Byrd Man

The Pickett County War: A Rural Noir RP

John Norman climbed out of his truck and walked across the low-cut grass towards the trailer. It was a trailer, but it was nothing like the one George Silvers dealt out of, or rusty flops they had up in Jardin. This one was well cared for. It was close to thirty years old, but it looked like it was closer to ten years old. The sides were painted egg yoke yellow with underpinning that matched. The underpinning hid the wheels and supports under the trailer, something that went a long way to make it look like a bona fide home. The trailer sat Whitmire Street, where it had been for the past twenty-five years. Three blocks over was Washington Street and the house John grew up in.

He climbed up the steps and rapped twice on the closed screen door. His stomach twisted itself in knots as he waited. He hadn't been to this house in close to ten years. The day Henry Johnson chased him around the yard with a baseball bat. Even though Henry was an old man by now, John still hoped he was at work and not home sick today.

"John Norman," a curt voice said from inside the trailer.

He looked in through the screen and saw Mary Johnson's smiling face, older and wrinkled but still kind. She'd put on about twenty pounds since he last saw her and her corn-silk blond hair was turning white. She had a smile on her face, but that was just politeness and window dressing.

"Long time no see," said John.

"I know," she said with a hint of wariness in her voice. "There's a reason for that."

"Mary," John said softly. "That's been a long time ago. How about you let me in and we can talk?"

"We can talk just as good with you outside..."

"Fine. Mary, Like I said you--"

There was a high-pitched wail from somewhere inside the trailer. Mary turned around and looked in the direction of the noise. She told John to wait a minute while she checked on Sofie. Mary disappeared into the living room and John waited until she was out of sight before he stepped into the living room.

Green shag carpet with wood paneling on all four walls, a long and well-worn sofa with two recliners flanking both sides, a coffee table and TV in front of all three. Pictures were scattered along the wall. Most of them were of Carol, Carol as a baby, Carol as a little girl, a photo of her and John when they went trick or treating when were nine, one of her in that blue and white PCHS cheerleading outfit. She was all big smiles and innocence in the photos of her as a teen, her long blond hair teased up in a big hair style that was completely 90's. It was almost unbelievable to John that the same smiling girl who once made all A's and was the Beta Club treasurer was the same one out there with a fiend like Beggs, the same woman who made him do so many bad things.

There wasn't any photos of her after the cap and gown pictures from graduation. It had been nearly ten years since she broke John's heart, and based on the wall it seemed like time had stopped for Carol Johnson.

Well, not entirely.

The photos on the walls that accompanied Carol's were of babies. One a little boy and the other a little girl, both mixed race. John head a baby's cry from somewhere in the house. He heard that Carol's momma was supposed to be doing most the child rearing while she stayed on the prowl for a new sugar daddy. Maybe Howard Beggs was that sugar daddy.

"I thought I told you to stay outside," Mary said with her lips pressed together.

"I'm looking for Carol."

"Of course you are," she spat. "All these years and you haven't changed a damn bit."

"It's official business. I promise you."

She sighed and balled her fists. An act of suppressing rage, an act that was so effective that it had to be something she did often. "What'd she do this time?" Mary asked after calming down.

"I'm actually looking for a friend of hers. His name's Howard Beggs. He's a drug addict."

"Of course he is."

Mary closed her eyes and swallowed hard. John really hoped she could keep it together long enough for him to get out of here. Mary was a nice lady, and he really didn't want to see her break down and cry. From what he remembered, Mary Johnson was a pretty ugly crier. John pulled the photo from his jacket while Mary fought back the tears.

"Here's a photo," he said, sliding the mugshot of Beggs across the table. "I don't know if you've seen him around, or know if Carol has talked about him, or what..."

"No." She shook her head. "Nobody she knows ever comes around here. Thank God for that."

"Well, where is Carol?"

"I--," she started then stopped. She was on the verge of tears and was beginning to teeter towards the edge. "I don't know... she hasn't been home in days!" She jumped off the cliff, tears welling over her eyes and spilling down her cheeks. "I got the kids here and I been taking care of them since they were born," Mary gasped for breath between her loud sobs and talked so fast and loud the words ran together.

