By Any Other Name
By:
Geron Kees
(© 2019 by the author)
The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's
consent. Comments are appreciated at...
GKees@tickiestories.us
Chapter 6
We were dragging a little the next morning as we crept through the woods
to the back of the Muskrat Hill town square. It was even warmer today
than it had been the night before, the sun bright overhead, and our
black sweats were
definitely living up to their name. It was easier for us this trip,
because we weren't carrying all the heavy things we'd been toting the
night before, but it was just too warm a day to be so fully
clothed.
Joey carried one sack with the transmitters inside, and Rich and I each
carried an empty one for the equipment we'd be bringing back. Dev had
the last sack, with our binoculars. We'd scrounged up a pair for each of
us, of varying levels of quality. But each would gives us a better view
of the goings on in front of the town hall than we'd have been able to
get with just our eyes. There was also a camera in the same sack, one
with a really good zoom feature, so that we could take a few shots of
our moment of triumph. Just for posterity, you understand.
We could still see where we had come through the woods the night before,
our passage documented in overturned leaves, which hadn't fully dried
yet and been bleached by the sun. So as we neared the backside of the Come
On Inn, we veered right, and managed to emerge from the woods
right at the corner of the rows of shops, just at the old hardware
store.
The whole town was supposed to be in the square in front of the court
house in just an hour, yet it was surprising how many people were out
behind the shops, tossing trash, unloading trucks, or cutting up boxes.
We had to wait a little until the coast was clear, and the whole time
the four of us were climbing the ladder, I kept thinking someone else
would walk out a back door and see us. But it didn't happen, and we made
it to the roof without getting caught. Things would hopefully be quieter
here when it came time for us to leave.
This was my first chance to see what Dev and Rich had done on the
rooftop. The facade of the store stood up about four feet above the roof
itself, affording us some protection from being seen from the square in
the bright morning sunlight. There was a central area on the roof
consisting of a concrete pad with a brick chimney poked up from one
side, and an old air conditioning unit parked squarely in the middle.
There was a brick wall around the front of it, chest high, the reason
for which was only known to some probably dead builder.
Dev and Rich had mounted their pulley atop one corner of the wall,
sinking four studs into holes drilled in the brickwork, and using
quick-release wingnuts to hold it down. The pulley atop the bell tower
was expendable, but we wanted to take the motorized one with us. When
our job here was finished, there would hopefully be time to undo the
wingnuts and remove the pulley from its mount.
The battery that operated the pulley was just a big six-volt lantern
battery, much lighter than the lead-acid batteries we'd used to power
other parts of the project. It would go into one of the empty bags along
with the motorized pulley when it came time for us to git. It wasn't
just the dollar value of these things to be considered - we wanted to
leave as little in the way of evidence behind as we could manage.
After looking over the pulley set up, I let my eyes follow the two runs
of paracord that extended away from the rooftop towards the bell tower.
They seemed to go about fifteen feet from the roof of the hardware
store, and then just to vanish into the morning sunlight. We'd certainly
chosen the right color for them! They were just about invisible by day,
lending an air of confidence to the idea that no one had spotted them.
That had been one of my chief worries, and I felt better now that I
could see they didn't stand out at all against the sky.
The green before the courthouse was packed. Row after row of folding
chairs stood before the grandstand, and while there were people sitting
in some of them, for the most part the throng was still standing, split
up into dozens of little groups just hanging out, talking. And those
little groups were even further divided. It was already apparent that
those men dressed in old fashioned Confederate uniforms had set
themselves apart from the men dressed in black suits and bowties, while
the women in their hoop skirts and over petticoats had formed yet a
third group. I had to kind of smile at that. At every public function
I'd ever attended, seemed the men and the women split up to talk amongst
themselves before things got going, and only got back together again
once the show - whatever it might be - started.
Most of the people sitting in the chairs seemed not to be of the other
groups. Younger adults, wearing shorts and sandals, tee-shirts, and with
lots of little kids with them, and the men and women actually seated
together. People there to have fun, but not really into the spirit of
all that history. That was the way I'd dressed when I'd gone with my dad
three years back. History was history. I didn't want to relive it.
Off to one side of the grand stand, the band was set up with their own
chairs. This was the same band that played for most town occasions,
comprised of Muskrats who'd once been with the high school band in the
past, so the ages of the group were all over the board. I'd heard them
play three years ago, and they weren't bad. Mr. Bellevue, the choir
coordinator over at the Baptist church, was bandleader and in charge of
the music selection.
There were some large canopies beyond the rows of folding chairs, under
which tables and chairs had been lined up, for the lunch come noontime.
