by Edward Lee
Hot piss sloshin’, the Chief thought. Indergestion was now creepin’up his throat, and all he could do was blame hisself for askin’ ‘bout this in the first place. Not that his question had been answered, but he weren’t about to remind Hays’a that. Best to just let it lie’n get on with their business. Kinion cleared his throat. “Fine, Hays. So what’s this we’se goin’ to? A Signal 9—” “ASignal 9 N, Chief,” the PFC responded. “And you know what that means.”
“Uh . . .” Well, actually and as were previously notated, the Chief couldn’t recall his county signals. “Uh, right, that’s a, a . . . Disabled vehicle, ain’t it?”
“Naw, Chief, come on. Haven’t ya memorized yer county code sheet? A Signal 9 is a suspicious person—”
“Oh, ‘acorse!” the Chief affirmed. “I was thinkin’ of the old county sheet, back ‘fore you came on.”
“Uh-huh, so then I’se guess ya also know what a Signal 9N is, right, Chief?”
Shee-it! “How’s am I supposed ta remember stuff like that what with all my complercated duties as chief!”
“Oh, well I shorely understand, boss, so’s I’ll refresh yer noggin. See, the N in Signal 9N stand fer nekit.”
The Chief gawped. “Nekit? As in buck nekit?”
“That’s a fact, Chief. Not just a suspicious person but a nekit suspicious person but judgin’ from the address, Chief, that is 861 Mount Airy, that sounds like Claude Gullard’s place, huh? And— shee-it, Chief—I’se shore as hail hope he ain’t the suspicous nekit person ‘cos I gotta tell ya, the last thang I need to see is that fat cracker buck nekit, no sir, ain’t no way I wanna gander Claude Gullard’s cock’n nutsack’n hairy ass. Uhuh!”
Them polyps was bad enough’a image, the thought’a Claude Gullard nekit didn’t help. The Chief’s mind groped for distraction. “Ain’t there that candyass liberal whatchamacallit house out there? You know, that county thang—”
“Danged if you ain’t right, Chief!” Hays exclaimed slappin’ the steerin’ wheel. “The County Watch-House fer Boys! Bet that’s what it was. One’a the punks inside probably got a girlfriend sneakin’ in and then when they’se was hobknobbin’ maybe one’a detent staff come along so this gal hot-foots it outa there’n didn’t have no time ta git her clothes back on ‘fore she done so . . .”
The institution that PFC Hays referred to was a Russell County “cooperative”: a medium-security halfway house for teenage boys who’d committed felonies but were too young to be prosecuted. So they stuck ‘em here for six-months at a clip ta teach ‘em a lesson. A’corse, purdy much, the only lessons they’se learnt was how to commit crimes better from what’cha might thank of as the aggregation’a criminal knowledge, but that were fairly besides the point.
And when they pulled up at 861 Mount Airy Road, it were indeed Claude Gullard who come out his front porch, only he weren’t nekit thank God, but he did indeed prove ta be the complaintant.
He was fat and stank, and wore overalls whiles he were scratchin’ his ass’n tellin’ Hays and the Chief ‘bout what he seed, and he didn’t have no t-shirt on under them overalls which afforded an unwelcome view’a his upper chest which actually looked like a pair’a tits only with hair on ‘em. “That’s right, Chief, I shore ‘nuff saw it with my own eyes I did. It were a gal, a right fine lookin’ one if ya ask me—”
“Did’ja get wood?” Hays asked with a note of sudden interest. “Hays!” the Chief bellowed. “That ain’t relervant at all, so what’cha doin’ askin’ somethin’ so blammed dickerluss!”
But Hays defended his inquest a right quick. “Chief, I hate ta disagree with ya, but I’se gotta say that my question were perfectly releverant on account it clarifies a subjecterive point in our interview with Mr. Gullard here. I mean when Mr. Gullard says this nekit gal was a right fine-lookin’, we need ta establish just howfine-lookin’she was. And if we knowed if she were fine-lookin’enough to pop wood on Mr. Gullard here then we’d know she were more than likely very fine-lookin’, now wouldn’t we? And such knowledge would only increase the effercacy of our investergation’a the complaint, now wouldn’t it?”