"--andthenHenrysaysweshouldkickerhoutofthehouseand--"

She kept on, descending into a mix of dry heaving, sobbing, and talking. Her face was buried in her hands, her whole body racking with the grief she was letting out. John mumbled thanks for talking to him and quietly left the house while she kept crying.

--

After a full day's work of prowling for Carol and Beggs, John called it a day at around seven and headed to Hobie's. His dinner that night was a ham and cheese omelet with a sweet tea. He ate in silence by himself, thinking about Carol and this giant clusterfuck Sheriff Parker had gotten him involved him. Thoughts of Lacey Cade also filtered in during his meal. Last night was just what he needed. She seemed to enjoy it as well. She was a good kid, Lacey. Damn shame she couldn't get out of this town.

After dinner John headed out to the small field he owned off Trask Road. He tended to his pot plants and checked to make sure they were thriving. The cold was coming soon and he'd have to harvest his crop and start processing it. After he had it ready for sale, he'd sell his entire crop wholesale to Billy's people and that would see him through the winter and into the spring when he could buy more pot seeds.

It was just after dusk when he pulled into the driveway beside his trailer. He went inside the trailer and tossed a little notepad on to the coffee table. It was filled with all the crap he had collected from folks since Parker forced him into this bullshit. The only information worth a damn he had was that Carol Johnson had been distant lately, not very approachable and very moody. John was pretty sure he knew the cause of that. Sucking on a methhead's dick would probably ruin anybody's mood. Except the methhead, of course.

He plopped down on the couch and let his thoughts drift back to Mary and the conversation they had earlier. The way she seemed so put upon by Carol, how she had left her parents and own children behind for days at a time. She had really changed from the little girl who got homesick when she slept over at a friend's house across town. She was a partier when they were kids, but she hadn't changed at all. She was a mother of two, but yet she was still a damn kid herself. John was so focused on Carol and everything else that he didn't realize he was alone in the trailer until it was nearly too late.

He walked into the kitchen and stopped after feeling movement from behind. John wheeled around and came face to face with the intruder. A chubby old man with jet black, receding hair, a salt and pepper beard, and a wrinkled face. His nose was broad and flat, an old injury he said he got from a bar fight forty years earlier. He was dressed in a flannel shirt and blue jeans with work boots.

"Whatever the hell you been doing, boy," he grunted. "You apparently have kicked a goddamn beehive."

"Nice to see you too, grandaddy."

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

House of Representatives
United States Capitol
Washington DC

"The gentleman from California is recognized."

Congressman Harlan Lewis gripped the small lectern set up in the House chamber. The chamber was a ghost town at a quarter past one in the afternoon, everyone except the non-partisan clerical employees were still taking their usual long lunches. The laxness around both the House and Senate was typical in the height of summer when there were no big bills looming. After pushing for the nationalization of NEWI, the White House was mum on the rest of its legislative agenda. Congress knew a fight was coming, but they expected it from the Democratic president. Nobody had any idea that Republican Harlan Lewis would be the one to ignite it.

The recent election marked Lewis' third successful reelection campaign. California's 9th District was an easy win for any Republican candidate. It was mostly white and mostly middle class. Even the big Hispanic population in the district had comfortable incomes and conservative ideals. Even during the Socialist years they sent Republicans to Congress. The voters in his district didn't care about pork barrel or appropriations, they just wanted someone with an R next to their name on the ballot, someone to keep their taxes down. The most remarkable thing about Lewis' six years in Congress so far had been sponsoring a resolution naming a bridge in his state after early California Senator John C. Fremont.

"Mr. Speaker," Lewis said to the junior congressman who acted as speaker pro tem when Clay Foulke wasn't on the floor.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the House I'd like to introduce an appropriations bill for consideration. This bill will authorize the United States government to provide foreign aid to the people and citizens of Ethiopia. The purpose of this bill is not to assist the government and military engaged in war with the Spanish Republic, but the families who are being forced to flee their homes under threat of loss of life and property."

The half-dozen clerks sitting at the triple dais stirred at Lewis' announcement. The speaker pro tem raised an eyebrow at the congressman before whispering to a clerk beside him. The clerk scuttled off in a hurry while the speaker nodded.

