Small Town Bastards [cont . . .]
by Jason Woods
We were all sitting in Hammy's barn the next night waiting for Uncle Peppercorn and Gravy Boat to arrive. I was telling the group about my talk with Carl over checking the frequency Boutwell used when the two newbies arrived. I finished that Carl agreed to spy on Boutwell for us, and then told our two newcomers to have a seat. As soon as they sat down, McStone put a Marley-sized joint in Peppercorn's lap and informed him that this was the initiation. Peppercorn looked around suspiciously and said that that's all well and good, but you can't put a joint this size in someone's lap without offering a flame of some sort. McStone slapped his forehead, reached into his pocket and pulled out his butane. With the peace offering well stoked, I went about the task of bringing the two up to speed on our affairs. When I was finished, they both just sat there pie-eyed, wearing a smile that couldn't be slapped off their faces. Gravy stood up, regarded everyone and started clapping. He said he was amazed that seven stoners could pull this off. He was sure that the two churches were engaged in a sinners-be-damned battle. Peppercorn added that he thought Painter Joe was behind this. I said that Joe had a hand in some of it, but we were the ones who took the initiative. I asked if they would love to be a fellow Bastard and help us in our last phase of this. They looked at each other, nodded their heads to the right and to the left, raised their eyebrows, turned back to the group and said yes. We all shook hands with each other and finished off McStone's hog leg of a joint while going over the plans of our last and final message.
The next day I stopped by Carl's and asked how fast he could get a couple of boxes of letter tiles for our coup de grâce. He said he would have them by the next day since he already ordered them for us. I told him Schindler would be proud. He asked what the last message would be, and I gave him an overview of the plans. He said if we pull this off without getting caught, each one of us could adorn his wall with a female of our choice. I said I would leave the decorations to the boob aficionado, and told him I would be back in twenty-four hours to grab the tiles.
The next day Enema and I arrived at Hammy's barn with three boxes of letter tiles. The gang was all excited that we could put our plans into motion. Enema got up and called our last meeting to order. “Fellow Bastards, and Basterdette,” started Enema. “We have arrived at the final stage of this mission, and we would like to take this time to acknowledge our newest members, Uncle Peppercorn and Gravy Boat. Stand up and take a bow. Great, now sit the fuck down and shut up.” Enema began walking back and forth with his hands behind his waist, imitating an evil Matlock. “This,” he continued, “will be our most dangerous mission, and we are running a tremendous risk of apprehension, but I have confidence we can pull this shit off. We will separate into three teams. Gravy, Peppercorn, and Pokers will be team Anal Polyps. Hammy, Vowels, and McStone will be team Kotex. Scratch, Spoons and I will be team Yeast Infection. Team Polyp will attack the Lutheran marquee. Team Kotex will take on the Methodist marquee while Yeast Infection will work on the pizza marquee. Each team will have to be vigilant in providing their own lookout for traffic. Teams Kotex and Polyp will be within a block of each other on Main Street, so you can have a lookout face north and a lookout face south. I'll let each team decide that for themselves. Team Yeast will keep a solid eye on the north end of town while we work. Once teams Kotex and Polyp are finished you all need to fan out and become our scouts for team Yeast, since their message is by far the longest. Any questions? We need to arrive behind Carl's station tonight at two armed with your letter tiles. I will now turn it over to Scratch.”
I mopped up the rest of the meeting with words of affirmation on the job each and every one of us had done so far. I told the gang that there was no way we were going to fail that night. I told everyone that Carl would be driving around town starting at two to help us out in our cause. Carl was using the subterfuge of distributing printed coupons for tire balancing. I told the group that we needed to get Carl a gift for the help and hard work he hadprovided for us. Everyone agreed that a pile of busty magazines would be in order to give to Carl as a thank you. I asked if anyone had any questions before I adjourned the meeting, and McStone asked if he was to be sober tonight. I said I preferred it that way, but he was able to make his own decisions on that issue. With everything covered, I closed the meeting and said I would see them at two behind Carl's.
We all arrived behind Carl's station at the precise time. As we were double checking the equipment, we saw Carl drive by and I felt some relief. As each team was setting to depart, Enema spotted Painter Joe walking toward us. “Holy Fuckola,” muttered Enema. We all turned around and saw Painter. He asked if he and his boys could be of some help to us. I told Joe that if he wanted to help us, he could send his boys out around the town to be our scouts for us. Joe said that since they were telepathically linked that would be no problem. Enema said that was some happy horseshit, but I nudged him to be quiet. I told Joe he could come with us to the pizza joint where he could be our lookout, and if he caught word from his boys, to pass on what they saw. He agreed and I said that we would give him five bucks for his efforts. Painter smiled and said that would buy a feast for him and the boys. We all looked at one another and I had a suspicion that one of Painter's boys crashed our meeting. I told everyone to hit their marks and get busy.
