I was sitting in my regular table at the Brick Rack Cafe, same table I sit in every morning between 6 and 8. Gives me a view of the whole town, or whats left of it. I can look out that big plate glass window and see Main Street, the closed down barber shop across the way, the county building that houses the half time EMT/Fireman and me, the constable. Out here we’re called constables because if you’re a sheriff or police officer, you need special training. For a constable, you just need a badge. I carry a gun, but this morning, like almost every other morning for the last 27 years, I have not bothered to actually load my Smith and Wesson .38 special.
“Why bother with bullets if you ain’t gonna use ‘em, Pud?” Skeet had asked me, rhetorically I’m pretty sure, on any number of occasions. Skeet had been mayor of our town of 93 human lives for 12 years, give or take a month or two for vacations and hunting season. He’s one of us, from a family that seemed to have lived her forever, before Jesus or dinosaurs. That’s how it seemed. Skeet was an honorable man, but also weak and without convictions. So he made a good mayor, that and no one in 12 years had bothered to run against him.
I was finishing my third cup of coffee of the day when Flowers walked in. He ain’t exactly gay, although any man with the last name flowers should at least be suspect. He sat down opposite me and asked Wendy for a cup of coffee by pointing at mine and winking. She moved behind the old stained white formica counter and found a cup. Flowers asked me what was happening. “It’s quiet, which is welcome. Last night old lady Cranston called cause a raccoon or jackalope or something had knocked over her house plant, which she left outside on the deck cause she watered it too much. I had to get dressed and drive out there, her trailer all lit up like a moon landing or something, and hell if there ain’t a rattler right there, curled up around her house plant.”
“What you do?” Flowers asked.
“What you think I did? Killed the mother fucker and threw it out in her field.”
“Sure as shit does.” I sipped my coffee as Wendy sat Flowers cup in front of him. She asked if he wanted anything to eat, but as usual, he had already had some breakfast and was just here kicking shit and getting free coffee off my bill.
That’s about the time I first saw the Jew in the airport rental car. I knew it was a rental because for some odd reason a few years back the county thought it would be wise to send me to a training seminar out in Houston. Drove for 8 hours and spent the weekend in a shitty over priced hotel and all I really learned was all Texas rental cars have identifying letters, numbers or symbols on the rear window. The Jews car had a small 7 and a D, which, if you had the proper training, you would know meant it was a Hertz rental from the Dallas Fort Worth Airport.
A jew in a rental car is usually a lawsuit about to filed, at least thats been my experience. This time was different, but not by much.
Anal Cancer Screening Down Under Proves Satisfactory
I’m sitting in a very nice restaurant enjoying breakfast two blocks from the capitol building complex.
The table next to me has seven middle aged white male congressmen (thanks google). All boring haircuts, cheaply made expensive suits and all talking about protests back home.
“They’re not all paid, but someone organizing that many protesters is being paid by someone,” one of the pouty gray haired ones cries into his coffee.
“They’re not paid,” said an incredulous second term southern congressman, “its fucking Trump, get real.”
There it was. They won’t say it on the floor, or at district meetings in home states, or during a TV interview, but in the semi-privacy of breakfast, they let their PR talking points fade and talk about the orange faced elephant in the room.