"Bill will be formally introduced as House Resolution 2601 and will be referred to the House Appropriations Committee."

The clerk banged the gavel and Lewis walked from the lectern with shaky legs.

*****

"Who the fuck is Harlan Lewis?" Clay Foulke snarled as he stalked out of his office and down a capitol corridor.

Dwight Hayes, the Democratic Majority Leader, ran after Clay in a desperate rush and called after him. Clay couldn't hear Hayes' voice over the sound of his own pulse. They had been in Clay's office just moments earlier, having a post-lunch confab with the democratic leadership and a few heads of the various democratic caucuses that made up the House Democrats. They were in the middle of their bull session when a secretary came in with a scrap of paper that had the news scribbled on it.

The Republicans. The fucking Republicans.

As Speaker, Clay could control his own party through clout with the Appropriations Committee and congressional committee assignments. A lot of what made him keep the Democrats in line didn't work with the Republicans. They were the minority party. They couldn't be bought with promises of plumb assignments since they wouldn't have a chance to really influence committee decisions. Earmarking money for their home district didn't work either, since they could make political hay out of fighting the big bad Democrats who were neglecting their constituents in a shoddy showing of partisan politics.

"Clay!" Hayes called out as he ran as fast as his chubby body could carry him.

He caught up and placed a beefy hand on Clay's neck, guiding him gently down the corridor and into a nook off to the side of the hallway. Clay continued to fume while Hayes looked around to make sure nobody was in earshot before speaking.

"This is what we wanted," he said softly. "This is what the White House wants, right?"

"Not like this," Clay hissed. "The president was going to ask Congress to allocate funds first. This guy, this Lewis guy, he threw a monkey wrench into the whole goddamn thing. The Republicans have the initiative now, they're--"

"In the minority," Hayes said with a slight grin. "They could introduce a House bill calling for the US to be reabsorbed the UK and it won't make a bit of goddamn difference without the votes. It's their bill, but it's our Congress, Mr. Speaker. The Senate is another ballgame, but we can get that bill through committee without breaking a sweat and with a Republican author it'll be a landslide vote on the House floor."

Clay crossed his arms and leaned against the wall of the nook where they were sequestered and sigh.

"You're right. I still don't like it, but you're right. The White House won't like it, though."

"Who cares? The president needs to learn that we pass legislation, not him."

Clay shrugged Hayes off and started back down the hallway, this time slower and a lot less furious.

"Where you going?" Hayes called after Clay.

"To find Harlan Lewis and scare the shit out of him," Clay said with a wry smile.

*****

Nashville, Tennessee

"It's been a long time coming, but I know a change is gonna come."

The crowd chanted and sang their song as they marched towards the Tennessee state capitol. Unlike the march in Jackson months ago, this march was calm and orderly. The police presence was large but passive, staying on the sidewalks and protecting the black protesters against white counter-protestors. On the state capitol's fifth floor, Vice President Russell Reed watched the protest from the large window in the governor's office.

"Agitation is what it is!"

Russell turned to face Tennessee governor Jimmy Fogle. Fogle was tall, lean, and bald with a prominent hook nose. He had at least four inches on Russell and loved to get in close to anybody he wanted to intimidate or cajole.

"They just want to start trouble," Fogle said with a finger pointed towards the oncoming protestors. "They want the police to beat their asses and make us look like a bunch of mindless thugs. They're all communist, Russ. We give into the blacks, won't be long before we're giving in to Beijing."

Russell turned back to the window. He saw the black man with glasses at the front of the group. The FCB and a host of other law agencies briefed Russell on the man known as the Ethiopian. Despite all the information, this was the first time Russell laid eyes on the man. he was surprised at his age. He was young, not much older than Russell's own sons. The stories being told about this young man made it seem he was hardened anarchist. Russell saw the fire and the passion, but he saw that in all the those marching towards the capital.

"You don't think it's time?"

"Time for what?" Fogle asked.

"For them to have what they were promised so long ago."

"They got it," Fogle spat. "They just don't know how to use it. They wanna whine about segregation and Jim Crow when they've never had it better before!"

