t diminish the bond we had built after her mother left.

I missed my baby girl terribly. But, with my travels, I hadn’t been able to spend much time with her lately, which bothered me deeply. Gordon and Ann had helped keep an eye on her. Shyanne always stayed busy, usually working two part-time jobs, so she’d have her own money when she went off to college.

I decided to make a pit stop at Wal-Mart before hitting a fast food joint on my way to the house. If Shyanne was coming, I would need a few groceries. And dish soap. Some snacks and a carton of smokes. And a little white bottle of something to combat the headache that was creeping into that annoying spot a half inch behind my eyebrows.

No dog. No woman. And I still get headaches. I must be cursed.

3 -- BANANAS

Life in Murphy has its advantages. Nestled in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains, it seems to be half way to everywhere while still being in the middle of nowhere. You can actually live out in the country and still be able to reach a major city within about two hours. During the summer, traffic swells to four times its normal volume as seasonal residents and vacationers flood this area.

On the down side, being a small town in the middle of nowhere means there’s not a lot to do in the way of evening entertainment. During the day, adventure seekers can enjoy rafting, hiking, camping, hunting and more. But, at night? Well, there was Wal-Mart.

At 5:30, the retail monster drew humans like moths to a candle. The swarm represented a full spectrum of the species – from well dressed white-collars on their way home after a 9 to 5 – to low income chemical junkies and no income adolescents with nothing better to do.

I winced a little as my headache reached full tilt.

My flip flops smacked the waxed tile while I pushed my buggy down the wide grocery aisles of Murphy’s Supercenter. Trudging along, I dropped various items into the buggy while keeping my head low and avoiding eye contact. Not that I wasn’t sociable. I usually had an amicable way about me and people generally liked me. But tonight, I just wasn’t in the mood.

In and out. Grab your stuff. Make tracks for a hot shower.

Lost in thought, wondering which burger joint I should hit on the way to the house, I rounded the end of aisle 5 and had a collision with Mark Vickey’s shopping buggy. I looked up sheepishly and grinned big.

Dakkie! he exclaimed. Where you been, you old Cod? Ain’t seen you in forever.

In his trademark camo, Mark’s boyish features smiled back at me from beneath a John Deere ball cap perched atop a mop of shaggy dark hair. As a football stud in high school, Mark had saved my geeky butt more than once. Twenty years later, he was a full blown red neck right down to the chewin’ tobacco stuffed inside his cheek.

Me? Well, I’m not too geeky anymore. But our friendship had endured since tenth grade and now we clasped hands in the manly thumb-wrap manner, patting each other roughly on the back of our shoulders. Mark was a big ol’ boy, probably three inches and thirty pounds larger than me.

Hey, Bud. You’re lookin’ good. I returned his greeting. Mark made money any way he could. He was selling houses one week and building them the next. Hauling wood, cutting hay. It didn’t matter and he never complained. Staying busy?

You bet, Dakkie! I got enough money for gas and beer. How ‘boutchoo?

Still on the road a lot. But not much longer, if I can help it. I glanced down at Mark’s buggy. A pack of hot dogs, a six-pack of Old Milwaukee and two boxes of shotgun shells. Typical. What’s the plan, Mark? Hunting season open already?

Nope. Got me a stake out. Gonna’ watch some cows. Mark backed away and maneuvered his buggy around mine. In doing so, he bumped a rotund lady rounding the meat bunker. She had a wide ass, a female mustache and a dirty toddler riding backwards in the buggy. I saw Mark fighting to keep a straight face as he gave her a barely discernable nod. ’Scuse me, ma’am.

With a look of contempt, she had waddled away. We watched her butt cheeks flopping up and down in her skin tight shorts that displayed panty lines disappearing at odd angles into her massive crack.

When she was out of sight, Mark spoke first, Speakin’ of cows.

You need help, Mark. I paused briefly and we both burst out laughing. An older couple ambled by with a they must be a couple of them druggies look and quickly turned into the next aisle. When the adolescent giggles subsided, I composed myself and asked, So, what’s the deal with the cows? Run out of girls to date?

Huh… no, it’s weird, Dak. You know somethin’ out there is attackin’ cows ‘round here? Nine total, so far. Three in th’ last week. Five of ‘em was out near Hangin’ Dog. Your folks say anything?

No, but I just got back into town. What’s the deal? Someone killing cows?

"Not some one. Some thing. And dey ain’t dead. That’s th’ head scratcher, man. Dem cows just got tore up, but not kilt. Dey got some ragged scratches and deep punctures. Kinda’ jest stand thar in a daze fer a day or two and then dey seem to be okay. But, the owners are keepin’ ‘em away from their herds until dey figger it out. No tellin’ what dey got or if it’ll spread."

I leaned on my buggy, absorbing Mark’s words. But it just didn’t make any sense. Shaking my head, I said, Guess you lost me, ol’ buddy. Some hurt cows and you gotta’ do a stakeout with a gun?

You ain’t listening, Cod Breath. Mark’s banter was endless. Nine of ‘em! All wit’ th’ same wounds, but none died. Somethin’ weird going on. Me and some of th’ guys are goin’ to watch a few of the pastures out our way and see what we kin see.

Well, must be a big animal… to attack cows, right?

You’d think. But what kind of animal attacks nine beefs an’ never kills one?

You got me, Mark, I shrugged. Sounds weird, for sure. Be careful, ya’ hear? It’s got to be a big animal or something. Maybe some wild dogs. How long has this been going on?

’Bout two or three weeks, I guess. An’ don’t worry ‘bout me. I’ll be careful, Dakkie. Me and my shotgun are jess gonna’ lay low and watch. I see any wild dogs… I’ll shoot ‘em. But, I jess don’t figger on dogs makin’ the same wounds over and over on diff’rent cows in diff’rent fields all over the county. He hit me with another manly gesture, the traditional shoulder punch and said, See ya when ah see ya!

Later, Mark. Call me in a day or two. I’ll buy you a beer and you can tell me if you shot anything.

Flip flopping toward the check-outs, I inspected the contents of my buggy. Milk, bread, salami, cheese, chips, cereal, socks, deodorant, bananas. Nothing too exciting.

Such was my life.

I thought about Mark’s cow story and did another mental shrug. Obviously, there was more to the story. You just never knew with fun loving Mark. Next time I ran into my old buddy, I’d probably hear about how he had shot Bigfoot while on cow patrol.

The check-outs were busy. Nothing new. With heartless resolve, I placed my loot on the self-check belt and began the task of swiping things across the scanner.

Teri Robinson watched me from her post at the employee monitor. She was an attractive woman in her mid forties and she smiled broadly when I caught her eye and gave a little nod. Most of the people who worked here knew me. A side effect of living in a small town.

Nearby, Linda was manning Register 10. Her 60 year