Some of the food was coming from here in the town, and some of it had
been brought in. There were a half dozen trucks parked at one end of the
canopies, with big stainless steel boxes on them, and sides that opened
up to reveal little kitchens inside. The air was full of several aromas,
one of which was certainly fried chicken, and another that might have
been dirt peas.
Joey opened his bag and laid out the transmitters, while Dev opened his
and handed out binoculars. Joey and I had our own, while the other two
pairs had been borrowed for Dev and Rich. All would afford a good view
of the things to come.
We found that if we sat on the wall before the old air-conditioning
unit, we could just see over the facade of the building ten feet away,
and had a good view of everything going on. Our black face masks would
hopefully limit the chance of anyone spotting our heads from below. I
also found that I could see Boney's floppy hat above the railing of the
clock tower balcony. It was just our height that allowed that, and I was
pretty sure that those on the ground couldn't see it. Even if they did,
I recognized it because I knew what it was, but to them it would just be
a dark shape high above. It was nice to know that Boney had not been
discovered, anyway.
We'd discussed who was going to be the voice of Boney. The frequency
modulator inside the scarecrow assured that no matter which of us spoke,
the voice would sound the same. But we couldn't all be on our
transmitter's channel two at once, or we'd risk talking over each other,
and spoiling the effect. In the end, we'd decided that Dev, who'd had
the worst of it from Brad, would have the honor of playing the part of
Boney. But we'd all discussed the things to be said, and while there
could be no script, because we didn't know how those on the ground would
respond, there was a general outline of where we wanted things to go,
and what we wanted to say.
We were peering at things through the binoculars when the county
sheriff's car drove up and parked at the curb by the green. I dropped my
glasses, watching as Sheriff Mike Dizzard climbed out of the passenger
side, stretched, and gave a big sigh. That he'd rather be in his chair
at his desk in his air-conditioned office was pretty clear.
I moved the glasses as the driver's door opened, expecting to see Deputy
Len Cross, who my dad had said had the joy and honor of carrying on the
battle for Mike Dizzard's moral support at the commemoration this year.
Only...it wasn't Len Cross that got out of the car. It was my dad!
"Oh, shit!" Dev said, bumping his shoulder hard against mine. "Do you
see...?"
"Yeah," I returned, nodding. I licked my lips, feeling my throat
immediately go dry.
"I thought you said someone else was coming," Rich piped, his voice
squeaking with alarm now.
I pulled the glasses from my eyes. "Something must have messed up with
Len Cross." I thought fiercely, and then shook my head. "This...doesn't
change a thing. So my dad is here. He's just another deputy for now,
okay?"
The others looked at me, and I could see they didn't like this. But I
think they were more worried about me than anything else, and I grinned,
despite wishing I was home under my bed about now.
"He'll just have a good seat for the show," I finished.
Dev squinted at me. If anyone could see my discomfort, it was him. I
nodded insistently at him, but when his expression didn't change, I
raised an eyebrow and frowned. "What? Problem? We have to do
this!"
He gave a short, amazed little laugh, and then shook his head. "Nope. No
problem." He leaned over and kissed my cheek though, and I closed my
eyes a moment and drank that in. The plan would still work, even with my
dad a part of the crowd below. It was all in how you thought about it,
and nothing more. He was just another deputy, here for the
commemoration.
I'd just keep telling myself that, and hope that it took.
Dev drew back, and I opened my eyes and brought my glasses back to my
face. I tracked Sheriff Dizzard and my dad as they wound their way
through the crowd, stopping to talk to people, waving at others, until
they finally arrived at the front row of seats to the left of the
grandstand. The first five rows of seats there enjoyed the shade from a
huge old evergreen oak that stood at the edge of the square, and the
first row of those seats had been reserved for the town council and
visitors of importance. The sun wouldn't get around to them until late
in the afternoon, and it was about as close as Sheriff Dizzard was going
to get to air-conditioning around here.
More cars arrived, and people got out of them, and I recognized Mayor
Stucky in his trademark white suit and panama hat. He was a portly
fellow, and looked like the bad guy from some old Bogart movie. Gran and
meemaw were always watching those things, and I'd seen enough of them
growing up to gain a small affection for them.
His arrival seemed to signal a massing of the crowd towards the chairs,
and as the mayor and several other older fellows in period black suits
and bow ties took seats by Sheriff Dizzard and my dad, I saw a few other
people climbing the stairs of the grandstand, and zeroed in on them with
my glasses. Hah! One was Brad Kisner, dressed in plain confederate
grays, with his daddy beside him in a like uniform, though bedecked with
gold braid and floppy ribbons, like he'd won the whole war all on his
own.
