Dear George:

Bravo! This is a gem. Sick, sick, sick and fabulous.

Suzianne



--- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, damnnamething2001 <no_reply@...> wrote:
>
> Shave and a haircut
> By: George S
> A swirling cloud of dust and gravel flew up for fifty yards behind the
silver Taurus sedan as it sped down Creelyville Road, heading anywhere but the
main highway. Ricky "Slick Rick" Sanders was behind the wheel, pedal to the
metal and on the run. It would be hard to imagine that anyone would ever apply
the nickname "Slick" to this hapless failure and, in truth, they hadn't. He
coined that moniker himself after becoming tired of the one that he was usually
labeled with by those who knew his ineptitude well. "Thick Rick," they called
him.
> At barely five feet eight inches tall and slight of build, he was a
completely unimposing figure. About three years previous, his dark brown hair
had been worn in an out of style, fifties era, slicked back ducktail that was a
bit out of sync with the twenty-first century. Now it was shoulder length and
generally unwashed. He had a face that, if not for the scruffy beard combined
with pockmarks from a childhood bout of chicken pox and a broken nose suffered
in sixth grade for failing to turn over his lunch money in a timely fashion,
would be forgettable. His brown, slightly crossed eyes had that far away look
that you just knew meant he wasn't all that bright. His normal facial
expression could best described as..Duh?
> The reason for Rick's mad dash to `anywhere' was yet another failed
attempt at a bank robbery. In three attempted heists he had succeeded only
once, assuming you can call a hundred and twenty three dollars and a welt on his
forehead delivered by an umbrella wielding senior citizen in a floral print sack
dress, a success. That experience came after one previous effort that had been
even more pathetic in nature.
> It was less than two years ago that Rick had decided on his life of
crime. In the wake of losing one job after another for various reasons,
including being caught in the stock room of the local Wal-Mart `servicing' his
urges over the pages of the lingerie section of the Wal-Mart flier, he decided
that he just wasn't cut out for regular work. Robbing banks seemed like it
would be so much easier.
> It was on a Friday, just before closing, that he entered the tiny
Winthrop Bank brandishing a somewhat realistic looking plastic gun that he had
purchased at Toys-R-Us for eleven dollars and seventy-two cents, tax included.
His very first venture into a life of crime was doomed from the minute he walked
in the door. Friday was payday for the local police department and three
officers in their street clothes were standing in line to cash their paychecks.
Mere seconds after the words `this is a robbery' had exited Rick's mouth he was
staring down the barrels of three Glock automatics and leaving a puddle of urine
on the floor at his feet. After his arrest, arraignment and a quick guilty plea
he was sentenced to two years in prison by a lenient Judge. It was during his
prison stint that he had let his hair grow to shoulder length and developed his
scraggly beard. He had the opinion that it would give him a more imposing
appearance. All it really accomplished was to make him look like an unkempt
bum. Besides, the Winnie the Pooh tattoo on his forearm tended to belie any
possibility of toughness. Remarkably, he was released eighteen months later on
good behavior. A mere two weeks after gaining his freedom, enter the senior
citizen in the floral print sack dress and her trusty umbrella.
> As Rick sped away from that encounter with his minimal haul of cash, he
figured it was time to try another State before he ended up in front of a more
severe Judge in his home State of Kentucky. Tennessee wasn't far, and that
sounded good. He headed off to Knoxville and, in between stops at Wendy's for a
burger and fries followed by Dominoes Pizza, he began scouting local banks.
Less than twenty four hours after his arrival he walked into Tennessee Trust, a
cavernous old building with a brick façade, enough interior marble to give one
pause and quaint solid oak teller cages. The buildings cornerstone dated it to
eighteen eighty-six. With an empty hand and an extended finger in his coat
pocket to mimic having a gun, he demanded cash from a pretty young blond girl
working at the second teller cage. She looked at his scruffy face and into
those slightly crossed eyes as they blinked nervously. Glancing down at his
alleged gun containing pocket, she said: "Ya'll don't have a gun in there".
Rick was momentarily taken aback by that startling announcement but found the
nerve to protest loudly, if not authoritatively, that he did have a gun and that
he would use it if she failed to hand over the cash. The bank guard, a rather
robust man in his sixties, was oblivious to it all since he had previously
sauntered or, more accurately, waddled to the back room to get his morning cup
of coffee and a jelly doughnut.
