“You the man, P.,” it said. “You the man. Sic her, big guy. Get Billy back and kick her plump, parading, pious patootie all the way to pitiful, pixilated Patagonia.”
“Yeah,” Pascal agreed with gusto. “Yeah, buddy.” Then the Ford truck started to float. The rear of the vehicle swung around and banged right into the side of the Expedition with a painful grinding noise that made his balls retract into the pelvic cavity like ants fleeing from a magnifying glass wielding pre-teen boy hyped up on Ovaltine and peanut butter crackers.
Ophelia paused in her flight to watch and he saw her laugh. Then she turned forward again and saw something that pleased her. The last business located on the road before the bridge was Treadway’s Automobile Salvage Yard. Sitting lower than the road, waters had cascaded into the business and covered everything up but the tip-top of the towers of compacted relics. Even the tin roof of the slipshod building Greg Treadway used for his office couldn’t be seen under the murky depths. However, for some reason, the large flatbed truck had been left parked on the side of the road, on the highest part of the street, where the waters were only reaching the tops of the oversized tires.
Clearly Ophelia had been headed for the bridge with her precious cargo when she noticed something that made her happy. As she reached the truck, Pascal clambered out of the driver’s window and onto the hood of the Ford. Standing insecurely on the still shifting perch he strained to see what she was doing.
She went to the driver’s door and yanked something away. Pascal frowned when he comprehended that someone had left the keys in the lock of the driver’s door, dangling in the wind for anyone to see.
“Crap!” he yelled and dived into the water. A moment later he came up, struggling against the current. It took him three tries to reach the solidity of the road. It took him four tries to gain his feet. When he looked at Ophelia again she was attempting to stuff Billy’s body into the cab of the truck. The large truck’s door was too high for her and she was too tired to push the load inside.
Pascal pushed forward. His head beat like a drummer who has had about a dozen too many Starbucks’ venti cafe lattes. The water restrained him like it was a giant rubber band yanking him inexorably backward. His muscles strained with the effort and his breath came like the steam out of a train’s smokestack. He was making progress but it seemed like he was stuck in refrigerated maple syrup.
Ophelia had given up on thrusting Billy into the cab of the truck. Instead she floated the remains around to the side of the truck, near where the flatbed part was closer to the level of the water. There was a large, tarp covered vehicle already on the flatbed and she used some of the ropes that held the tarp in place to attach to the plastic bag.
Halting for a moment, Pascal wanted to yell at her. She was going to rip Billy into pieces. But hey, he thought. Thomasina already did that. At least she left the head intact. Like that means something. Then he stopped to wonder exactly what kind of animal Billy’s face had looked like to the demented octogenarian. With a helpless shudder, he pressed forward again.
Ahead, Ophelia was using the ropes to haul Billy up on the flatbed. Then she tied the corpse to the rusting vehicle and heaved a great breath of relief as she was complete in her task. She spared a sneering glance at Pascal and crawled into the cab of the vehicle without going back into the water. A moment later, the engine chugged over once and died.
Pascal steeled himself and tried to hurry.
The engine turned over again, caught for three beats, and then died.
Give it some choke, you dumb twat, he thought mulishly. Oh, yeah. Nevermindthat. Don’t give it some choke. And please don’t start it until-
The engine started. Blue smoke billowed out of the exhaust in a great cloud. It chugged endlessly, on the brink of dying, and then it held. Ophelia had found the choke after all. Pascal began to rush, the water held him back like a thousand, glue-covered fingers.
He was close enough to hear the grinding whine of the gears as Ophelia found the correct position. The truck started to move slowly, and then it slipped sideways into the deeper water. The engine howled as she punched it. Finally, it began to move forward, and the back wheels caught the pavement with a churning noise.
Pascal’s fingers reached out. This is it, P., he said to himself, his breath coming in and out like a licentious horde of horny teenagers watching the Playboy Channel for the first time. His head and heart pounded in frightening synchronicity. This is it, P., he thought again. His fingers touched the back of the flatbed and then slipped off.
