Published: 28 Sep 2020

We were dragging a little the next morning as we crept through the woods to the back of the Muskrat Hill town square. It was even warmer today than it had been the night before, the sun bright overhead, and our black sweats were definitely living up to their name. It was easier for us this trip, because we weren’t carrying all the heavy things we’d been toting the night before, but it was just too warm a day to be so fully clothed.

Joey carried one sack with the transmitters inside, and Rich and I each carried an empty one for the equipment we’d be bringing back. Dev had the last sack, with our binoculars. We’d scrounged up a pair for each of us, of varying levels of quality. But each would gives us a better view of the goings on in front of the town hall than we’d have been able to get with just our eyes. There was also a camera in the same sack, one with a really good zoom feature, so that we could take a few shots of our moment of triumph. Just for posterity, you understand.

We could still see where we had come through the woods the night before, our passage documented in overturned leaves, which hadn’t fully dried yet and been bleached by the sun. So as we neared the backside of the Come On Inn, we veered right, and managed to emerge from the woods right at the corner of the rows of shops, just at the old hardware store.

The whole town was supposed to be in the square in front of the court house in just an hour, yet it was surprising how many people were out behind the shops, tossing trash, unloading trucks, or cutting up boxes. We had to wait a little until the coast was clear, and the whole time the four of us were climbing the ladder, I kept thinking someone else would walk out a back door and see us. But it didn’t happen, and we made it to the roof without getting caught. Things would hopefully be quieter here when it came time for us to leave.

This was my first chance to see what Dev and Rich had done on the rooftop. The facade of the store stood up about four feet above the roof itself, affording us some protection from being seen from the square in the bright morning sunlight. There was a central area on the roof consisting of a concrete pad with a brick chimney poked up from one side, and an old air conditioning unit parked squarely in the middle. There was a brick wall around the front of it, chest high, the reason for which was only known to some probably dead builder.

Dev and Rich had mounted their pulley atop one corner of the wall, sinking four studs into holes drilled in the brickwork, and using quick-release wingnuts to hold it down. The pulley atop the bell tower was expendable, but we wanted to take the motorized one with us. When our job here was finished, there would hopefully be time to undo the wingnuts and remove the pulley from its mount.

The battery that operated the pulley was just a big six-volt lantern battery, much lighter than the lead-acid batteries we’d used to power other parts of the project. It would go into one of the empty bags along with the motorized pulley when it came time for us to git. It wasn’t just the dollar value of these things to be considered – we wanted to leave as little in the way of evidence behind as we could manage.

After looking over the pulley set up, I let my eyes follow the two runs of paracord that extended away from the rooftop towards the bell tower. They seemed to go about fifteen feet from the roof of the hardware store, and then just to vanish into the morning sunlight. We’d certainly chosen the right color for them! They were just about invisible by day, lending an air of confidence to the idea that no one had spotted them. That had been one of my chief worries, and I felt better now that I could see they didn’t stand out at all against the sky.

The green before the courthouse was packed. Row after row of folding chairs stood before the grandstand, and while there were people sitting in some of them, for the most part the throng was still standing, split up into dozens of little groups just hanging out, talking. And those little groups were even further divided. It was already apparent that those men dressed in old fashioned Confederate uniforms had set themselves apart from the men dressed in black suits and bowties, while the women in their hoop skirts and over petticoats had formed yet a third group. I had to kind of smile at that. At every public function I’d ever attended, seemed the men and the women split up to talk amongst themselves before things got going, and only got back together again once the show – whatever it might be – started.

Most of the people sitting in the chairs seemed not to be of the other groups. Younger adults, wearing shorts and sandals, tee-shirts, and with lots of little kids with them, and the men and women actually seated together. People there to have fun, but not really into the spirit of all that history. That was the way I’d dressed when I’d gone with my dad three years back. History was history. I didn’t want to relive it.

Off to one side of the grand stand, the band was set up with their own chairs. This was the same band that played for most town occasions, comprised of Muskrats who’d once been with the high school band in the past, so the ages of the group were all over the board. I’d heard them play three years ago, and they weren’t bad. Mr. Bellevue, the choir coordinator over at the Baptist church, was bandleader and in charge of the music selection.

