Terry looked down at his bloody knuckles, “Dammed red heads, who knew that peckerwood was going to hit his head on the cement stairs?” “Well help me put him in the boat and let’s grab some of those cinder blocks.”
Pulling up at 2:30am the brothers parked by the boat ramp. The thermos steam was starting to trail off the cup until you blew on it and then it fogged up the windows. Joe broke the silence, “You didn’t have to kill that kid.” “Joe, that wasn’t a kid or a sixteenth, he was trying to rip us off, and hell I only hit him once.”
Look at that, someone has already put their Bass Master in the water and its only 3am. The State Game and Fishing Officer pulled in, parked and then walked over to talk to the two fellas. “You fellas look new to the area. How are you this morning?”
“Stay calm Terry, whispered Terry.” “Morning Officer, we’re doing OK. We used to come here as kids and it’s our first time back. We sure are looking forward to getting some bass today.”
“Well before you go out let me update you about our little place here. My son runs the bait shop and prints the local rag, “The Fish WRapper”. We’re still a small fishing community here at Liars Cove. You’ve got to be off the lake at 4pm. We’re just big enough to support a State Game and Fishing Officer, but small enough that I have to share an office with my big mouth son Peter, but he prefers to be called Junior.”
“Well this is Terry and I’m Joe. If you don’t mind we’re going to get out on the lake. We’ll catch up some more later this afternoon.”
“That sounds good boys; my name is Officer Michael P Pecker, senior. Oh and junior’s a little sensitive about his red hair and only his friends can call him Peckerwood. Now where is that boy?”
© 2012 Michael Yost 3/13
Posted in Poetry
Tagged Anger, Anxiety, Bass Master, Blame, Blood, Bloody Knuckles, Consequences, Death, Deception, Liars Cove, Michael Yost, Murder?, Peckerwood, Poetry, The Fish WRapper, Writing
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