They took seats at the back of the stand, underneath the canopy, along
with a few other men and women who probably would also be getting some
sort of recognition. It was traditional to give out ribbons for the best
apple butter, and the best pies; for the owner of the horse that won the
spring race at the fair grounds; for the biggest bull, and the most
popular stud horse; for the winner of the quilting contest - stuff like
that. I didn't recognize anyone else seated there, but that didn't
matter. Brad was really the only one I cared about.
He looked excited and happy, one of the few times I think I'd ever seen
him smiling without some kind of venom in it. I felt a pang of
discomfort at that, but it couldn't be helped. Even the serpent smiled
when he got Adam and Eve kicked out of the garden, right?
His daddy was also smiling, his chest all puffed up underneath those
ribbons. This was a big thing for these folk, I guess. We had fairs and
stuff over in Bent Fork, too, and people enjoyed going to them, though
there was none of this dressing up in old fashioned clothes going on
there. Muskrat Hill was like another planet, where there were people
just like on Earth, but where a lot of what they did looked different,
smelled different, and tasted different. Maybe it was this different
outlook on life that also played a part in the two towns not getting
along.
Muskrat Hill sort of lived in the past, I think. Change was
something they carried in their pockets, and used in the few parking
meters spaced around the square. Bent Fork was scarcely going to be the
next Cape Canaveral, but at least we had allowed some of the present day
to creep into our lives there. Looking around the square, I was suddenly
struck by the notion that it had probably looked much like it did now
for the last seventy-five years, with only the cars parked about an
indication that it was not still nineteen-fifty. Just goes to show you
what always looking back will get you, I guess.
Rich dropped his glasses, and sighed. He pulled up his face mask, and
frowned at us. "Don't think I've ever seen Brad Kisner looking so happy
before."
I nodded. 'I was just thinking that."
Dev turned to look at me, his eyes appearing thoughtful through the
holes in his face mask. "This is going to mess him up."
There was no glee there, and I understood why. Dev had imagination, and
compassion to go along with it. I had enough imagination myself to be
able to see what it would be like to come to something like this
commemoration day, all excited about being given an award in front of
the town, only to have it all go wrong in front of everybody. I could
see where that would hurt, and hurt a lot.
Joey grunted. "I hope it does mess him up. Then he'll know what it feels
like to be the target of someone's meanness."
Rich looked aghast. "You think we're being mean?"
"Shit, yeah." Joey nodded his head vigorously. "You don't? That's the
whole point of this plan. To learn Brad Kisner what it's like to be on
the other end of mean." He chuckled. "I'm going to get plenty
of satisfaction doing this."
Rich frowned, but it was Dev who turned to him and said what needed to
be said. "I don't like being cruddy to people, either. But that doesn't
mean I'll just lay back and take it when someone is mean to me." He
waved a hand at the grandstand. "He's not gonna get hurt. He's just
getting some of what he's been giving to all of us. It's no worse than
him throwing a can of whitewash on me." He gave a small laugh then.
"He's just gonna have a way bigger audience."
It was plain that we had doubts about what we were going to do. It had
seemed like a lot of fun when we imagined the plan, and it had seemed
like a pretty harmless way to get back at Brad. But seeing the crowd of
people here now...it was sobering. It's one thing to lay back in the
shack and plot and plan and laugh about what we were going to do, and it
was another thing altogether to sit here in the morning sunshine, with a
few hundred people before us, and know what was going to happen next,
when they didn't.
We were going to change the day of every single person here in this
square.
Joey pulled up his face mask and glared. "If you guys are getting cold
feet, now's the time to say so."
I looked at Dev, and he shook his head. "I'm not backing out. I'm in."
I sighed, but knew which way I had to go. "Yeah. Let's do it."
Dev and I looked at Rich, whose expression had gone neutral as he
thought about the whole thing. He raised his glasses again and
looked off at the grandstand, and then dropped them and nodded his head.
He grinned, and bumped his shoulder against Joe's. "Okay. Let's go."
Joey grinned back, and pulled his mask back down, and Rich followed
suit.
We were committed.
Slowly, the crowd organized itself, and sat down in the folding chairs.
Mayor Stucky stood and turned to watch them, careful not to get out of
the shade while doing so. He was not a man that liked to sun bathe, that
was for sure.
Finally, everyone was seated, and except for a few babies crying and
their mommas shushing them, the square grew silent. Mayor Stucky fixed a
beaming smile on his face, and ascended the staircase to the podium.
