**Hello Substackers! Below is the first part of a crime story I’m working on and I figured I’d release it to yall in sections on account of A.) it’s more digestible to read for YOU B.) it’s easier to write for ME!
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HERE WE REST BY COREY RYAN FORRESTER
Fishing downstream from a nuclear power plant ain’t the smartest thing a man could do but there sat Randall doing it no how. Says he reckons he won’t eat em but it “sure is fun trying to catch them lil three-headed sum bitches.” I suppose it was. Randall Daughtery was many things but a liar he weren’t.
Up at the fire, his wife Martha was explaining to some distant cousin bout how you can’t do double coupons at every grocery store but she had a list of the ones where you could. She had a permanent bandaid on her big toe cause she couldn’t stop knocking it on the metal rod sticking out of her recliner. She wouldn’t fix it cause the Braves hadn’t lost a pennant since it broke, and Jesus wasn’t her only superstition.
The kids ran around, (in the parlance of the time), “like little wild Indians” not concerning themselves with the value of that which they broke. One was trying to fix a bicycle chain and only making it worse, while Aunt Ida’s twin girls Bogarted the jump rope so they could double Dutch until the sun went down and it was time to swat at Lightning bugs with a Whiffle Ball bat.
I was behind the screen door in the camper. The camper did not come with a screen door, so Randall took the one off his dead Mama’s porch and sanded it down to fit. It was not practical, but it was nice and everyone got a kick out of it. That was Randall’s way. It didn’t matter if something is supposed to be, only that it could be. He didn’t stop to consider the foolish notion of pragmatism when he got an idea on how to make something fun. He once traced his son Levi on a door with a carpenters pencil and used a track saw to cut out an opening that only Levi could fit through. It made no sense and took all purpose away from the door, but Levi thought it was the neatest thing in the world and that’s all that mattered to Randall.
I sat there drinking some home brew made by who else but Randall Daughtery. I’d pretty much given up on strong drink when Sheila left me, but I couldn’t turn down Randall’s Apple Pie. It burned in that real good way that lets you know it’s going to work but don’t sour your face too much. It was that good. I had been “inside” for a few hours just watching the little dramas of the family unfold in front of me while praying no one needed me for anything. I like these gatherings in theory, but I prefer to keep to myself. Especially back then. Seems like every time I participated in something I’d mess it up. That’s probably why she left. Didn’t have shit all to do with the drinkin, I could ruin just bout anything while sober as a judge. Or at least I’d tell myself that to justify another swig. Then another. And then it was on to the next mason jar. Randall didn’t care, he made enough back in the day to get us through the Cold War if it ever came to that and as we all know, it didn’t.
I laid back on the itchy old camper couch and started to nod off when I heard a commotion down on the bank. “Hoh-lee-SHIT!” Randall screamed, forcing Sheila out of my mind for the first time all day. “Sonny Boy, get down here!”
He called me Sonny Boy despite my name being Steve. Sonny Boy was his tailgunner back in The Pacific Theater, and I assumed it was a term of endearment until I found out he called me that cause after the war, Sonny Boy moped around aimlessly until shell-shock got the better of him and he shot a double dose of black tar in his neck. This was apparently Randall’s “fun” way of calling me a sad sack. I know he loved me, it’s just that generation had a hard time showing it.
I ran down to meet him forgetting I’d just foundered myself on corn liquor and took out several lawn chairs on my way. I managed to stay on my feet by some miracle, but the sloshing in my stomach was about to send a bill of sale to my mouth.
“What’s going on, Randall?” I said between gasps of breath while resting my elbows on my knees and my chin on my chest. Then I smelled it. I vomited so hard it was a wonder a lung didn’t come up with it. There was a body floating in the water and from what we knew from old detective shows, it had been there a while.
“Hot damn whoever he is he’s blowed up like a damn birthday balloon!” Randal said nasally while pinching his nose. “We better call the law. I’ve got Sheriff Steven’s number somewhere in my truck.”
I took a boat oar and slowly but surely got the body flipped over on its back. I gasped.
“What’s is it, Sonny Boy?”
I wiped the puke off my mouth and prepared for another round of it. I was in shock. The words were right there but it took them a minute to reach my lips.
“It’s…. It’s Sheriff Stevens” I said.
Randall looked at me and his face turned white. “Well” he said “I reckon he’s not gonna answer the phone then”
To be continued
More later
Corey Ryan Forrester
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Woo, doggy!! That hits!!
Nope, sheriff Steve won't be answering that phone. Hooked so far.