Russell's mind went back in time. He focused on a middle aged man in the crowd. He had bruises and cuts on his face. Battlescars. The man marched beside a young woman who had to be his daughter. They held hands and the man sung the protest song through a wired shut mouth.

"I'm from Georgia," he said softly. "Lavonia. That's my hometown in Georgia. I always remember he dilapidated outhouses they labelled "COLOREDS ONLY" while the "WHITES ONLY" outhouses were kept spotless. I was just ten years old when the town organized a lynch mob to go after a black man in nearby Danielsville. He had the audacity to steal a chicken from a white farm. This was during the height of the Depression and he stole the chicken to feed his six children. They tied him to the bumper of a car and drug him through town slowly, screaming his head off while white men, women, and children threw rocks at him. They stoned him to death for doing something a white man would have been simply fined for."

Russell turned his gaze from the window and looked up at Fogle, narrowing his eyes.

"Oh, yeah. They've never had it better."

"Russ--"

"When you address me, you address my title. Vice President of the United States. I think we're done here."

Russell headed out of the governor's office before Fogle could muster a response.

*****

"It's been a long time coming, but I know a change is gonna come," James Calhoun said through clamped shut teeth.

His broken jaw was getting better, but he still needed the wire and the mesh to keep it in place as it finished healing. His daughter Sarah made up for his handicap by singing twice as loud as they marched. They were just a few people back from Isiah Wolde himself, holding hands and staying together in the jostling crowd that marched towards the state house. The crowd was still mostly black, but plenty of white people were starting to join the crowd. Most of them were impassioned northerners, a few were from the south but they were few and far between. Along with their usual signs promoting equal rights for blacks, there was plenty of Ethiopian imagery. Sarah and Wolde were among the countless who wore Ethiopian flag pins. A few people in the crowd waved Ethiopian flags and held up anti-Spanish signs.

James felt a surge of pride at the rally. They were finally making a stand on something and being allowed to protest. Along with showing the world they would stand and be counted, they also showed that they stood with their brothers and sisters in Africa. Their problems were vastly different, but at the heart of it they were both fighting a struggle for freedom and self-determination.

The doors to the state house opened as the crowd approached. A line of state troopers with riot shields were already there waiting for them to cross some imaginary line. While James was nervous of a repeat of Jackson, news people gathered on the sidewalk made the possibility a dim one. Tennessee didn't want to become the new Mississippi. From the open doors, a half dozen men in black suits marched out followed by someone James didn't recognize. He was a white man with dark hair and a navy colored suit. He waved at the crowd, the men in suits followed him and formed a protective barrier past the state troopers. The guards helped the man navigate the crowd until he was face to face with Wolde himself. James was jostled back by security, but still close enough to overhear the conversation.

"Isiah Wolde," he asked with a thick southern accent. He held his hand out for Wolde. "I'm Vice President Russell Reed. President Norman sent me here to speak to you."

Wolde nodded and shook Reed's hand.

"About time you showed up, Mr. Vice President."

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Inspiration for a forthcoming post

Avenging Justice (Young Superheroes of all mediums)

Sure, I'll try something.

The Pickett County War: A Rural Noir RP

Scott Andrews pulled into the gravel parking lot outside Ray's. The short brick building was wide with a tin roof on top. An electric sign by the road matched the faded one beside the door, announcing the place as Raymond's Social Club. Scott let out a soft chuckle when he saw the sign. Calling this place a social club was like putting lipstick on a pig. There was nothing about the atmosphere at Ray's that made it seem like a social club. Nothing but a bunch of crackers getting drunk and causing mischief. It wasn't as bad as Mike Norman's place was supposed to have been, Scott was just a kid when it burned down, but it was far and away rowdy by its own right.

The only cars in the parking lot when Scott got there were Ray's pickup truck and Jed's black SUV. Scott parked near the door and walked inside. The walls of Ray's were plastered with all kinds of sports shit from around Pickett County over the years. Old photographs of Panthers football teams, newspapers cut out and framed, jerseys on the walls with autographs. There was a ball signed by the '93 state championship team, including starting left guard Scott Andrews.

"'Bout damn time," Ray said from behind the bar.