Even though it was pretty quiet, and all eyes were already on him, he
waved his hands as if requesting everyone's attention. I raised my
glasses to my eyes, and was aware of the other guys doing the same.
"Good morning, folks," the mayor said.
If there hadn't been a slight breeze blowing towards us, we might not
have heard him at all.
The mayor frowned and tapped the microphone before him, but there was no
response.
Jeff Willis, the town maintenance man, jumped up from his front-row seat
and quickly ascended the other staircase, reached past the mayor, and
did something to the mic. There was a blast of sound, a yowl of feedback
from the speakers placed before the stand, and then Jeff's gravelly
voice, sounding slightly amused. "You gotta turn it on, first, Mr.
Mayor."
A chorus of laughter rippled through the crowd. But Mayor Stucky simply
smiled, and nodded at the other man. "I thought that's what we paid you
for, Jeff."
More laughter. Jeff Willis looked slightly embarrassed, and quickly left
the stage, while the mayor grinned at the crowd and looked pleased with
himself.
"A fine day we have here, isn't it?" he asked. "I cannot think of a more
beautiful day for our commemoration, in fact."
"It was just like this last year!" someone called from the audience.
The crowd laughed again, and the mayor waved a hand at the disturbance
as if shooing away a fly. "Yes, it's only right that the sun be shining
and the temperature be warm, as we honor that famous defender of our
town, Deke Zachariah Hawkins. What a story to tell, what a magnificent
moment in the life of our fair town! On that precipitous day so long
ago, this son of Muskrat Hill stood up and struck a blow for freedom,
not only saving the homes we love, but the homes of our neighbors to the
north, in Bent Fork. The men of our two towns rode forth that day, and
helped to turn away the tide of destruction racing down upon them. What
could have been an end was instead a new beginning, and today we are
enjoying the fruits of their efforts in a quiet and safe Eden that
maintains our way of life, the way of life that we love."
The mayor's voice quavered with emotion, his eyelids heavy, as if seeing
the very moment.
Joey grunted. "What a windbag."
"It's the same speech he gave three years ago," I said. "He probably has
it tattooed on his palm."
Dev snickered, and Rich gave his knee a quiet slap. "Mayor Tatum at home
doesn't talk that way. Bent Fork sure is different from here, you know?"
"Yup."
But the crowd seemed to be sucking it up. For the next ten minutes, the
mayor blabbed on, about what a great town Muskrat Hill was, and how fine
an ancestor Deke Hawkins had been, how brave and selfless he was, and
how much was owed to him by everyone present. There was no mention made
of a still, nor any other blemish on the revered man's past. Gran would
have puked if he'd heard it all, I'm quite sure.
The mayor also managed to get in that he knew the mayoral election was
coming up soon, and that he hoped to be able to serve the 'citizens of
this fine town' for yet another term. Mayor Stucky had held his office
for nearly ten years now, mostly because he'd been running unopposed for
most of them; but rumor had it that Zeb Pritchard was going to run
against him this time, and Zeb was fairly famous locally as the winner
of the county Musketball Rifle Contest for fourteen years running. Being
a hot shot counted among the local male contingent, apparently, and all
that Mayor Stucky had to offer in return was some years of pretty good
service, and that he'd had the statue of Newt Hammond, considered the
town's founding father, refurbished and made pretty again.
The band played The Bonnie Blue Flag, The Rebel Soldier, and
When Johnny Comes Marching Home, and then the crowd sang along
with Eatin' Goober Peas. Everyone seemed to be having a grand
time, while we were slowly cooking inside our sweats in the hot morning
sun.
"I wish they'd get on with it," Rich finally grated, any worry over what
we were doing now burned away by the heat of the sun. "I'm starting to
feel like a french fry."
We drank water from our canteens, but it was warm, and didn't do much to
slake our thirsts. Hell, I'd even welcome a cold beer about now, and
certainly the cool comfort of the shack.
But finally, the mayor must have been tiring of his own exposure to the
sun. He called up and introduced Sheriff Mike Dizzard, while my dad
wisely stayed in his seat in the shade. The Sheriff said how happy he
was to be there again for yet another celebration, and how the whole
county remembered Deke Hawkins and the brave thing he'd done. The crowd
clapped, and then the Sheriff wisely got himself back to his seat.
The mayor then called up Cupper Dawson, and named him Master of
Ceremonies, and then Myra Crawford, and named her Mistress of
Ceremonies. Myra was the organist at the Baptist church, and used to
having the spotlight. She was there along with Cupper so that the deputy
wouldn't need to explain to the crowd the intricacies of making fine
apple butter, or what sort of stitching had been used in the winning
century quilt at the county fair. They were ladies things, and needed a
feminine hand.