But before the Chief could slap Hays upside the head fer proposin’ somethin’ so nonsensical, Claude Gullard stepped right up with his opinion: “Dang, Officer Hays, I say that’s a mite downright percepterive of ya. You musta gone to collerge to have yerself a set’a smarts like that.”
“Dang shore did, Mr. Gullard,” Hays was proud to say. “Got me a degree in Criminal Justerce from Ball U., and I’se grad’jer’ated top’a my class.”
Claude Gullard’s eyes went wide with undilutered awe. “I say wow, Officer Hays, that shore is somethin’. Chief, where’d you go ta collerge?”
“I didn’t go to no dag hippie collerge!” the Chief kindly replied. “I don’t need ta go to no dag hippie collerge to run my police department!”
Claude Gullard scratched his hairy tits through his overall top. “Well, then . . . how come it wer PFC Hays who thought to ask me if I got wood and not you?”
By now, Chief Kinion wanted to pull his hair out at the frustration’a this situation but a’corse that wouldn’t’ve been too easy, see, on account the Chief didn’t have much hair left ta pull out. And then Claude Gullard, he said, “And ta answer yer question, Officer Hays, yes indeedy, when I saw this very fine-lookin’gal runnin’buck nekit across my yard, I shore as hail got wood right quick, like alls of a sudden I were raisin’ a flag pole down there in my overalls, n’fact, I had me wood so hard I gots to admit, fellas, I had whip it out real quick’n jack me off a fast one, I did.”
Hays nodded, eyin’ the Chief. “See that, boss. Now we’se know that this here weren’t just yer average nekit gal runnin’ across the yard but a real wood-popper, Chief. Which leads me ta my next speculation.”
Kinion wearily rubbed his face; it was getting to be a habit. “And what might that be, Hays? Really. I’m dyin’ ta know.” “Well, Chief, right off hand I can only think’a one gal in particular that could put instant wood on me at the mere thought, and that would be Jeanne Willis, yes sir.”
“Aw fer Gawd’s sake, Hays!” Kinion lost control. “What the hail would Jeanne Willis be doin’runnin’round out here buck nekit!”
Hays answered the question with a question, this one bein’ directed at Claude Gullard. “Mr. Gullard, could’ya be so kind ta tell me if this nekit gal had short brownish hair that might be called coiffered, if, like, you was from the city?”
“Why . . . why yes, she did!” Claude verified.
“And did she have, like, a set’a tits on her that was not too big, not too small, just like the tomaters at Grimaldi’s Market, you know, the big ‘uns he sells fer a little extra?”
Claude Gullard slapped his thigh. “Dang if you ain’t ‘zactly right, Officer Hays. This gal hadda set’s tits on her just like what you described! And I’ll’se tell ya somethin’else. She had—what they call it, you know, like them fucked-up folks from Calerforna . . . I know! She had tan lines, Officer, like what gals git on their skin when they’se out in the sun a lot’n wearin’ them berkeeneree thangs!”
Hays fired a subdued grin to the Chief but the Chief weren’t buyin’ none’a this malarky, and he said so: “Hays’ that don’t mean nothin’! It weren’t Jeanne Willis runnin’ round out here with no clothes on. Shee-it, it coulda been any gal with short brown hair’n nice tits’n them citified tan lines!”
“Well, shore, Chief, you’re right,” Hays backstepped. “You’re the boss’n I goes with what you say ever time.”
“Fine,” Kinion agreed, “so keep it shut and let met ask the questions.” The Chief turned his gaze to Claude Gullard, and then the Chief opened his mouth ta speak but—dang!—he shore couldn’t think of a single thang ta ask. “Well, Hays, I’se a little tired today, so’s why don’t you ask some more questions.”
“Shore, boss,” Hays said, and asked, “Okay, Mr. Gullard, so’s when you seen this nekit gal who wasn’t Jeanne Willlis runnin’across yer yard,
where ‘zactly was she runnin’ from?”