Ray Champion's look was just as harsh as the tone of his voice. He was wiry and lean with a constant scowl on his face. His gray hair was steadily growing more and more white with each passing year. The thick beard on his face made him look like a skinny Santa Claus in a bad mood. Ray was among Billy's oldest allies. A former SC Highway Patrolman, Ray had been working with Billy since back in the late 80's. He was part of all that fighting that went on between Billy and the Norman family. Pickett County legend had it that Ray was the one who did Daniel Norman in. Billy's muscle came and went over the years. Most went to jail, a few quit the life before it chewed them up, and an even smaller few met their end at the end of a gun. Amidst all that chaos, Ray was the one constant. The closest thing Billy had to a second in command.

"The hell's wrong with you," Ray said with a scowl. "Jed called your ass a half hour ago. Don't take no half hour to get here from anywhere in Pickett County."

Scott put a plug of chewing tobacco in his mouth. He took his time, making a show of it. Done with that, he walked up to the bar and gave Ray a shrug. Ray had always rubbed Scott the wrong way. He rubbed a lot of people the wrong way. Just an unmitigated asshole through and through.

"I'm watch commander tonight. I can't drop every damn thing and come running just because you and Jed call me. I got a goddamn job to do. I figure you'd understand that a bit better than the rest of 'em."

Ray shrugged and somehow furrowed his brow even worse than he had before.

"Whatever," he said before yelling, "Jed! He's here."

A heavy door behind the bar opened up. Scott saw a flash of metal. The big safe in the back was the stuff of legends. From the glimpses Scott occasionally caught, he estimated it was at least half his height and about as wide as his body. Some said it was Billy's bank, where he kept almost all of his money so either law enforcement or rivals couldn't get it. Another rumor was that it was the motherload of stashes. Weed, coke, dope, meth. Whatever Billy's people dealt in Pickett County came from that safe. Yet another rumor was that it's where Billy kept the souls of the men who worked for him over the years. A depository for the damned. Scott doubted the last rumor was true, since a crank addict missing all his teeth was the one who came up with that theory.

The door shut fast after Jed stepped out. Scott wasn't exactly short, and Jed still had him by about four inches. He wore a white tanktop that showed off his dark skin and ropey, taunt muscles. He wore a black do-rag over his hair.

"Let's go," Jed said without preamble. "Taking my truck."

"Where we headed?" Scott asked, looking between the two men.

"The Bog."

*****

DJ sat on the rotting steps of a house and smoked a cigarette. The sounds of crickets and tree frogs reverberated in the night. It was early fall, but still plenty warm enough for bugs to buzz around DJ's cigarette ember. A loud thump came from inside the dilapidated house behind DJ. He exhaled smoke and flicked his cigarette out towards the gravel road.

About a half dozen crumbling houses sat around the stagnant pond everyone in Pickett County called the Bog. The houses were old, turn of the century shacks that hadn't had an occupant inside of them for over sixty years. The only thing people used the houses for anymore were for shady meetings and sexual trysts. You either went to the Bog to get in a fight or get laid was the conventional wisdom around town.

The throes the man duck-tapped to the chair was in were not the throes of passion. He let out a squeal as Jim Brown let into his ribs with a set of brass knuckles. The two of them ran him down in a Jardin trailer park. His name was Howard something, DJ wasn't sure. All he knew for sure was that Billy wanted him found. Somebody in debt to Ray sent word that he found Howard smoking meth in a trailer with some girl. Jed called DJ and told him and Jim Brown to get their asses up to Jardin and find the guy but leave the girl alone. Howard and one of Jed's old ladies were passed out on a piss-stained mattress by the time they got there this evening. The crash from the meth high was enough to turn the man into a zombie. He willfully got in DJ's car and headed to the Bog with them. At the moment, Jim Brown was in the process of rudely awakening him.

"Please," the man groaned after another shot to the sternum. "You're making a big mistake, the both of you."

Jim Brown spat on the wood floor. The Coleman lantern sitting on a rickety table provided the house's only light source, casting long shadows across Jim Brown and Howard. DJ stood close by, his arms crossed and pretending the man hadn't said a damn thing.