"Alright," Cupper said, as the Mayor hastened back to his seat in the
shade. "I know you folks are getting warm, but it's still early. Don't
forget the great lunch we'll be serving at noon, neither. I know all
this celebrating makes me hungry, so I hope all of you will join us."
Myra Crawford smiled gloriously, and nodded. "I'm sure we'll all be
there. And now it's come time for us to recognize some of our own, for
outstanding accomplishments this last year, or for contributions to the
town that have benefited us all." She turned to the row of seats
underneath the canopy at the rear of the grandstand, and waved a hand
magnanimously. "As you can see, there are a number of them."
The crowd clapped, but I was certain I heard a few groans mixed in
there, too. And Emmet Castleby and a few of Brad's other buddies were
seated a few rows back from the grandstand, and they whistled and
cheered and stamped their feet. I could make out Brad beneath the
canopy, smiling, and grimaced.
Smile now, I thought. While you can.
We passed through awards for quilting, and pies, and for the best stud
horse at the county fair. Each recipient stood and came
forward, collected their certificate and said their thanks into the
microphone, and then went down the side steps into the shade, to shake
the hand of the mayor. The heat was making me sleepy, and I think I
fuzzed out a few times. I lifted my face mask and pushed it back on my
head, and took a deep breath of the comparably cool air outside the
mask. Dev looked at me, and then he had his mask up, too.
"Finally," Joey said, pushing up his own mask. "I was beginning
to think we were taking this Mission Impossible crap too far."
He turned and prodded Rich, who also lifted his mask.
The cooler air immediately brought me back, and I gulped some of it down
gratefully, and took another drink from the canteen.
"And now," Cupper said, waving his hat gently in front of his face, "we
have an award that's new this year, one for service to the town in the
area of craftsmanship. As you all know, Kit Kisner and his son, Brad,
have been installing new pews in the Baptist church, and aren't they
looking fine?"
Emmet and his squad whistled and yelled and stamped their feet, and
there was some polite clapping from everyone else.
Joey turned and looked at us. "Everybody be quiet now, okay? I'm going
to cut Dev into channel two." He looked at Devin. "Ready?"
Devvy grinned at me, and nodded. I leaned against his shoulder and
smiled, seeing the mischief in his eyes, and the eagerness with which he
was ready to act. This was going to be good, there was no doubt in my
mind.
What goes around, comes around!
"As you folks know, Kit is a member of the town council, and he
has said he would be ever so proud to represent the town in handing out
this particular award. So if you don't mind...here he is."
Brad's dad stood and marched forward towards the podium, the braiding
and medals bouncing up and down on the front of his uniform. There was
the slightest bit of tittering from the audience, but it was mostly
drowned out by the chorus of cheers from Emmet and his friends. Mr.
Kisner was a tall, hawk-faced man, and despite the slightly ridiculous
look of his uniform, it fit him, somehow. He looked like an old-time,
fire-breathing general, marching into the latest conquered town.
The man waited a moment for the cheering from Emmet and crew to stop,
and when it didn't stop quickly, he glared at them. "Thank you, thank
you. Thank...you!"
Emmet, who had risen to his feet to lead the cheering, ducked at
the force of the last words, and quickly sat down again.
Mr. Kisner smiled, and briefly examined the microphone before him, no
doubt ensuring that it was properly positioned to catch his every word.
"As Deputy Dawson has just said, my boy and I have been installing new
pews in the church. And I'll say right now that these are not some
store-bought pews, but made right here in town, at my shop over on
Maybell Street. Many people have remarked positively on the fine level
of the craftsmanship, and I want to say now that this is due in no small
part to the efforts of my boy, who is well on his way to becoming a
master-builder."
Someone deep in the audience snorted hugely, and there was a bout of
tittering from the ladies. Mr. Kisner immediately glared, and pointed to
someone in the back rows. "I know that was you, Ben Fetter. I assure
you, this is not a moment for levity!"
I couldn't help grinning, just at the way the man spoke, drawing out the
final word so that it almost crackled in the warm morning air. Lev-i-tay!
The accused raised a hand and waved it gently. "No harm meant, Kit. Just
my allergies actin' up, is all."
Mr. Kisner immediately smiled. "You're forgiven, then." He cleared his
throat, and squinted out at the crowd. "Umm...as I was saying, my son,
Brad, is mostly responsible for the fine work being done in the church.