There were some large canopies beyond the rows of folding chairs, under which tables and chairs had been lined up, for the lunch come noontime. Some of the food was coming from here in the town, and some of it had been brought in. There were a half dozen trucks parked at one end of the canopies, with big stainless steel boxes on them, and sides that opened up to reveal little kitchens inside. The air was full of several aromas, one of which was certainly fried chicken, and another that might have been dirt peas.

Joey opened his bag and laid out the transmitters, while Dev opened his and handed out binoculars. Joey and I had our own, while the other two pairs had been borrowed for Dev and Rich. All would afford a good view of the things to come.

We found that if we sat on the wall before the old air-conditioning unit, we could just see over the facade of the building ten feet away, and had a good view of everything going on. Our black face masks would hopefully limit the chance of anyone spotting our heads from below. I also found that I could see Boney’s floppy hat above the railing of the clock tower balcony. It was just our height that allowed that, and I was pretty sure that those on the ground couldn’t see it. Even if they did, I recognized it because I knew what it was, but to them it would just be a dark shape high above. It was nice to know that Boney had not been discovered, anyway.

We’d discussed who was going to be the voice of Boney. The frequency modulator inside the scarecrow assured that no matter which of us spoke, the voice would sound the same. But we couldn’t all be on our transmitter’s channel two at once, or we’d risk talking over each other, and spoiling the effect. In the end, we’d decided that Dev, who’d had the worst of it from Brad, would have the honor of playing the part of Boney. But we’d all discussed the things to be said, and while there could be no script, because we didn’t know how those on the ground would respond, there was a general outline of where we wanted things to go, and what we wanted to say.

We were peering at things through the binoculars when the county sheriff’s car drove up and parked at the curb by the green. I dropped my glasses, watching as Sheriff Mike Dizzard climbed out of the passenger side, stretched, and gave a big sigh. That he’d rather be in his chair at his desk in his air-conditioned office was pretty clear.

I moved the glasses as the driver’s door opened, expecting to see Deputy Len Cross, who my dad had said had the joy and honor of carrying on the battle for Mike Dizzard’s moral support at the commemoration this year. Only…it wasn’t Len Cross that got out of the car. It was my dad!

“Oh, shit!” Dev said, bumping his shoulder hard against mine. “Do you see…?”

“Yeah,” I returned, nodding. I licked my lips, feeling my throat immediately go dry.

“I thought you said someone else was coming,” Rich piped, his voice squeaking with alarm now.

I pulled the glasses from my eyes. “Something must have messed up with Len Cross.” I thought fiercely, and then shook my head. “This…doesn’t change a thing. So my dad is here. He’s just another deputy for now, okay?”

The others looked at me, and I could see they didn’t like this. But I think they were more worried about me than anything else, and I grinned, despite wishing I was home under my bed about now.

“He’ll just have a good seat for the show,” I finished.

Dev squinted at me. If anyone could see my discomfort, it was him. I nodded insistently at him, but when his expression didn’t change, I raised an eyebrow and frowned. “What? Problem? We have to do this!”

He gave a short, amazed little laugh, and then shook his head. “Nope. No problem.” He leaned over and kissed my cheek though, and I closed my eyes a moment and drank that in. The plan would still work, even with my dad a part of the crowd below. It was all in how you thought about it, and nothing more. He was just another deputy, here for the commemoration.

I’d just keep telling myself that, and hope that it took.

Dev drew back, and I opened my eyes and brought my glasses back to my face. I tracked Sheriff Dizzard and my dad as they wound their way through the crowd, stopping to talk to people, waving at others, until they finally arrived at the front row of seats to the left of the grandstand. The first five rows of seats there enjoyed the shade from a huge old evergreen oak that stood at the edge of the square, and the first row of those seats had been reserved for the town council and visitors of importance. The sun wouldn’t get around to them until late in the afternoon, and it was about as close as Sheriff Dizzard was going to get to air-conditioning around here.

More cars arrived, and people got out of them, and I recognized Mayor Stucky in his trademark white suit and panama hat. He was a portly fellow, and looked like the bad guy from some old Bogart movie. Gran and meemaw were always watching those things, and I’d seen enough of them growing up to gain a small affection for them.

