Hey folks. This one is a little bit weird. Apparently I’ve been reading again and thinking about New Orleans. This story is kind of like Gumbo. It has a lot of the things that I like all thrown into it. It has the oddball characterizations that just seem to work out like Barney-R puts into his stories. It also has the flavor and the blind romantic type of relationship that Oyster50 has used so often. And it has the playful yet snarky tone that JPB uses. There are some very serious moments in the story, some very dark moments, and of course some cars. I did poke fun at a few things but I have no intention of insulting anyone who is religious or from any alternative lifestyle. I also poked fun at Hellcats. They truly are very powerful cars. I love seeing them in my rearview mirror. And I also love the new Camaro. GM finally got it right. This is a story nothing more. It’s Fiction, say the word with me ... FICTION. Don’t take it seriously. I don’t ... Well ... maybe the Mustang stuff.
Anyway, kudos to the great Barney-R for his editing wizardry. I have to tell you guys that I sometimes sneak back in and put some of the commas back in. And take out a few “Howevers,” but if I ever submitted a story the way I write them before he works them over, they wouldn’t be readable. He also did something brilliant. This story isn’t broken up by changes in viewpoint the way I normally do. He inserted a lot of breaks to keep things easier to track and to give you a place to come back to if you break this long story up into several chunks. As I said in the beginning this one is a bit different so no worries if you don’t like it. The next one will be something else again. SS06
The first thing I remembered was the pain in my chest. It wasn’t really bad; it was just persistent.
I seemed to be walking through a room full of mist. I began to swirl my arms, hoping to dissipate it, so I could get my bearings, or at least see where I was.
Suddenly, the mist cleared. I found myself standing in front of an older man in white robes. He had long hair, a long beard, and a long face with a pissed off expression on it.
I had no idea or at least no recollection of how I had arrived there. I tried to gather my thoughts as he began to speak.
“You ... Do not belong here!” he said. “There is no reason for you to be here ... Begone!”
His words were delivered without anger. If there was any emotion attached to them it might have been annoyance.
He looked down at some sort of list that he was reading from. I waited a few moments before speaking to him again.
“Where do I belong?” I asked in a quiet tone.
He looked up again, and the expression on his face was one of utter shock.
“Begone,” he said again, this time adding a wave of his hand. “BE ... GONE!”
The look he gave me when he noticed that I was still there was almost funny.
“Somebody screwed up badly,” he said. “When I get to the bottom of this...”
“Why don’t I belong here,” I asked.
“It’s the way things work,” he said, in a tone that made me sure he meant to add the word “stupid,” to the end of his sentence.
“You’re a suicide,” he continued. “Suicides don’t get into heaven ... I don’t make the rules. That’s above my pay grade. I just enforce them.”
“I’m not a suicide,” I said. “I was murdered.”
“Bullshi...” he said, catching himself just before he actually swore. “I saw it. I see them all.”
“Is this heaven?” I asked changing the subject. “Somehow ... I expected it to be more ... Uhm heavenly.”
“Did I not just tell you that you cannot get into heaven?” he asked as if explaining it to a four-year-old.
“But you were wrong,” I said. “Suicide is the act of taking your own life. Someone else took mine.”
“You chose him,” he bellowed. “You teased him. You couldn’t have been more obvious if you’d been wearing a, “please kill me,” T-shirt.”
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s a technicality at worst or a loophole at best. But it is valid. Perhaps you need to take another look.”
“Perhaps I should just send you back,” he said. “Yes ... That’s it. Your body isn’t even cold.”
“Nooooooo,” I screamed! “I can’t go back. I don’t want to live.”
He looked at me as if I was an ant that didn’t want to be stepped on. He waved his hand, and a huge screen appeared.
It had to be at least a thousand inches and the highest definition 3-D I’ve ever seen.
As I looked at the screen, I could see it all. I watched as a tired looking older black man got out of what was clearly an unmarked police car.
