The hot coppery slush of blood filled Swidlow's mouth. The first punch was warranted, arguably. The second followed the first, naturally. The third should have ended the matter. Caressing his newly tender jaw, Swidlow lifted his head just in time for hit number four. A good hard thump on an already throbbing cheekbone, it did real damage. Swidlow felt the distinctly unnerving wobble of a loosening front tooth. This was easily one of the five worst beatings he'd ever taken and it had hardly started. A missing tooth could hurt Swidlow's chances with the ladies. He could not abide the thought that a simple financial disagreement and the repercussions thereof would interfere with his ability to “make bacon”. Something had to be said.

“You boys keep banging on my jaw and I'll be disinclined to refund you your money.” Swidlow's words sputtered out of his mouth the way the muffler of a car would when the gas is low and the air cold.

“No considering. Just give us our money.” Swidlow smiled, blood clinging to the edges of every tooth. He considered how oddly juxtaposed these two small town toughs seemed. The big one stood back and did the talking while the small one pounded on him. But that was Hadleysburg, always the mismatched, unexpected, or downright uncanny.

Hadleysburg was, up until about a decade or so back, a sleepy little hamlet about fifteen miles outside a major urban sprawl. Just a gas station and a local municipal building off the highway.

The rampant growth of Hadleysburg had begun with a handshake at a pancake breakfast and a game of cribbage. A Mr. William Stacks had registered himself in the tournament with the sole purpose of tugging on the ear of the town supervisor, a Mr. Rueben Hills, whilst they played cards. Supervisor Hills was known as an absolute fanatic for the game of cribbage. Many speculated that it was Supervisor Hills' time in the Navy which gave him such enthusiastic affinity for the game. Truth was, young Rueben Hills joined the navy and got himself assigned to a submarine so as to concentrate more thoroughly on the game which had snared his fancy.

The town's spring pancake breakfast and cribbage tournament, held on the green grassed knolls of the James Ewell Brown Stuart Memorial Park, was a Hadleysburg tradition and social imperative for all eleven hundred eighty one residents. Supervisor Hills' inevitable crushing defeat of any rising challenger in the tournament satisfied the citizens need for spectacle and consistent grandeur.


After a quick and high pointed first round, Mr. Stacks got down to brass tacks.

"You've got a real piece of scenery out here."

"Sure do."

"Ten or twelve friends of mine would take to living out here. It'd be a nice bit of countryside where they could escape from the grit and noise of their urban workplaces," Mr. Stacks dreamed aloud.


"Sure is." Supervisor Hills answered from behind his cards.

"You plan on indulging me with any more than two words at a time?" Mr. Hills shook his head slowly.

"Deal." And from that moment forth the one horse town of Hadleysburg began bounding progressively forward like a team of horses driven by a lunatic.

The developers repaid the kindness of their hosts by footing the bill on every municipal remodel and new construction the town leaders could dream up. Nothing set the weary eyes of young professionals alight like the shining beacon of a newly constructed police station and municipal headquarters. The Hadleysburg Public Library once housed in a dilapidated feed store and known to contain piles of musty uncategorized tomes, donated romance paperbacks warped by moisture, and grease and otherwise stained agricultural equipment maintenance manuals, was torn down in a short afternoon. Its contents were disposed of in an impromptu bonfire held on the site of the building's next incarnation.

The new library was slowly summoned forth from the earth like a terrible and ancient god awakened from eons of slumber. Giant segmented metal insect legs jutted out from the earth. A carapace of dark wood and stone appeared. Finally, an exoskeleton of glass and concrete crystallized. A ceaseless procession of trucks fed the beast full with offerings of books, magazines, DVD's, journals, and other artifacts of information.

The composition of the building was known to catch the light of the setting sun and intensify it a hundredfold. An elderly native of the town claimed it actually blinded her. She'd stand on or in the street bemoaning both the loss of her sight and the innocence of her beloved township. She settled out of court.


It'd been the smaller one Swidlow'd sold the units to, just a day earlier. The big one had just sat, still as a stone, making a large impression on the red vinyl booth which squeaked its submission. They'd seemed so genuine bumpkin dumb. But now, in the dull yellow light of the alley, they both seemed as savvy as The Man From Chicago. Swidlow flashed on the possibility that these boys could possibly work for that elusive and well connected Chicagoan. Not a chance. He'd already be dead.

When he saw them last evening, these two looked like they'd fallen off a vegetable truck before ambling into Swidlow's crosshairs. Their hands were caked with dirt and frosted with green vegetation. The big one's fingers looked like carrots freshly pulled free from mother earth. Didn't look like the hands of a man who'd kill over the matter of a thousand dollars.