His arrival seemed to signal a massing of the crowd towards the chairs, and as the mayor and several other older fellows in period black suits and bow ties took seats by Sheriff Dizzard and my dad, I saw a few other people climbing the stairs of the grandstand, and zeroed in on them with my glasses. Hah! One was Brad Kisner, dressed in plain confederate grays, with his daddy beside him in a like uniform, though bedecked with gold braid and floppy ribbons, like he’d won the whole war all on his own.

They took seats at the back of the stand, underneath the canopy, along with a few other men and women who probably would also be getting some sort of recognition. It was traditional to give out ribbons for the best apple butter, and the best pies; for the owner of the horse that won the spring race at the fair grounds; for the biggest bull, and the most popular stud horse; for the winner of the quilting contest – stuff like that. I didn’t recognize anyone else seated there, but that didn’t matter. Brad was really the only one I cared about.

He looked excited and happy, one of the few times I think I’d ever seen him smiling without some kind of venom in it. I felt a pang of discomfort at that, but it couldn’t be helped. Even the serpent smiled when he got Adam and Eve kicked out of the garden, right?

His daddy was also smiling, his chest all puffed up underneath those ribbons. This was a big thing for these folk, I guess. We had fairs and stuff over in Bent Fork, too, and people enjoyed going to them, though there was none of this dressing up in old fashioned clothes going on there. Muskrat Hill was like another planet, where there were people just like on Earth, but where a lot of what they did looked different, smelled different, and tasted different. Maybe it was this different outlook on life that also played a part in the two towns not getting along.

Muskrat Hill sort of lived in the past, I think. Change was something they carried in their pockets, and used in the few parking meters spaced around the square. Bent Fork was scarcely going to be the next Cape Canaveral, but at least we had allowed some of the present day to creep into our lives there. Looking around the square, I was suddenly struck by the notion that it had probably looked much like it did now for the last seventy-five years, with only the cars parked about an indication that it was not still nineteen-fifty. Just goes to show you what always looking back will get you, I guess.

Rich dropped his glasses, and sighed. He pulled up his face mask, and frowned at us. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen Brad Kisner looking so happy before.”

I nodded. ‘I was just thinking that.”

Dev turned to look at me, his eyes appearing thoughtful through the holes in his face mask. “This is going to mess him up.”

There was no glee there, and I understood why. Dev had imagination, and compassion to go along with it. I had enough imagination myself to be able to see what it would be like to come to something like this commemoration day, all excited about being given an award in front of the town, only to have it all go wrong in front of everybody. I could see where that would hurt, and hurt a lot.

Joey grunted. “I hope it does mess him up. Then he’ll know what it feels like to be the target of someone’s meanness.”

Rich looked aghast. “You think we’re being mean?”

“Shit, yeah.” Joey nodded his head vigorously. “You don’t? That’s the whole point of this plan. To learn Brad Kisner what it’s like to be on the other end of mean.” He chuckled. “I’m going to get plenty of satisfaction doing this.”

Rich frowned, but it was Dev who turned to him and said what needed to be said. “I don’t like being cruddy to people, either. But that doesn’t mean I’ll just lay back and take it when someone is mean to me.” He waved a hand at the grandstand. “He’s not gonna get hurt. He’s just getting some of what he’s been giving to all of us. It’s no worse than him throwing a can of whitewash on me.” He gave a small laugh then. “He’s just gonna have a way bigger audience.”

It was plain that we had doubts about what we were going to do. It had seemed like a lot of fun when we imagined the plan, and it had seemed like a pretty harmless way to get back at Brad. But seeing the crowd of people here now…it was sobering. It’s one thing to lay back in the shack and plot and plan and laugh about what we were going to do, and it was another thing altogether to sit here in the morning sunshine, with a few hundred people before us, and know what was going to happen next, when they didn’t.

We were going to change the day of every single person here in this square.

Joey pulled up his face mask and glared. “If you guys are getting cold feet, now’s the time to say so.”

I looked at Dev, and he shook his head. “I’m not backing out. I’m in.”