So when I was approached by the town council with an idea to acknowledge
Brad with an award for his work, why, of course I wanted to be the one
to hand it to him personally."
There was another huge snort from the back row, and Ben Fetter whipped
out a huge hanky and made a show of burying his nose in it. "Sorry!"
The ladies tittered again, and I could see grins on a lot of faces.
There just are no real secrets in a small town. Not for long, anyway.
Mr. Kisner glared again, and this one promised a payback of some sort.
But he grimaced, and forced a smile onto his face, and turned to Myra
Crawford. "You have the certificate?"
At some point a box had been set on the grandstand by the podium, which
must contain the awards being handed out. Myra bent and retrieved one,
and held it out to Mr. Kisner, whose chest immediately swelled beneath
his medals. He turned to the back of the grandstand, and nodded.
"Bradley? Front and center, son!"
Brad leaped up out of his seat and ran for the podium, causing another
round of tittering from the audience.
Dev leaned against me and prodded me with his arm, and I knew he was
ready for what came next.
Mr. Kisner beamed, and reached out and dropped a hand on his son's
shoulder. With the other hand he held up the certificate, took a breath,
and launched into his speech. "Bradly Kisner, it my great honor to award
you this certificate of merit, for your outstanding work on the new pews
at the First Baptist Church of Muskrat Hill, and to congratulate you on
your --"
"Excuse me!"
The voice was huge, and baleful, and it echoed about the square like the
crack of doom. I saw people in the crowd jump at the power of it, and it
was everything I could do not to laugh out loud.
Dev gave the power to the winch pulley a nudge, and Boney stepped
forward to the rail of the bell tower balcony. A push to the joystick on
the transmitter caused the scarecrow to wave both arms, and a number of
people in the crowd caught the movement and looked up.
"Look!" someone yelled, standing up and pointing. "There's a man on the
bell tower!"
Mayor Stucky came up out of his chair as if he'd been stung, and shaded
his eyes with a hand and stared upwards. Sheriff Dizzard was not far
behind him...and my dad, as well.
Cupper Dawson, who with Myra had stepped to the side of the stage while
Mr. Kisner made the presentation, turned, and also shaded his eyes and
stared upwards. "Who's that?"
Sheriff Dizzard pointed skyward. "You come down from there, boy, before
you get hurt!"
"I am not going to be hurt," Boney said, his voice somber with
assurance. "I can't be hurt. I'm already dead. I'm the ghost of Deke
Hawkins."
A total silence greeted that revelation.
Sheriff Dizzard snorted, and turned to Mayor Stucky. His voice was loud
enough to carry to us, even without them being close to a microphone.
"Is this a joke, Burt? This is a joke, right?"
The mayor turned and looked at the council members seated nearby, who
all shrugged helplessly.
"If it is, I don't know about it, Sheriff."
The Mayor turned, and marched up onto the stage to face Cupper Dawson.
"Is this some sort of entertainment that's been planned without my
knowledge?"
Cupper's eyes grew wide. "I don't know anything about it." Their voices
carried to the nearby mic, and emerged at a conversational volume from
the speakers.
Sheriff Dizzard joined them, my dad in tow. "If this is not a joke, then
maybe Deputy Dawson should go up there and bring that man down."
Cupper's eyes grew huge, and he glanced upwards at Boney. "Me? Why me?
Send your deputy up."
I bristled at that, and gritted my teeth. Another reason not to like
Cupper Dawson!
Sheriff Dizzard wasn't having it, either. "Because it's your damn town,
that's why! It's what you're paid for, isn't it?"
Mayor Stucky, aware that what was being said was also being blurted out
over the speakers, waved a hand and glanced at the crowd. All eyes were
upon them. "Let's not let our tempers get the better of us, gentlemen,"
he whispered.
Sheriff Dizzard looked exasperated, shook his head, and turned and
pointed up at the bell tower. "You there! This is Sheriff Mike
Dizzard of the Hawkmore County Sheriff's Department speaking! You just
get your butt back on that ladder and get it down here, right now, 'fore
I send someone up to get you!"
"I wouldn't do that," Boney said, sounding almost cheerful at the
prospect. "Not unless he can fly."
The sheriff actually took a step backwards in shock. "Are you
threatening one of my officers?"
Boney gave out a sinister laugh that made my skin crawl. "I wouldn't do
that, Sheriff. I'm just saying, the ladder up here isn't very safe, and
I'd hate to be the cause of one of your boys taking a tumble!"
"Then come on down!" the sheriff bellowed.