When my team, team Yeast Infection, arrived at the pizza joint, Painter sat down and stared in the north singing “The Pusher” by Steppenwolf, while Spoons, Enema, and I went to work. “God Damn! The Pusher Man! I've seen a lot of people walking around with tombstones in their eyes.” Then Painter would mouth the guitar solo. I figure if Painter was comfortable enough to sing, then we could be at ease in our work, plus I knew the song and started singing along. Ten minutes into our job and Painter's second song of “Spirit in the Sky” by Norman Greenbaum, Team Kotex reported that they had completed their mission. “Going up to the spirit in the sky,” sang Painter. “When I die and they lay to me to rest, gonna go to the place that's the best.” Team Polyp radioed that they were done, as well. Enema told them all to fan out and keep their eyes open for headlights. All of a sudden, Painter got up and sauntered over to me and said that Simon told him that no one was close to town in any direction. We were free and clear to finish up without concern. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a ten dollarbill and handed it to Painter, telling him thank you. He took the money, shook my hand and said it was a pleasure to be a part of our team. Enema told Painter that for a crazy fucker he sure did know a shit ton of information about this town. Painter replied that it's easy to gather information when no one pays any attention to you. Painter walked away singing “Blinded By The Light” by Manfred Man. I could still see Painter walking off with his voice ringing in my ears singing, “Little early birdie came by in his curly whirly, and asked me if I needed a ride.” Fifteen minutes later, we were all behind Carl's station with our mission complete and Enema was still humming Painter's departing tune. I told everyone that we would meet back at Hammy's tomorrow at two in the afternoon. We all shook hands and McStone said that he would have a surprise for everyone tomorrow and that we should come prepared with adequate beverages to combat cotton mouth.
The next morning I awoke around nine and frantically dressed myself so I could walk through town to see our handy work in the sunlight. As I walked out my back door I saw Enema sitting on my porch swing humming “Blinded by the Light.” He stopped and said, “Bout fucking time, sleepy head. I was beginning to think you were too chicken shit to come out this morning. We have pissed this town off my friend, and you need to see what's going on.” I told him to quit flapping his mouth so we could check it out. As we turned on Main Street, I could see that there was a crowd in front of both churches. Each side was yelling back and forth at each other, but no one was trying to cross the street. As Enema and I reached the Lutheran grounds, Pastor Freed was walking out of the building trying to regain some order amongst his congregation. Behind the angry people sat the marquee with the words, “God Scorns Methodists”. We could hear taunts being hurled back and forth in language unbecoming to people who called themselves Christians. We kept walking to get a clearer picture of the Methodist reactions, and they were just as agitated and riled up, speaking the same language. Pastor Weiricht was failing in his appeals for reason. “God Loathes Lutherans,” was displayed on their marquee. As we passed the Methodist church, Uncle Peppercorn and Gravy Boat were driving by us in Peppercorn's truck. We heard the squeal of tires from a hard brake, saw the reverse lights shine and watched the truck back up toward us. Gravy said that the police scanner reported a small disturbance at the pizza joint. Enema and I hopped in the back of the truck, and Peppercorn drove off to the north side of town. Two minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot and Sherriff Boutwell was in front of the marquee asking if anyone knew anything about this message, “Nowhere In Genesis Does It Say God Created Religion. God Cares Not For A Man-made Institution. The Sheep Cannot Run The Farm.” No one could provide an answer, except for Painter Joe. “I believe that message is for the entire town, sheriff,” answered Joe. “I don't know who done it, but I do know that whoever did is right in what they are saying. Isn't that right, boys?”
That answer wasn't good enough for Sherriff Boutwell, but he knew when he was licked. He said that he wanted this shit taken down and if this happened again, the bastards would go to jail and rot. Gravy said Boutwell sounded like a third grade school girl pouting about her pigtail being pulled. I agreed, as Boutwell slammed his car door and drove off toward to churches, unaware of what was happening there. Enema said we should tail Boutwell to watch his reaction. I said that wasn't necessary. We had already shown our faces, and ifwe followed, that would leave an impression on Boutwell. He wasn't the world's greatest detective by any stretch, but seeing our faces again might raise unwanted suspicion. Enema said I was right, and he hated when my reasoning overpowered his lust for chaos. We all got back in the truck, and Peppercorn took us home.
We celebrated that afternoon at Hammy's barn. The party favors were provided by McStone and he had a buffet of herb that would rival Jamaica. We agreed to stay a group as the Small Town Bastards and from time to time we would cause some upheaval, but nothing on a scale as large as the first. I wish I could tell you that we were able to help our little town shed some of its close minded banalities. In a small town, things revert back to what's deemed normal within two weeks. I no longer live in that quaint sanctuary, but four of the nine Bastards still reside there. Every now and then our antics come up in conversation, but no one ever found out who chased out Mr. Newlove and Mr. Riegel, or who was a thorn to Sherriff Boutwell one summer twenty three years ago. That's my story, like it or not.