I sighed, but knew which way I had to go. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

Dev and I looked at Rich, whose expression had gone neutral as he thought about the whole thing. He raised his glasses again and looked off at the grandstand, and then dropped them and nodded his head. He grinned, and bumped his shoulder against Joe’s. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Joey grinned back, and pulled his mask back down, and Rich followed suit.

We were committed.

Slowly, the crowd organized itself, and sat down in the folding chairs. Mayor Stucky stood and turned to watch them, careful not to get out of the shade while doing so. He was not a man that liked to sun bathe, that was for sure.

Finally, everyone was seated, and except for a few babies crying and their mommas shushing them, the square grew silent. Mayor Stucky fixed a beaming smile on his face, and ascended the staircase to the podium. Even though it was pretty quiet, and all eyes were already on him, he waved his hands as if requesting everyone’s attention. I raised my glasses to my eyes, and was aware of the other guys doing the same.

“Good morning, folks,” the mayor said.

If there hadn’t been a slight breeze blowing towards us, we might not have heard him at all.

The mayor frowned and tapped the microphone before him, but there was no response.

Jeff Willis, the town maintenance man, jumped up from his front-row seat and quickly ascended the other staircase, reached past the mayor, and did something to the mic. There was a blast of sound, a yowl of feedback from the speakers placed before the stand, and then Jeff’s gravelly voice, sounding slightly amused. “You gotta turn it on, first, Mr. Mayor.”

A chorus of laughter rippled through the crowd. But Mayor Stucky simply smiled, and nodded at the other man. “I thought that’s what we paid you for, Jeff.”

More laughter. Jeff Willis looked slightly embarrassed, and quickly left the stage, while the mayor grinned at the crowd and looked pleased with himself.

“A fine day we have here, isn’t it?” he asked. “I cannot think of a more beautiful day for our commemoration, in fact.”

“It was just like this last year!” someone called from the audience.

The crowd laughed again, and the mayor waved a hand at the disturbance as if shooing away a fly. “Yes, it’s only right that the sun be shining and the temperature be warm, as we honor that famous defender of our town, Deke Zachariah Hawkins. What a story to tell, what a magnificent moment in the life of our fair town! On that precipitous day so long ago, this son of Muskrat Hill stood up and struck a blow for freedom, not only saving the homes we love, but the homes of our neighbors to the north, in Bent Fork. The men of our two towns rode forth that day, and helped to turn away the tide of destruction racing down upon them. What could have been an end was instead a new beginning, and today we are enjoying the fruits of their efforts in a quiet and safe Eden that maintains our way of life, the way of life that we love.”

The mayor’s voice quavered with emotion, his eyelids heavy, as if seeing the very moment.

Joey grunted. “What a windbag.”

“It’s the same speech he gave three years ago,” I said. “He probably has it tattooed on his palm.”

Dev snickered, and Rich gave his knee a quiet slap. “Mayor Tatum at home doesn’t talk that way. Bent Fork sure is different from here, you know?”

“Yup.”

But the crowd seemed to be sucking it up. For the next ten minutes, the mayor blabbed on, about what a great town Muskrat Hill was, and how fine an ancestor Deke Hawkins had been, how brave and selfless he was, and how much was owed to him by everyone present. There was no mention made of a still, nor any other blemish on the revered man’s past. Gran would have puked if he’d heard it all, I’m quite sure.

The mayor also managed to get in that he knew the mayoral election was coming up soon, and that he hoped to be able to serve the ‘citizens of this fine town’ for yet another term. Mayor Stucky had held his office for nearly ten years now, mostly because he’d been running unopposed for most of them; but rumor had it that Zeb Pritchard was going to run against him this time, and Zeb was fairly famous locally as the winner of the county Musketball Rifle Contest for fourteen years running. Being a hot shot counted among the local male contingent, apparently, and all that Mayor Stucky had to offer in return was some years of pretty good service, and that he’d had the statue of Newt Hammond, considered the town’s founding father, refurbished and made pretty again.

The band played The Bonnie Blue Flag, The Rebel Soldier, and When Johnny Comes Marching Home, and then the crowd sang along with Eatin’ Goober Peas. Everyone seemed to be having a grand time, while we were slowly cooking inside our sweats in the hot morning sun.