"I know you both think you're good little soldiers," Howard said. "But whoever you're working for is in a world of hurt be--"

A brass knuckle covered fist caught Howard flush and nearly knocked the chair over. He screamed in pain and Jim Brown held his right fist in his right hand.

"Goddamn, I think I almost broke my own hand on that one!"

Just then, light flashed across a broken window. DJ looked out, one hand reaching for the pistol in the small of his back. He stopped when he recognized Jed's SUV. He got out of the driver's seat with a passenger. DJ swore to himself when he saw Scott Andrews sauntering up the warped steps.

For over ten years Scott Andrews had been Danny Johnson's partner in the sheriff's department two-man CID section. They hadn't exactly been best friends, but the then Lieutenant Andrews was an occasional dinner guest at the Johnson house. DJ didn't know Andrews was Billy's man until after he went to work for Billy. Despite all the loose talk around the town and the county at large, nobody at the sheriff's department had a good idea of how deep Scott was in. The few times they were in the same room, they barely acknowledged each other. There was a Danny Johnson sized elephant in the room whenever they were together.

Jed came in first, Andrews right behind him. Jed flashed a grin when he saw Howard all beaten up.

"Sup?"

Jim Brown gave him a shrug and slid off the brass knuckles.

DJ said, "He ain't said a thing worth a damn since we got him here. Just the usual bullshit. For a methhead, he's got a lot of spunk."

He met eyes with Andrews through the dim light. Andrews gave DJ a swift nod before looking towards Jed.

"What did he do so bad that Billy wants him dead?" Andrews asked.

"Dead?" Howard started shaking his head. "No, no, no, no!"

Jed cross the space between him and Howard in just two or three strides. He backhanded the man and sent his head spinning.

"You speak when you are spoken to," Jed hissed. "You violated the one and only commandment in this fucking county: Thou shalt not steal from Billy Brown."

Jed cooly pulled a compact .38 pistol from his waistband. Howard thrashed his head and laughed wildly.

"You dumb motherfuckers! You're all gonna fucking pay! You think my name is Howard Beggs? It's fucking Jerry Miller. Special Agent Jerry Miller."

Beggs -- or Miller -- spat and hit Jed in the face with a wad of spit.

"I'm a goddamn SLED agent, you assholes. You touch me you--"

The roar of Jed's gun cut him off. In a rage, Jed fired three shots into Beggs' face. The shots knocked the dying man's chair onto the ground and sprawled Begg's bleeding body on the hardwood floor.

"Goddammit," Andrews said, pulling his gun and aiming at Jed.

On cue, DJ and Jim Brown pulled and aimed at Andrews just as Jed leveled his own gun at Andrews.

"Why'd you do that," Andrews yelled at Jed. "That motherfucker--"

"Was a fiend," Jed yelled back. "And was saying anything that popped into his head. He was bullshitting you, man!"

Andrews holstered his gun and cursed. "I cannot be here, you hear me?! That's me saying this to all three of you. I cannot have fucking been here."

DJ stepped forward to try and get involved. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Jim Brown on a flip phone. He put his gun up and tried to make as much distance from Jed and Andrews' fighting as possible.

"Georgie?" Jim Brown asked. "It's me... that guy you said John Norman came around asking about, you said his name was Beggs right? What did Norman want him for?"

The Pickett County War: A Rural Noir RP

Scott Andrews stood by a window inside the sheriff's office and watched Antwan Dixon pile into his momma's car with his fat friend right behind him. He could just make out the silhouette of Michelle Lewis in the darkness, but her body language implied she was massively pissed. She wasn't the only one. Scott was in the middle of his Beggs hunt when Roland Spencer called him up all panicked. Word travels fast among the black people in Pickett County. The small, tight-knit community that passed secrets and rumors among themselves was derogatorily called the GNW, the Ghetto News Wire, by the sheriff's department.

Roland heard on the GNW about Antwan's arrest within an hour of it happening. Not even Scott knew about it, his car radio turned down to prevent distractions. Roland seemed downright hysterical about the fact that "his boy" was getting banged up by the sheriff's department. He wanted Scott to intervene and smooth it all out. He was about to tell Roland to go fuck himself when Billy Brown's voice came on the line and told Scott to do it. Roland Spencer was a parasite, but he couldn't say no to Billy.