Mayor Stucky raised a hand, and waved it. "There must be a reason you're
up there, son! Tell us how we can defuse this situation."
Boney laughed, and it was just so scary that sounds of alarm issued from
the crowd, and two youngsters on the edge got up and ran.
"There ain't nothing to defuse," Boney said then. "I come here every
year, to hear you people talk about me, and I always just sit up here
and listen. I've never said a word until now."
Mayor Stucky looked astounded. "You're up there every year?"
"I just said so, didn't I? And every year, you people use my
commemoration day to hand out awards to people who made the best dish
towel, or cooked up the best pie. I've never minded that, until now."
Dev nudged the joystick, and Boney's right arm came up and froze before
him, as if he were pointing at the crowd below. "But now, you want to
use my day to hand out an award to this peckerhead? I can't
stay silent at that!"
Brad and his dad had been standing silently, frozen before the podium.
The elder Kisner still had the certificate in one hand. Brad, who was
looking up, too, suddenly frowned and looked at his daddy. "Is he
talkin' about me?"
"Yes, I'm talking about you!" Boney yelled. "You little dirt weasel,
muckin' up my day with your phony award! You ain't done an hour's worth
of work on those pews. Your daddy has done it all, and he's just trying
to boost you up to make you look good."
There were a couple of screams from the crowd, but it was laughter, not
terror. I could see people convulsing, not just at the total craziness
of what was happening, but at what had been said about Brad. Like I say,
small towns have few secrets.
"I don't need no boostin' up!" Brad yelled, waving his fist skyward.
"Shut up," Mr. Kisner said crisply, swatting him. "Don't say anything
else."
"I'm not totally unsympathetic, however," Boney continued. "I do think
you need to get awarded something. Something in keeping with
the truly little penis that you are. That's why I'm speaking out today.
I want to present you with just what I think you deserve."
Only Brad and his dad were currently in front of the podium, so when Dev
nodded at Joey, and Joey pushed the button on the other transmitter, I
was reasonably certain that it was only them that would get wet. Still,
there were a couple of seconds delay as the pump under the stand primed
itself, and began pumping the contents of the gas can through the line.
There was a sputtering sound, and then a multitude of tiny jets of dark
liquid erupted forth from the hidden shower head, striking both Kisners
full on. They backed up in reaction, and threw their arms up, even as
the fronts of their uniforms got soaked with the sticky liquid. But they
had nowhere to go. Brad's back hit the podium, and his dad's the rail
beside it, stopping their retreat. And then, again in reaction, they
both turned their backs to the flow to protect their faces, thus
ensuring a liberal coating of the stuff all over.
There was enough force from the jets to knock their hats off, and Brad's
hair immediately fell down over his eyes in gooey strands, while his
dad's balding crown glistened with black stickiness in the hot, hot sun.
Both of them were drenched, no doubt about it.
"Yeeee-hah!" Boney yelled. "Sweets for the creeps!"
Joey let the stream of molasses run seven or eight seconds - a very long
time under such a situation - and then lifted his thumb from the button
on the transmitter. The flow of liquid from the shower head drooped, and
then ceased. Both Brad and his dad took a couple of steps backwards
then, and looked down at the fronts of their sodden uniforms.
"God...damn!" Mr. Kisner bellowed, brushing at his sticky medals and
ribbons. "Somebody get that son of a bitch!"
"But I'm not done!" Boney called, sounding gleeful. "You can't have tar
without --"
Joey pushed the button on the last transmitter.
There was a soft whump!, and the front of the podium blew
outward. A cloud of white and gray erupted forth as between five and
seven thousand chicken feathers, propelled by an instantaneous release
of helium at fifty pounds pressure, filled the air in front of the
podium, totally obscuring both Kisners for a full five seconds. The
square settled into stunned silence as everyone, everywhere, simply
stopped what they were doing and stared at the slowly dissipating cloud.
And then the breeze briefly strengthened, carried away some of the
cloud, and the Kisner's reemerged, now covered from head to foot in
feathers.
On the roof, Joey managed to cut the transmitter to Boney as the four of
us keeled over, sputtering and gasping, trying not to make a sound as we
laughed our asses off. Dev held onto me, hugging me, and I could feel
his chest bouncing against me as he laughed. Rich and Joey were
similarly engaged, and it was a full minute before we realized that what
we were hearing now was a commotion from the square below.
"Let me up!" Dev hissed, his face still spit with a huge grin. I kissed
him, and we helped each other up, and raised our heads just enough to
see over the facade of the building.