> "No!" The spunky little teller said. "Ya'll don't have no gun. That's just
your finger," she chuckled derisively. She then loudly announced to those
inside the bank, in her best Southern drawl and irrepressible laugh, "He don't
have a gun. Imagine, tryin to rob a bank with just his lil ole finger." Then
she pressed the alarm button. With a stunned expression of humiliation on his
face, Rick fled for the door as the sound of alarm bells clanged loudly
throughout the bank and into the street. The clatter was so loud that it
resulted in the bank guard squeezing his doughnut so firmly that grape jelly
squirted all over his shirt and tie just before he fainted, coffee cup in hand.
> Rick jumped into the old Taurus sedan and headed to Interstate 40, just a
mile or so away. Speeding along the I40 to highway 66, he hung a right and
drove toward Sevierville. He had no specific destination in mind as he
connected with highway 441 that took him through Pigeon Forge and Gatlinburg.
`Golly, there's Dollywood! I love Dolly' he thought as he cruised past the busy
theme park and, for one insane moment almost considered stopping. Less than an
hour after his misadventure, he was in the Great Smoky Mountains. The car
radio had been playing country and western music and in the middle of Folsom
Prison Blues, how appropriate, the station cut in to report the news of the
"pathetically inept, long haired, bearded bank robber who was foiled by an alert
and perky young teller, a former cheerleader, who had made him a laughing stock
before he fled the scene empty handed". The news report noted that the police
had put out a statewide alert for a silver Taurus sedan seen racing from the
scene. It seemed that not so `Slick' Rick had to lay low somewhere until things
cooled down.
> Soon after passing through Gatlinburg he had begun to question the
wisdom, or lack thereof about his chosen route. By now he was deep into the
mountains with minimal sunlight seeping through the tall trees that hugged the
only two lane road through to the other side. Darkness comes early under the
forest canopy and within a few hours it would be pitch black. Just as it began
to appear that there was nowhere to hide, quite by chance he came upon a narrow
dirt side road off to the right, barely visible in the undergrowth. It was
easy to imagine that most would drive by without ever noticing its existence.
He pulled the Taurus about thirty feet onto the road, stopped and got out.
Standing there in the semi darkness, he needed to make a decision. Should he
follow this one lane dirt road? Or just wait it out in the oncoming darkness.
He had at least had the foresight to fill the gas tank of the Taurus before his
misadventure and the tank remained just a smidge below full, so fuel was not a
major factor in the decision. As he paced back and forth beside the Taurus he
noticed a fallen signpost in the undergrowth. He stood over it for a second,
hesitating to pick it up. Rick was petrified of snakes and rattle snakes
abounded in this area. He picked up a rock and tossed it into the undergrowth.
Nothing moved. He reached down with a shaky hand and lifted the signpost.
Nailed to the top was a cracked and splintered board that said `Creelyville
Road' in barely readable, faded black letters. Now, with some suspicion that
there might be a town along this road he decided to press on for a while. If he
didn't come upon a town in an hour he would sleep in the car and head back to
the main road in the morning. As he returned to his seat behind the wheel, he
glanced in the rear view mirror and realized that he needed to make some
alterations to his appearance. Now that his description was being broadcast,
wherever he ended up, he needed to do something about a shave and haircut. He
started the car and began the drive down Creelyville Road.
> An hour later, as he was preparing to give up and turn the car around,
he came upon a sign that read, in scrawled black letters, "Creelyville". The
sign showed the population beginning at 67, which had been crossed out in black
paint, and followed sequentially by the similarly crossed out numbers 66, 65, 64
and on down to the, one would assume, current population of 57 . Creelyville
seemed to be in population decline. It's worthwhile to note that the place had
long ago fallen off the map and out of anyone's recollection. Its very
existence had become virtually unknown outside its own borders. As he slowed
the Taurus at the entrance to town, Rick was befuddled by what he saw. The town
appeared to be more like a frontier settlement built on a vast plateau. With
the absence of any trees in close proximity there was significantly more
sunlight and he had an excellent view of the area. There was a central field
perhaps three hundred feet square, surrounded by an aged split log fence and
filled with nothing more than undergrowth, weeds and the rotting hulks of six or
seven antique buggies. The road circumnavigated the square. Positioned every
fifty feet or so around the perimeter were cabins constructed of rough hewn logs
that were severely weathered to a dark gray, each log separated from the next by
mud mortar. On the Southern side of the square, to Rick's left, was a small
cluster of buildings that appeared to be the center of activity. There were
another half dozen dilapidated old buggies parked along that section of the
road, not one seeming the least bit functional and not a horse in sight.