"What was that, Major?"

Scott turned away from the window. Sherry Calhoun stood with her hands on her hips. There was a look of annoyance in her eyes as she waited for Scott's reply. He came in just as she was about to fuck Antwan over, get him to admit the weed was his and get the boy in major trouble. He just shrugged and turned back to the window. All he could see of Michelle Lewis' car were taillights.

"It was weed, Sherry. They weren't smoking crack or committing armed robbery. They were two kids with a bag of weed. Stupid kids doing something stupid. Just leave it at that."

"All due respect, sir, I was trying to teach that boy something. All you know about Antwan Dixon is that he plays basketball really well. To you, he's just another black face you see around Norman. My uncle Henry coaches him and that boy has a major attitude problem. He hangs out with that scumbag Roland Spencer and thinks that because he can ball he can get away with anything. And you know what you just did, Major? You proved him right. He ain't gonna learn anything except that it all works out for him and that he can do what he wants."

Scott sniffed and hiked his gun belt up higher.

"You done, Sherry?"

Scott could tell she was holding back something. Some retort or comment that she thought better of saying. "I guess I am."

"Then get back in your car and get back to patrolling."

She turned on her heels and walked off down the hall. Scott watched her go. She wasn't a bad cop, she was just new. She needed to learn how they did things here. She had yet to figure out you couldn't change the world with just a gun and a badge. That was something Scott learned the hard way a long time ago.

He was back in his office when his phone rang. Not his official phone he used for work and personal calls, but the little flip phone that only a handful of people had the number to.

"Yeah?" He asked as he answered.

"Come to Ray's," Jed's gruff voice said over the line. "And be quick about it, motherfucker."

The line went dead. Scott closed the phone with force and fumed in his chair. Yeah, you sure as shit couldn't change the world here in this godforsaken county.

The Pickett County War: A Rural Noir RP

John Norman kept his truck at a steady sixty-five as it sped down the highway. He headed north towards the Abbeville County line. Carol worked as a dancer at the Boom Boom Room, and word had it that it was parked out on the boat ramp near Beer Garden Creek this weekend. Country music came in on the radio over static. John lit up a cigarette and stared out at the swath of road his headlights illuminated.

He and Carol had something years ago back when they were in high school. It was a kid's love that burned way too intense. They brought out the worst in each in other. She made him jealous and obsessive, and he made her churlish and cruel. His first stretch of legal trouble was because of Carol. He broke Ferrell Jones' arm after Carol made out with him. The make out sessions followed an argument between the two of them. She didn't even like Ferrell, she just did it to get a rise out of John. He copped a plea and got a year on probation for the attack. He graduated to harder crime and the two of them drifted apart after he went away. By the time he got out three years later, she was hooked up with Jed Tillman and having his baby. C'est la fucking vie.

They still saw each other around town from time to time, only really said hello to each other. She had two kids with Jed, just one of his three baby momma's. Despite it all, what they went through and what they made each other, he still caught himself from time to time thinking about what might have been.

John flipped his cigarette butt out the cracked window and pulled on to Beer Garden Road. He killed the radio halfway down the road and could hear the music pounding loud through the woods. Generic hip-hop from the way it sounded. He turned a corner and his headlights fell on the party scene. Four big RVs sat by the boat ramp, forming a semi-circle. Folding chairs and card tables dotted the dirt and pavement in front of the RVs. People sat and partied around the tables and chairs. Women in bikinis, some just wearing the bottoms, pranced and danced on and around the tables.

As wild as Pickett County was, there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that a strip club could operate without the bible thumpers getting their panties in a wad over it. They barely tolerated the bars as it was, to have a brazen den of iniquity like a strip club would be beyond the pale. That's where Billy Brown's genius came in. They couldn't have a permanent strip club in town, so he made a mobile one. Once a month, four RV's picked a spot out in the country and set up shop. Billy had somebody in the PCSD make sure the patrols avoided that area for the weekend. Strippers, drugs, and booze were all available at the Boom Boom Room. The RVs were set up to provide the girls and their customers private time where many of the men paid extra for more than just lap dances. Last he heard Carol was one of the dancers. He figured the odds on her hooking were slim. Jed Tillman was the jealous type. Only an idiot or out of towner would be stupid enough to mess with one of his women.