Sheriff Dizzard was yelling up at Boney, but we couldn't understand what
he was saying, because the crowd had gone crazy, laughing and carrying
on, while the two Kisners stood in shock before the podium, looking at
each other. The explosion of feathers had been better than our wildest
dreams, and both Brad and his dad were evenly covered, head-to-foot.
Remembering the camera then, I grabbed it up, aimed it, zoomed in on the
Kisners, and took a half-dozen pictures in quick succession. The looks
on their faces were priceless as they just stood and stared at each
other! Both of them had also gotten a pretty good faceful of helium, so
when Brad brushed at the feathers stuck all over himself, and shook his
head in complete shock, and yelled, "Just look at me!", his voice came
out high and thin, like some kind of crazy cartoon character.
"Don't say anything else!", his daddy warned, but he also sounded like a
Munchkin from The Wizard of Oz.
The crowd erupted into more laughter, and both Kisners quickly stepped
to the back of the stage, disappearing underneath the canopy.
"I can't hear what Sheriff Dizzard is saying!" Joey warned. "We can't
have him doing something we can't handle."
"I'll fix that," Dev said. "Everybody be quiet. Joey, switch me on."
Joey nodded, and reactivated the transmitter.
Dev took a breath, and then bellowed into the mic: "Shut up!"
The herculean voice echoed around the square, and the crowd fell silent
as if a switch had been turned off. Even Sheriff Dizzard gaped
upwards, temporarily at a loss for words.
"You people really should get a life," Boney said. "All this hoopla
about a bunch of dead people like me isn't good for you."
Sheriff Dizzard swore, and turned to my dad. "That's it! Frank, take
Deputy Dawson and go up there and get that bastard!"
"No need," Boney said quickly. "I'm leaving. I've had my fun."
"You're coming down?" the sheriff asked, smiling thinly and patting the
little pocket on his belt holding his handcuffs.
"I didn't say that," Boney replied. "I don't need to come down to leave.
I'll just fly away, and leave you people to your problems."
Dev bumped the pulley control, and it looked like Boney was now leaning
over the rail.
Someone screamed, and then several someones, and a dozen women in the
crowd sat down hard in their chairs.
"He's gonna jump!" Cupper Dawson yelled, waving his arms in alarm.
"And ruin my best suit?" Boney returned. "Don't be silly."
And with that, Dev flattened the pulley control. Boney leaped over the
railing...but did not fall. Instead, he sailed across the sky, his arms
waving like a giant bird's wings.
"Yeeee-hah!" the scarecrow roared, looking for all the world now like he
was flying. "Yeeee-hah!"
The crowd simply gaped in disbelief; and then about a third of them
turned and ran. Chairs went flying, and those not running had to jump to
get out of the way.
But it diverted attention from Boney, who sailed over the sidewalk, down
the line of shops next to the courthouse, straight towards us.
Rich and I jumped up and stood on either side of the line, and caught
the scarecrow as he came over the facade of the building, and onto the
roof. With the battery installed, he weighed at least forty pounds, and
the impact nearly knocked us both off our feet. But we stopped him, and
I whipped out my pocket knife and quickly sawed through the line on
either side of the clamps, freeing Boney from the line. The loose end of
the paracord skittered away across the roof as gravity took hold; but
Joey had reversed the power on the motor control for the pulley, and now
he mashed the power button flat. It took thirty seconds for the winch to
reel in all the line from the clock tower, leaving a large pile of it at
our feet. All that was left on the clock tower balcony now was the
second pulley attached to the brick wall.
Dev tossed the transmitters into a bag, while Joey pulled down the
pocket of Boney's shirt and turned him off. Then he quickly unbuttoned
the scarecrow's shirt, reached inside, and worked out the dowel rod that
kept him rigid. Joey and I folded Boney in half and put him into another
sack, while Dev and Rich spun loose the wingnuts holding the
winch-pulley in place, snatched it from its mount, and crammed it, the
pile of paracord, and the pulley's battery into another sack.
We cleaned up the binoculars and the canteens, grabbed the camera, and
into the sack with the transmitters they went. And then we were at the
ladder, and Joey was heading down, and then Dev. We handed the bags
down, one-by-one, to Dev, who handed them to Joe, who stacked them on
the ground until he had them all. And then we got ourselves down that
ladder in a hurry, grabbed up the sacks, and were heading into the
woods. The whole thing, from grabbing Boney as he landed to stepping in
among the trees, took less than two minutes.
We crossed that mile of woods in record time, tossed the bags in the
back of the pick up, and were heading down Route Two for home while
Sheriff Mike Dizzard was still yelling in the square for order.
To be continued...
Posted: 02/14/20