Leaning against one of those skeletal remains were two men in battered fedora
hats and tattered bib overalls casting curious gazes at this new visitor. They
were not men of great size, nor were they overly small. One would say average
in stature but seemingly ill proportioned and with faces somewhat distorted in
appearance. They were positioned in front of a building that bore a sign
saying, in paint brushed letters, "Store". It didn't say what kind of store,
just "Store". Since it was the only one to be seen, Rick supposed it didn't
matter much how specific the sign was and he couldn't imagine what could
possibly be sold there.
> To the right was a larger building with a porch upon which three women,
dressed in ankle length wrinkled black dresses and gray bonnets, sat in rocking
chairs as they smoked corncob pipes. Rick had really discovered the back woods.
Above the porch was another brush painted sign that said, "Berthas Restrant".
Yes, that's the way it was spelled. Literacy did not seem to be a Creelyville
strength. By this time a smattering of other men and women began to peek out
from the doors of their abodes at this new visitor. It was all enough to send a
shiver up Rick's less than heroic spine.
> Not having eaten for the better part of a day and a half and still in
possession of about twenty dollars from his previously ill gotten gains, Rick
overcame his nervousness and decided to have a meal. The boy did have an
irrepressible appetite. He parked the Taurus in front of the "Restrant" and, as
he stepped onto the porch, he couldn't help but notice how amazingly ugly those
three women were. `Uglier than the backside of a mud fence', he thought to
himself. More than ugly, they just didn't look normal. He recalled hearing
that inbreeding was not uncommon in backwoods communities, and such physical
appearance could be the end result. He walked past them and through the front
door as they gave him a most discomforting, and almost salivating look. He was
praying silently that it wasn't lust in their eyes.
> The interior of the "Restrant" was something very much in keeping with the
outward appearance of the place. There were six rectangular tables scattered
about the wood floor, each slapped together from pine planks that were warped
and severely worn in the most irregular pattern. Most had randomly scattered
initials or names deeply carved into the wood, as well as some crude attempts at
art in the form of stick figures depicting what Rick supposed were deer or other
such animals. Each table had a bench on either side, also made from pine planks
of similar description, long enough to seat four people on each. Behind a
counter which was little more than a giant slab of tree balanced on two tree
stumps, stood a woman equally as unattractive as the ones on the front porch.
She smiled a less than disarming toothless grin and invited Rick to sit. His
first instinct was to make a fast retreat and get the hell out of this strange
town, but whatever was cooking smelled so good that he decided to stick it out
for the time being. He took a seat and asked for a menu. "Don't got no menu.
Just got burgers. Old family recipe. Smells good don't it?" the woman said as
she stood beside him. He had to admit, the smell was more than appetizing.
"Sure," he mumbled nervously, "I'll have a burger and a Pepsi." The woman
chuckled "Don't got no Pepsi. Got homemade drink. Tastes real good." Rick,
eager to be rid of her, said that was fine and she set off to prepare his
burger.
> As he waited, Rick scanned the room. The more he looked, the more
interesting the place became. He could imagine trappers from the seventeen
hundreds taking their meals there. Keeping in the motif of trapping and
hunting, the walls were scattered with various animal pelts, deer antlers and
the head of something resembling a boar. Over the front door there were two
antique flintlock rifles that could have dated back to the Revolutionary war.
One thing struck him as odd. Behind the counter were twenty-seven belts, neatly
nailed up in a row, along the wall. Before he had much time to consider that
vision, he heard footsteps on the porch. He looked through the window to find
a half dozen grinning, semi toothless faces staring back. He imagined that
Creelyville didn't receive many visitors and his sudden arrival was the cause of
this discomforting curiosity. In truth, no one ever ventured out of
Creelyville, and the few who had ever ventured in had done so by mistake.
> When Bertha returned to deliver his food she was followed by a young man
that she introduced as her son "Jethro, Berthas good boy." As for a
description, let it suffice to say that Rick was uncomfortably reminded of the
Dueling Banjoes scene from Deliverance. The burly, clearly deformed young man
retired to the back room quickly enough and Rick set about eating his burger.