John got out the truck and walked through the party. Theo Tatum, Billy's guy who ran the show, found him and pressed him for twenty bucks, the standard entrance fee to stay at the Boom Boom Room. He coughed up and checked out the sights. Men in wobbly chairs watched young, naked women grinding on them with lusty glints in their eyes. He had to stifle a laugh. Most of these guys would be in church somewhere on Sunday, praying and talking up the Lord and all his goodness, condemning the wicked and the sinful. Southern duality and hypocrisy. It would be one thing to sin. Everyone sins. You gotta sin to get saved, after all, but the denial and condemnation of it all is what made John sick. It was why he hadn't stepped foot in a church since he was twelve years old.

"Hey, baby," John said as he came up on one of the dancers, a twenty in his hand.

"Hey, yourself, John Norman," she said with a wink.

She was topless, wearing a red string bikini bottom that showed off her large behind. Her cinnamon colored skin was dotted with moles and a scattering of freckles around her shoulders. John knew her well. He didn't stare at her small, firm breasts because he'd seen her naked more than a few times. Lacey Cade had been a year behind him in school. They didn't interact much, he being a white boy and she a black girl. After school, they drifted in the same social circles due to their roguish activities. John helped her out of a jam a time or two and she'd paid him back with a few gratitude lays. He felt shitty about it the first time, like he was exploiting her, but got used to it with each subsequent pairing. They tried dating, but it didn't really work out. They were just too different. He thought at first it was because of their differing races, but he realized he was the wrong type of guy for her. She needed a guy to take her away from this shitty little town and shitty little county. He wasn't capable of doing that. There was a lot John could do for her, but escape was something he was incapable of.

"Got a moment to talk?" He asked as he passed her the twenty.

"As long as it's talking, John Norman."

He hid a smile. He forgot how she always called him by his full name. Never just John. Lacey took him by the hand and led him to an empty table near the edge of the clearing, farther away from the music and grinding women. He found the picture of Howard Beggs he'd been using and gave it to Lacey.

"You recognize this guy, Lay Lay?"

John saw the slightest hint of a grin from Lacey when he used his nickname for her. She brushed her hair behind her ear and studied the photo.

"He look familiar. I think I saw him at one of the parties a few months ago. Not the last one, but the one before that maybe."

"Did you see him around with Carol Johson? Is she working tonight?"

"Carol? I ain't seen her in... you know, the last time I think she worked one of the parties was the same time I saw this guy."

John got out his pack of cigarettes and offered Lacey one. She took it and let him light her smoke. They took a few seconds pause in the conversation to enjoy smoking.

"Why you after me, John Norman? What'd he do?"

John flicked ashes and said, "You know what I do for a living, Lay Lay, he owes me some money."

Lacey's eyes flashed. She tapped his arm excitedly. "I remember now! When he was here, that guy you showed me, he was throwing money all over the damn place. Had a fat roll and acted like he owned everything. He had girls all over him... but he went into the RV with just Carol."

John nodded and blew smoke into the air. No Beggs and no Carol, but something interesting as hell was niggling him. If Beggs had cash like that a few months ago, then why was Carol paying for their drugs from Georgie? Strange. The hell was this guy into, and more importantly, why did Sheriff Parker give a shit?

"Thanks for the help, Lay Lay. I appreciate it."

She squeezed his hand. "I'm always happy to help you out, John Norman. You know that. In... any... way."

John laughed. "I don't know if I can afford it, baby."

"Didn't say I was selling. You want to give me a ride home tonight after we close up here?"

John nodded. Howard Beggs, Carol, and all the bullshit around it could wait until the morning.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

The internet, everybody.

Hydrosteel: The Bottom

Like I said, I was until the no smut rule.

But seriously, I can't think of anything to do in this setting. It sounds interesting, just not my bag. I just wanted to heckle you a bit.

Hydrosteel: The Bottom

...What is this?

Also, you had me until:

Capable of not doing smut or centering this on romance

@Nightrunner

*Tosses out post-apocalyptic smut RP concept*