I recognized the house, and knew what we would see inside of it. There were certain aspects of what we would see that I was sure would be unsettling for me, but I was determined to see this through to the end. Besides, I was dead. How much could it hurt me?
The old black man lit up a cigarette and looked around the house. As I looked at his features, I saw that the cigarette was merely a distraction or a way of focusing. He seemingly took in the entire scene, cataloguing details the way an art critic sees every nuance and aspect of a painting.
He shook his head suddenly as if responding to something that only he could hear. I heard it a few seconds later, and my sour companion looked to me as if he expected a reason for the smile that had broken out on my face.
A wave of his arm and the events on the screen paused. I wondered if he had simply paused the playback, or if he had indeed stopped time itself.
“Neither,” he said as if reading my thoughts. “I simply moved the two of us outside of time. For us, each second lasts an hour and so on and so forth...”
Now what are you smiling about?”he asked.
“The sound the old black guy heard, the one that pissed him off...” I began. It was good to know that my memories were with me even in death. Some things could apparently never be taken from me.
“What about the sound,” he asked impatiently.
“Only one thing sounds like that,” I smiled. “Somebody in that neighborhood was driving a Mustang. And it’s been modified. The motor sounds like it’s cammed and that is definitely not the factory exhaust system.”
“Shut up,” he said. “We have no time for your trivial gibberish.” He waved his hand again, and the events on the screen continued.
The old black man looked angrily over his shoulder as a heavily modified Mustang drive into view. The car was amazing. The body was a custom pewter color. It had flat black racing stripes, rims, and brake calipers.
The car had Brembo brakes with cross drilled and slotted rotors. The rotors themselves were odd. They weren’t round. They were shaped almost like symmetrical four leaf clovers.
The car’s headlights were a dark gray with black offset triangular tooth-like shapes that made them look like the eyes of a huge snake. The cobra emblems on the front quarter panels let me know that this was some type of Shelby variant.
The driver’s side door opened, and a woman got out of the car. I was immediately in awe of her. She was tall. She probably stood close to six feet without any shoes on.
She was wearing tennis shoes so white that she must’ve just put them on for the first time. Her jeans, rolled up to mid calf were so fitted to her form that she couldn’t have slipped a razor blade in them.
Her T-shirt seemed a bit big on her. The front had a Mustang logo over her heart. With the words, “It’s good to be the Boss,” printed under it.
As she turned to reach into the car’s minuscule back seat, I saw the back of the shirt. There was a huge picture of an angry looking Mustang on it. Under the car was printed, “Boss 302.”
As big as the shirt appeared on her, it couldn’t disguise or hide a pair of sizable breasts. She tucked a waistband holster behind her back, just above a perfect heart shaped ass that ballooned outwards from her tiny waist.
I wondered if she knew that the old man watching her like a hawk was a cop. She threw what looked like a man’s blazer over the T-shirt and snapped a belt clip badge to the front of her jeans.
That was my turn to be surprised. I had no idea the woman was a cop. She walked up to the old man and nodded her head. He pointed to three locations around the front of the house while indicating with a finger to his lips that they should be quiet.
She looked at the three locations he had pointed to and waved to each. I noticed for the first time that there were police tactical officers in each location. They were wearing camo gear and blended into the surrounding shrubbery, pretty well.
“I see you’re driving your boyfriend’s car this morning, Maggie,” said the older detective. The woman’s smile erupted on her face like the sunrise splitting the darkness.
“And now you’re even wearing his shirts,” he threw in.
“VooDoo ... Ya pulled me out of bed on what is supposed to be a day off,” said Maggie. “So ya get what ya get. Besides ... We’re supposed to be plain clothes detectives, right? These are plain clothes. Next time I’ll wear a fucking evening gown ... What’s going on?”
“Do you remember Emmet Nastiski,” asked VooDoo.
“Fuck yeah,” hissed Maggie. “I hate that bastard. Never been able to make any charges stick on him though. I’ve been tempted several times just to fling him into some dark alley and cap him, just for the hell of it. That way, I’d get that asshole off of the streets.”
.... There is more of this story ...