This is it, P., he said silently, and urged himself to move faster than he ever had before in his entire life. This was his moment. This was his time. This was his shining hour. This was his magnum opus. It was his pièce de résistance. This was his acme of perfection. This was his ultimate moment in time where he would outshine everything he would ever do in his long, sorry existence. This would be the crowning glory that he would fondly remember in full blown Technicolor every last day of the rest of his life.
His fingers touched the flatbed again. Ophelia gunned the engine and it pushed forward into the water, plowing its own channel to pass through. She would pull away. She would make it away and she would hide the body like a voracious collector, and no one would ever see a monument committed to Bayou Billy’s felonious memory. His fingers curled around the lip of the flatbed which kept its load from rolling off, and the truck faltered for the briefest second. However, it was long enough for Pascal to pull himself on board with a harsh groan of pure exertion.
“YOU THE MAN, P.!” he bellowed triumphantly and collapsed.
Ophelia pulled into the middle of the road and increased speed as she began to cross the bridge in her stolen vehicle. Pascal lifted his head as a rush of water nearly pulled him off the flatbed.
Shocked by the amount of water covering the bridge, he yelled, “OPHELIA! The bridge is under too much water! You’re going to kill us both!”
He saw her head spin back and her insane eyes met his for a moment. Then she hit the gas again and the engine screamed with the effort being forced upon it. The water crept up over the flatbed and Pascal wrapped his arms through some of the ropes. His foot nudged the garbage bag and it started to slip over the side of the bed with the water flow. He reached for it and then recognized it was tied securely.
Ophelia began to yell. The truck’s engine began to sputter as they reached the halfway point of the bridge. Then it died and for a single moment all was silent. There was the terrifying sound of the wheels scraping along the pavement as the vehicle began to glide. It bumped against the rails of the bridge.
Pascal looked around and saw that the water was getting deeper and muddier with every kind of debris. The rushing flood was reaching its peak and he happened to be in the worst possible location for that to happen. Plastic began to rip and the tarps that covered the hulk on the back of the truck came away, leaving only the ropes and Bayou Billy’s sorely treated cadaver.
Ophelia attempted to start the engine over and over again, but all that was left was a guttural and hopeless clicking of a dead apparatus. The vehicle began to creak ominously and shifted to one side. Pascal saw immediately that they were all going for a swim and knew that the worst had become critical.
The truck bumped the rails once and then twice. There was a huge cracking noise and the truck burst away from the bridge, beginning its foreseeable trip down river.
Ophelia began to scream and scrambled out of her window and up onto the top of the cab. “This is all your fault, Pascal!” she yelled.
“Oh, screw you, Ophelia!” he yelled back. “We could have worked this out, you know!”
The truck spun lazily to one side and bumped against something underwater. Ophelia struggled for balance as she held onto the top of the cab. Pascal held onto the ropes and kept his head above water. He was well aware that the back of the truck was sinking with its load and he was going to have to swim for it.
“Worked it out, how?” she
roared.
“Well, we could have shared the body,” he yelled.
Ophelia paused to digest that. “There isn’t going to be anything left!” she screamed as the truck bumped something and sloshed to one side as if it was going to go ass over teakettle.
“Well, duh,” he muttered.
The truck spun around so that they were facing north and were traveling backwards. Glancing around desperately, Pascal saw a stand of trees poking through the waters and knew it was going to be his one and only chance. He was going to let go of the truck. He was going to let go of Billy. He was going to swim for it. There were better things to do in life than to die in a river fighting over a stinking, half-eviscerated corpse of a man who most normal people had hated with an abnormal intensity.
There was a town to rebuild. There were people who were going to need help. There was a fourteen year old boy who needed to know that his father did care, even if he was a drunk. There was a woman waiting for him who liked him, all of his flaws and all. Even better was that he liked her, too.
“Swim for the trees, Ophelia!” he shouted, pointing. “We’re going to brush right by one! It’s our only chance!”
Ophelia was instantly appalled. “We can’t lose William Douglas McCall’s mortal essence!” she wailed. “We can’t do that!”