“Do you have our money?” The little one didn't wait for an answer. He socked Swidlow in the gut, harder than any previous strike. Swidlow felt something shift inside him. He grasped the lip of a nearby dumpster and steadied himself.

“With what I sold you boys, you ought to be able to make twenty times that. Now what's our problem here? You paid good money for the opportunity to make better. A lot better. What's the dust-up?"

“You was supposed to sell us portable meth-making appliances. What we got was two Mr. Coffees."

“I agree with you in fact, but disagree in spirit. I sold you boys something you didn't have. The knowledge.” The little one ripped a quick swipe into Swidlow's left cheek. Swidlow shook it off and sighed. "Did you boys know you could use an ordinary household coffee maker to manufacture meth?" The big one processed the thought.

"No."

"Well as sure as I'm bleeding here, you can. You put the right concoction into that Mr. Coffee and hours later you’re turning down offers of sexual favors by women as pale and thin as notebook paper. But I'd strongly advise you boys not to turn them down. They will go to work like the crank shoots straight out the old Jim Dangly." Swidlow smiled again. His teeth and gums the same shade of pink. "I sold you boys a valuable piece of knowledge and the device to use that knowledge to tremendous financial gain."

"If you so sure about this, why don't you make your own meth?"

"I'm a wanted man, fellas. I stop and set up shop and grow a customer base and sooner or later I get the wrong kind of attention. No. No. No. Jasper Swidlow's got to keep moving along." Swidlow had never once enjoyed the comforts of a jail cell. "If I'm caught I stand to lose a significant number of years to weightlifting and buttfucking. Let me tell you boys, I prefer not to force myself on anyone, woman or man.

"A man of such substantial bad as yourself must have a reward hanging over his head. A reward for greater than $1000 dollars, I'd hazard." The big one beamed at his own bright idea.

"Of course."

"Maybe the police can make good on your debt." Swidlow's smile evaporated.

"You boys know what it is to turn a man in? It's a heinous betrayal of a fellow entrepreneur. And do you think you just hand me over and Johnny Law ushers you out the door with a plug of cash and a pat on the back? He wants to sit you down and chat a few hours about how you come to make my acquaintance. Not to mention he wants as much detail about you, personally, as he can get you to admit. How long do you think short stack here'd last under the pressures of interrogation?" Short stack hooked a slow right fist under Swidlow's jaw. The blood from Swidlow's mouth burst forth and peppered the small man's sleeve. Swidlow turned back to the big one. "Do you understand what I'm saying? You open yourself up to all manner of questions." The big one let out a snort and nodded.
"So what do we put in the Mr. Coffees?"

"Well hell fella, all sorts of information to be had on the internets." The big one frowned.

"We got no Internet back to the house."

"That's even better. You get yourself down to one of these coffee spots with the computers, buy a cup of Jack or two and use those computers. That way it can't come back on you. The only evidence will be in a computer with 100 different fingerprints on it. Just make sure you pay for that coffee with cash. You don't want a record that you were ever there." Swidlow's words oozed out slow, like the blood from the gash on his cheek. Short stack let his fists loosen and fall.

"We still want half our money."

"Well that seems entirely equitable in principle. I've only been beat on by half a man here." Right in the eye. Swidlow'd been concerned he'd escape the situation without a good shiner. He grabbed at short stack's coat and pawed.

"That's quite a punch you've got there. Feels like I just got hit by the biggest toy train in all creation." One more swipe across the cheek, sure to leave a mark. Swidlow yanked a wad of cash out of his sport coat pocket, and held it out to the small man with his head hung down. Big boy stepped forward and snatched the money."That's more than we just agreed on." Big boy peeled off two crisp one hundred dollar bills and let them float down to the puddle Swidlow knelt in.

"We're even now?"

"Completely," mumbled short stack.

The two men walked away down the alley, leaving Swidlow kneeling in the puddle. A grimace crept slowly across his face. He spit a great pink gob onto the worn and cracked concrete. He grabbed hold of a drain pipe and pulled himself to his feet. Blood dripped down from his chin and formed little red starbursts in the dirty water. He watched the blood fade into the puddle. Jasper walked slowly out of the alley to the street, and at the first set of headlights, he raised his hand.

A Toyota pulled up to the curb with a squeal from the brakes. The car, a collage of primer gray, rust, oxidized teal, and a lipstick red passenger door, looked perfectly suited for deep reconnaissance missions in the junkyards of America's enemies. Or a suicide bombing. Swidlow opened and entered the backseat of the vehicle without negotiations. The interior smelled strongly of garlic salt, wet cardboard and cheap little cigars. The dome light had no cover; it shed relentless light on everything. The driver, a man of middle eastern descent turned and craned his neck into the back seat.

"You want hospital, buddy?"