Claude didn’t waste no time in answerin’. “Right back there,” he said’n pointed to the back’a the pile of rotten boards that were his abode, “from the woods behind my house, you know, that blammed—”
“County Watch-House fer Boys, huh?” Hays deductered. “That’s absolutely right, Officer! That dag liberal Demercrat place they stuff fulla punks’n treat ‘em real cushy instead’a throwin’ ‘em inta the real county clink where they’d learn the error of their ways a mite fast,” Claude Gullard expressed his rather conservative opinion, “on account after just a coupla nights of gettin’ butt-fucked by a bunch’a big shines with cocks big ‘round as coffee cans—yes sir, they’d learn real fast not ta go breakin’ the law when some fella named Toby’s got his hog stuck up in there to the balls.”
Well, the Chief didn’t really know what he thought ‘bout such things that were dependent on societal demergraphics’n such but none’a that was what this were about, right? And though he didn’t believe fer a second that this nekit gal was Jeanne Willis, he did recognize that the fulcrum’a this call should take them up to the County Watch-House fer Boys lickety split. But just as the Chief were gonna thank Claude fer his time and head on up to the House, the overalled man with hairy tits added a final observance, well, two actually. “Oh, and somethin’ I fergot, Chief. When this nekit gal run off across my yard she disappeart just past them trees out yonder and then a coupla seconds go by’n I hear a car drive off. Couldn’t see it, but I shore’s hail heard it.”
“Maybe a red Mercedes,” Hays offered.
“Bullshee-it,” the Chief replied.
“Oh, oh, and one more thang,” Claude remembert, “though I’se not quite shore what it were but . . . she seemed to be holdin’ somethin’ as she were runnin’ but . . . fer the life’a me, I cain’t figger what it could’a been. Somethin’ she seemed to be carryin’ under her arm . . .”
“One’a them big plastic Coke bottles?” Hays proposed, “like one’a them 2-liter ones?”
Claude slapped his thigh again. “Yeah! Yeah! How’d you know that, Officer?”
“Never mind—thanks fer your time, Claude.” Kinion grabbed Hays by the arm and hauled him off around the back of the house. “We’ve dicked around long enough here, Hays, with you askin’ Claude Gullard if he got a hard-on. And that bull-hockey ‘bout the Coke bottles’n coiffered hair’n tits the size’a Grimaldi’s tomaters— that weren’t nothin’ but the power’a suggestion.”
“Well, I don’t know ‘bout that, Chief, ‘cos see—”
“Just shut up’n come on!”
They tromped back through the weeds until they come to the front side’a the County Watch-House, and first thang the Chief noticed was . . . well . . . Sounds awful quiet fer a halfway house fulla teenage wahoos’n rowdy punks. Indeed, it sounded real quiet, and there weren’t no sign of any manner’a activerty no wheres.
“This is a mite weird, don’t ya think, Chief?” Hays asked.
“Dag right. Let’s go on in’n see what’s goin’ on . . .”
The big steel front door stood wide open. Not good. Nor was it good when they found no sign of a guard or reception officer inside.
Er, at least not immediately inside . . .
Their boots clicked down the shiny tile floor. It was dark inside; small barred windows high along the main corridor leaked in light. A sign on the wall read: WELCOME NEW RESIDENTS!
“Aw, shee-it, Chief,” Hays complained without haste. “They don’t even call ‘em inmates or convicts—they call ‘em residents. Guess they don’t wanna offend their young senserbilerties, huh? What a bunch’a Clinton-Gore, Janet Reno, left-wing, grab-ass, asskissin’, pinko, bleedin’-heart liberal poop!”
“Keep it shut, Hays.”
Another sign around the corner read: PLEASE, NO LOUD TALKING.
“Oh, these poor fellas,” Hays made some sarcasm. “Cain’t even talk loud. Sounds like cruel’n unusual punishment ta me, like we’se fuckin’ with their civil rights! Dang, Chief, ya thank we oughta call the ACLU?”