“Bayou Billy’s mortal essence is headed for the Gulf of Mexico, Ophelia!” he yelled back and let go of the rope. The water spun him around like a top and a piece of debris struck his leg hard enough to make him shriek with pain. When his head came back up, he was in the midst of the tree branches. It was only a moment before his chilled hands grasped a thick branch and he wrapped himself around it. A moment later, he stepped into the higher branches and he was out of the terrible waters. Relief was as strong as the strapping rush of the flood waters.
When Pascal looked over his shoulder, he saw that the truck had caught on something for the moment. He heard something make a loud snap and straps burst from the water as they were relieved from their burden. The rusting hulk in the back of the truck lurched and began to drift away, taking Billy of the Hefty large-garden-waste-sized bag with it.
Ophelia shrieked and launched herself into the water, reaching futilely for her elusive bounty.
There was another moment for Pascal where he knew he had to make a decision. It could be the one that made him into a significant being or it could demean him forever. The bag containing Bayou Billy, notorious outlaw and rotten human being, floated past him. He leaned down and touched the bag tentatively. The cold surface of the rubber bag was so tantalizingly tempting that it begged to be grasped. He could take the rope and tie it onto another branch and when the waters receded, the goods would still be there. Triumph would be like the taste of the finest champagne, tingling on his tongue.
Are you really the man, P.? came the menacing thought that burrowed through his brain like a tape worm through the guts of the unwary traveler. Are you? Come, on, P. Just one question. Answer it. Are you the man?
The garbage bag drifted past out of his reach as he extended the length of his arm and grasped Ophelia Rector instead. He hauled her in like a pathetic, half-drowned alley cat and helped her get a better grip on the upper branches of the oak as she stared at him with wide-eyed disbelief.
Together they watched as Bayou Billy wafted away, still attached to the rusting Model-T that he had once used to escape across Texas. Then when the coffins and crypts came floating past, freed from the earth at Albie Cemetery, one bumped into the garbage bag slash body repository and loudly tore it. Billy’s face was exposed to a bright beam of light pouring out of the skies. And Pascal would have sworn up, down, and sideways that the old, dead fucker had a macabre grin on his wizened, gray face which was directed at both of them.
However, Pascal had the last word. “I bet Billy’s still got his hand on his dick.”
Epilogue
From an article in The Sawdust City Journal, July 24th:
Sawdust City Mayor and Prominent Albie Citizen Rescued from Tree!
Pascal T. Waterford, mayor of Sawdust City, and Ophelia Rector, owner and manager of Rector Mortuary in Albie, Louisiana, were rescued Saturday from a tree, to which they had been clinging for nearly forty-eight hours. Victims of the flood, they had been transporting the recently recovered corpse of William Douglas McCall AKA Bayou Billy, when their vehicle was washed over the Sinclair Bridge by Hurricane Alexa’s flood surge. The unlikely pair had been said previously to be feuding over the deceased outlaw’s remains and it is unknown as to the whereabouts of Bayou Billy’s corpse…
From an article in The Sawdust City Journal, July 31st:
Bayou Billy’s Body Presumed Lost!
The remains of William Douglas McCall, the convicted felon once known famously as Bayou Billy, are considered lost. Last seen in a vehicle driven by Mayor Pascal T. Waterford, the corpse was likely washed downriver by the force the rain delivered by Hurricane Alexa last week. Massive damage to both cities of Sawdust City and Albie has been reported. Many businesses along the Sabine River were washed completely away and Albie Cemetery was wiped clean. Coffins from the cemetery have been reported located as far south as Port Arthur, Texas…
From an article in The National Quidnunc, dated September 4th:
Bayou Billy’s Body Kidnapped by Local Politician
And Neighboring Prominent Citizen!
William McCall who was also called Bayou Billy died on Wednesday, July 12th of this year. Not two days later, a fierce feud erupted between the towns of Sawdust City, Texas, and Albie, Louisiana as to the disposition of the corpse. Both towns desired the celebrity of having the infamous outlaw buried in their respective cemetery. However, when it was not clear who would come out legally ahead, it was reported by a source close to the events that Mayor Pascal T. Waterford took matters into his own hands and stole the body out of Rector Mortuary, where the remains were being attended.