"Police Station." Swidlow grasped the seat and yanked himself forward, pulling his face into the haze of cigar smoke and harsh yellow of the overhead light. "Police Station." He repeated it slower and quieter; the way a peon requests an audience with his king. He then handed the driver a wet and dirty one hundred dollar bill. The driver took the bill and laid it flat on the seat beside him. He flattened it gently with his large dry hand and finally gave it a little pat, the way one would a small pet.

"You got Kleenex or anything?" The shuffling sound of searching and the crinkling of a paper bag filled the car like the noise from an improperly tuned radio. The driver's hand thrust into the backseat holding a wet wad of mangled napkins. The napkins were white with a cartoonist rendering of the leaning tower of Pisa outlined in a dull and rusty orange. Underneath the drawing in the same color sat the name of the place, "Leaning Tower Pizza." Swidlow laughed and blotted at his lip. The driver popped the clutch and the car lurched forward suddenly and the suspension sang out its woes in a dozen voices in all directions.

"How long have you been here?" Swidlow asked.

"About nine years after August." Swidlow let out a long slow whistle. The car leapt over a pot hole and threw Swidlow forward.

"And what have you learned about our great country in that considerable time?"

"It's good here. Only one thing I notice about America really bothers me." Swidlow positioned himself behind the rearview mirror and raised his eyebrows drastically. "I will tell you. American people, the bad ones they don't seem to know that they are bad and good ones don't know any better." Swidlow laughed so abruptly he tore his lip open more. He turned his smile down enough to prevent any further damage, but could not extinguish it completely.

"What are you doing driving this jalopy around delivering bad pizza? Fella you are the smartest man I've met in a month. And the man from last month wants me laid out with my eyes facing heaven and my hair in the dirt. Where you hail from, if I may ask?"

"It's so long ago. I don't remember. I think it was sandy. How about you?"

"Friend, it's been so long ago, I don't remember why I left."

"But you remember why you don't go back?" The driver looked at Swidlow's brown eyes through the rearview. Then he nodded quickly and looked back to the road. "Of course. You remember," The driver said quietly.

"What's your name in case you die in my car?"

"Jasper. Jasper Swidlow." Swidlow shut his eyes and let the syncopation of the car's poor suspension jostle him into a half sleep. He awoke to another sharp punctuated whine of the brakes and an unsympathetic halt.

"Here is the place," said the pizza guy.

"Thank you for the lift. I sincerely hope that my country continues to show you the hospitality you have shown me."

"How long you be inside?"

"Better part of an hour I'd expect."

"I have more deliveries. When I'm finished I'll come back and if luck is with us maybe I don't get smart enough to want you laying down." Swidlow gave him a long casual salute and turned toward the front of the building.

The police station itself was not that impressive, but a fairway's worth of real estate separated the sidewalk from the front door. There were dozens of varieties of ornamental plant life intensely manicured and dramatically lit by the unnatural white light of halogens. Three flagpoles were lit with lights the size of televisions. On the left was the West Virginia state flag, in the middle, old glory herself, and on the right, held aloft by a gentle evening breeze was the Confederate flag. Swidlow had definitely come up on a nest of good ole boys.

Swidlow let his face drop and as he approached the glass doors he slowed his gait. When he reached the inner hallway, his face twisted and contorted so all might see a man who'd been thoroughly and wrongly beaten. As he approached the window, he added the hint of a limp. The woman behind the glass spun in her chair and instantly her face contorted into a combination of shock and fear.

"Can I help you?" She stuttered.

"I'm new to your town ma'am. And I'd like to talk to someone of a policing persuasion about your welcoming practices." The words sputtered out of Swidlow's mouth. Little flecks of blood dotted the glass in front of him.

An officer walked up behind the lady in the glass booth, put his hand on her shoulder and whispered to her. She nodded, never taking her eyes off of Swidlow. She backed away until she just disappeared. Swidlow feigned a smile.

"Now just what have you gotten yourself into tonight, big slick?" His mustache had been neatly trimmed back just slightly smaller than his mouth. A cheap plastic plate under the badge read "Upton".

"As I began to explain to the now absent lady, Officer Upton, I have been quite roughed up by some men of your town and would like to procure for them an appropriate amount of justice."

"Well the boys are quite tired and if I'm not mistaken we're all out of upright and noble intentions."

Swidlow reached slowly into his jacket pocket. Upton stepped back and set the palm of his hand on the butt of his gun. Swidlow stopped, nodded his head, and mouthed the words "nice and slow". Swidlow slid a crisp one hundred dollar bill from his jacket and pressed it hard against the glass.

"I'm sure whatever intentions you've got left will be fine as wine in the sunshine."

Upton examined the money and reached under the counter. A soft low buzz, like a gang of drunken bees, emanated from the door. Swidlow grabbed the handle and with no false amount of strain, slipped himself inside.

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...