“No, I thank ya should shut up!” Past the main halls were dormitories, not cells, and a number of classrooms. A college-like cafeteria came next, nice tables’n chairs. “Shee-it, Chief,” Micah Hays vented more opinion. “I gotta agree with Claude. This ain’t no way to deal with a bunch’a wiseass undiscerplined punks. Our tax dollars goin’ into footsie joints like this so’s a bunch’a criminals can have fancy dorm rooms with TVs and nice beds and a blammed cafferteria! They oughta be sleepin’on wire bunks and eatin’ cold beans off a tin plate! Work ‘em 16 hours a day on a chaingang, I say. That’d show ‘em not ta break the law.”
“They’re just teenagers, Hays, they’re kids,” the Chief said. “Ya don’t punish kids nowadays, ya rehabileritate ‘em.”
“Shee-it,” Hays smirked. “Ya ask me, turn this place into a county butt-whuppin’ house, that’s the way. First offense, give ‘em a two-by-four shampoo, second offense bust some bones. They’ll get the message. Or like Claude said, throw ‘em in the county slam, let ‘em git their butts plumbed raw fer a couple weeks straight. Cain’t sell drugs or rob folks when you’re walkin’ funny. Yeah, Chief, ya ask me—”
“Well, I didn’t ask ya so shut up!” The Chief’s booming drawl rocketed down the hallway. “We’se gotta find a detention officer, find out what’s goin’ on.”
The end of the next hall took ‘em to a big set of double doors and a sign: GYMNASIUM. “Shee-it, Chief, I shore hope we’se ain’t interruptin’ their volleyball game, ‘cos these poor boys have the right ta rehabileritation.” Hays chuckled. “Yes sir, sounds like a suppression of Constitutional rights fer a bunch’a little robbers’n rapists ta not git their proper exercise’n fun.” But when Hays pushed open them double doors, he just stood’n stared, and the Chief did likewise.
“Well shit my shorts,” Hays uttered.
“Fuck,” Kinion responded.
What faced them was no doubt the bizarrest thang either of ‘em had ever saw. Each and every single teenage resident of the County Watch-House fer Boys—all thirty of ‘em mind you—lay side by side on the gym floor in a single line, and the three staff detention officers lay right along with ‘em. Yes sir, a line of fellas from one end’a the gym to the other.
And if that weren’t odd enough, this next fact might shorely be. Each and every one of ‘em had their pants pulled down to their ankles’n odder still was that their peckers was all stickin’ up hard as rocks. That’s right, what Hays’n the Chief stood starin’ at was a row of exactly thirty-three hard dicks, all shapes’n sizes.
But not one of these fellas was movin’, not at all, like they was all lyin’ there on the floor next ta each other and were asleep or—
“Shee-it, Hays,” Kinion fretted. “Are they—are they dead?”
“Not unless the dead can have wood, Chief. I mean, look! They alls got boners!”
“I can see that, Hays . . . Go check.”
Hays looked at his boss. “Check what? Their boners?”
“NO NOT THEIR BONERS GOD DAGGIT! CHECK TO SEE IF THEY’RE ALIVE!”
With a tremor from the Chief’s explodin’ voice, Hays set out ta do as instructed, leanin’ over each kid’n checkin’ fer pulse. “They’se all alive, boss. Somethin’ musta knocked ‘em all unconscious.”
“Slap one around, wake him up.”
Hays grabbed one pimply faced kid by the collar’n shook him, then laid a few backhands across the kisser. Slap! Slap! Slap!
Nothin’.
“These kids is all out stone cold, Chief, and the detent officers too! And, come on over here. There’s somethin’ else . . .”
Something else? Thirty kids’n three adults lyin’ unconscious in a row with their hard-ons out? What else could there be? Kinion walked behind the row of unconscious boys where he could now see their faces.
Hays was right. Another oddity remained.
They all had great big smiles on their
faces.
And in less than a second later, them double doors barged open.
Hays and the Chief instinctively grabbed fer their sidearms but stopped when they saw— “State Health Department!” some fella in a crewcut and ambuhlance suit barked out. “Make way!”
At least two dozen more fellas, then, trotted into the gym, bearin’ stretchers which they’se quickly dropped, rolled a kid on, then carried back out.
The Chief scratched his bald head. “State Health Department?”