Not to be outdone, a local citizen and historical society founder, Ophelia Rector, managed to steal the remains back from the mayor. Several interested parties began to snatch the corpse and the remains began to disintegrate. Waterford neighbor, Thaddeus Worth, US Army (ret) stated, “They both went plumb loco.” Former Bayou Billy neighbor, Gracie T. Marcus said, “It was those pesky alien critters again. Just like they did before…”
From an article in The Sawdust City Journal, October 2nd:
Mayor Sells Story to Hollywood for Megabucks!
Pledges Funds to Sawdust City’s Salvation!
Pascal T. Waterford announced today that he has signed a deal with a major Hollywood studio for the sales of the rights to the odd story of what occurred to William ‘Bayou Billy’ McCall’s corpse. Mayor Waterford and neighboring Albie resident, Ophelia Rector, owner of Rector Mortuary, were rumored to have physically stolen the body back and forth over a period of a week. The thefts allegedly stopped when the cadaver was washed away in Hurricane Alexa’s floodwaters…
From an article in The Sawdust City Journal, October 16th:
Mayor Sells Story to New York Publisher!
More Money for Sawdust City!
Pascal T. Waterford announced today that he has signed a deal with a major New York publisher for as yet unwritten account of what occurred to William ‘Bayou Billy’ McCall’s corpse. He has pledged half of the proceeds to Sawdust City’s restoration…
From an article in The Sawdust City Journal, December 11th:
Mayor Marries Secretary!
Pascal T. Waterford announced today that he and his longtime secretary, Gibson Ross, have married in a small private ceremony attended by close friends and relatives. Both attribute their relationship to their close proximity in the Bayou Billy affair. Additionally both state that they foresee a long marriage as long as no more corpses tumble into their laps…
From an article in The Sawdust City Journal, July 2nd:
First Annual Bayou Billy Festival a Resounding Success!!
Sawdust City’s First An
nual Bayou Billy Festival raked in the dough, less than a year after the rampant destruction of Hurricane Alexa…
From an article in The Albie Weekly News, August 16th:
Rectors Attempt to Rebuild Cemetery and Obtain Elvis’ Dog’s Corpse
Ophelia Rector announced amidst all the previous legal troubles of the Rector Family’s intent to rebuild the formerly significant Albie Cemetery. Her first act was to obtain funding to purchase Elvis Presley’s dog’s corpse as a centerpiece to the cemetery’s proposed tourist draw to the area. There was no comment from the Albie mayor or council members…
From the notarized last will of William Douglas McCall, dated Tuesday, July 11th, the day before he died in Good Parish Hospital, Shreveport, Louisiana. The will was only discovered when the hospital building was condemned and the basement was cleared of stored boxes. Patients who had died in the hospital who were without relatives apparently had left numerous belongings that were packed up by hospital staff and stored in the lower levels:
I, William Douglas McCall, do declare to be of sound mind, do ascertain this to be my last will and testament. Knowing that I will die soon I want folks to know that I leave the following to these named people. To Rosa Zamarrippa, I leave my Smith and Wesson revolvers and the Ford Model-T, in which I escaped Pegramville, Texas all those years ago. She is the only woman who I might have loved. To my granddaughter, Tamara Danley, I leave all my pants, so that she may have something truly manly to play with. The remainder of my goods I will to the Benevolent League of Retired Prostitutes of Las Vegas, Nevada, because those whores deserve every dime for all the peckerwoods like me that they’ve had to put up with. To the mayors of Albie, Louisiana, and Sawdust City, Texas, I say this and I’m going to make it as clear as crystal in a fancy department store: I WANT MY BODY CREMATED and the ashes thrown in the Mississippi River. So there you little greedy fuckers, take them little crud-apples and stick them in your pipe to smoke.
Life and Death of Bayou Billy Page 36