He had eaten many a burger in his day. They were his favorite food. But he had
never tasted anything this good. It was juicy, well spiced and served on the
most delicious homemade bread. He was glad that he had decided to stay to enjoy
this taste sensation. But there was one more thing to attend to. He needed
that shave and haircut.
> When Bertha returned to clear the table, Rick decided to ask, without
hope of a yes, if there was a barber in town. "My man'll do it." She replied.
"Got a barber shop in back." That was a surprise, but seemed more than
convenient to Rick. He would attend to that need and then get the hell out of
this strange place and maybe head up North to Illinois. Cash was a little
short though. As he waited for Bertha to retrieve her `man' Rick began to think
about how easy it would be to rob whatever money they had. Should be a piece of
cake to rip off a few inbred hicks and get out of town. A getaway should be
easy since there didn't seem to be any cars to chase him with. Surely they
would fall for the gun in the pocket trick. They couldn't possibly be as alert
as that ditzy twenty year old blond at the bank. If they didn't have cash, he
would take whatever he could sell. Those flintlocks over the door would likely
bring a very good price. Everything in its proper order, he told himself.
Shave and a haircut first, robbery second. Within a few minutes Bertha
returned with what seemed to be a fairly normal looking man. Certainly more
normal than anyone else he had seen in this town. "Mah names Clyde," he said.
"Ya'll come on back and we'll see ta that hair and beard fer ya."
> Rick stood and followed along to the barber shop in the rear of the
building. Clyde invited him to sit in the antique barber chair and draped a
rather soiled, gray, knee length bib around him. As he began to comb through
Ricks hair and snip away with his scissors he inquired as to where Rick was
from, what did he do, where was he going and did he have any family. It was the
general conversation one might experience in a similar circumstance. Of course
Rick was quite vague about what he did and where he was going. He just made up
some things as he went along.
> With Ricks hair now quite nicely cut to a respectable length, Clyde took
out his shaving brush and lathered up his beard. He honed the straight razor to
a fine edge on the leather strop hanging at the side of the chair and then began
to work the razor carefully through many months worth of whisker accumulation.
Soon enough Ricks face was clean shaven and feeling quite fresh. He had
forgotten how normal he could look. Clyde seemed to be quite an accomplished
barber.
> The temperature of human blood is about thirty four degrees centigrade,
or one hundred point four degrees Fahrenheit, slightly more than normal body
temperature. A person doesn't notice the temperature as the blood flows through
the veins. When it's flowing in rivers down their neck, they become more aware
of its warmth. Rick took notice very quickly. "Relax now young fella," Clyde
said softly, just after he slit ricks throat. "It'll all be over soon." Rick
slumped down in the barber chair, blood gurgling in his throat, life rapidly
leaving his now limp body. Clyde was right. It was over quickly.
> As he wiped the blood from the razor and removed the blood soaked bib,
Clyde called for Jethro and the lad came in a hurry. "Get him ready boy," Clyde
ordered. "Folks is a waitin." Jethro got a grip on Rick and hoisted him up over
his shoulder. He carried him to the kitchen, removed his clothes, wrapped a
rope around his ankles and hung him, upside down, on a meat hook next to the
meat grinder. Jethro had become quite adept at dressing a deer after the kill,
and it seemed to him that a person wasn't much different. But the folks of
Creelyville had lost the art of hunting and deer were few and far between these
days. Jethro picked up a rather large butcher knife from the counter, slit open
Ricks belly, and began to remove the intestines. Clyde collected Rick's belt
and nailed it up at the end of the row behind the counter. Now it was
twenty-eight.
> Meanwhile, Bertha had gone out onto the porch where a crowd of
Creelyville residents had gathered to await the news. It truly looked like a
gathering of circus freaks. "Burgers will be ready in an hour," she said with
that toothless grin on her face. There were hoots and hollers from those
assembled as the sound of the meat grinder echoed through the door. Fact was,
the town was running out of food and Rick had come along at the most opportune
time. He had, less than an hour ago, savored the very last burger made from the
previous unfortunate soul to stumble into Creelyville. During the long period
prior to that individual's arrival some of the older men of the community were
given a rousing send off and then handed over to Clyde for a shave and a haircut
followed by a visit to Jethros meat hook. For now, thanks to Rick, Creelyvilles
population would remain at 57. For now!
>