“I wish they’d get on with it,” Rich finally grated, any worry over what we were doing now burned away by the heat of the sun. “I’m starting to feel like a french fry.”

We drank water from our canteens, but it was warm, and didn’t do much to slake our thirsts. Hell, I’d even welcome a cold beer about now, and certainly the cool comfort of the shack.

But finally, the mayor must have been tiring of his own exposure to the sun. He called up and introduced Sheriff Mike Dizzard, while my dad wisely stayed in his seat in the shade. The Sheriff said how happy he was to be there again for yet another celebration, and how the whole county remembered Deke Hawkins and the brave thing he’d done. The crowd clapped, and then the Sheriff wisely got himself back to his seat.

The mayor then called up Cupper Dawson, and named him Master of Ceremonies, and then Myra Crawford, and named her Mistress of Ceremonies. Myra was the organist at the Baptist church, and used to having the spotlight. She was there along with Cupper so that the deputy wouldn’t need to explain to the crowd the intricacies of making fine apple butter, or what sort of stitching had been used in the winning century quilt at the county fair. They were ladies things, and needed a feminine hand.

“Alright,” Cupper said, as the Mayor hastened back to his seat in the shade. “I know you folks are getting warm, but it’s still early. Don’t forget the great lunch we’ll be serving at noon, neither. I know all this celebrating makes me hungry, so I hope all of you will join us.”

Myra Crawford smiled gloriously, and nodded. “I’m sure we’ll all be there. And now it’s come time for us to recognize some of our own, for outstanding accomplishments this last year, or for contributions to the town that have benefited us all.” She turned to the row of seats underneath the canopy at the rear of the grandstand, and waved a hand magnanimously. “As you can see, there are a number of them.”

The crowd clapped, but I was certain I heard a few groans mixed in there, too. And Emmet Castleby and a few of Brad’s other buddies were seated a few rows back from the grandstand, and they whistled and cheered and stamped their feet. I could make out Brad beneath the canopy, smiling, and grimaced.

Smile now, I thought. While you can.

We passed through awards for quilting, and pies, and for the best stud horse at the county fair. Each recipient stood and came forward, collected their certificate and said their thanks into the microphone, and then went down the side steps into the shade, to shake the hand of the mayor. The heat was making me sleepy, and I think I fuzzed out a few times. I lifted my face mask and pushed it back on my head, and took a deep breath of the comparably cool air outside the mask. Dev looked at me, and then he had his mask up, too.

“Finally,” Joey said, pushing up his own mask. “I was beginning to think we were taking this Mission Impossible crap too far.” He turned and prodded Rich, who also lifted his mask.

The cooler air immediately brought me back, and I gulped some of it down gratefully, and took another drink from the canteen.

“And now,” Cupper said, waving his hat gently in front of his face, “we have an award that’s new this year, one for service to the town in the area of craftsmanship. As you all know, Kit Kisner and his son, Brad, have been installing new pews in the Baptist church, and aren’t they looking fine?”

Emmet and his squad whistled and yelled and stamped their feet, and there was some polite clapping from everyone else.

Joey turned and looked at us. “Everybody be quiet now, okay? I’m going to cut Dev into channel two.” He looked at Devin. “Ready?”

Devvy grinned at me, and nodded. I leaned against his shoulder and smiled, seeing the mischief in his eyes, and the eagerness with which he was ready to act. This was going to be good, there was no doubt in my mind.

What goes around, comes around!

“As you folks know, Kit is a member of the town council, and he has said he would be ever so proud to represent the town in handing out this particular award. So if you don’t mind…here he is.”

Brad’s dad stood and marched forward towards the podium, the braiding and medals bouncing up and down on the front of his uniform. There was the slightest bit of tittering from the audience, but it was mostly drowned out by the chorus of cheers from Emmet and his friends. Mr. Kisner was a tall, hawk-faced man, and despite the slightly ridiculous look of his uniform, it fit him, somehow. He looked like an old-time, fire-breathing general, marching into the latest conquered town.

The man waited a moment for the cheering from Emmet and crew to stop, and when it didn’t stop quickly, he glared at them. “Thank you, thank you. Thank…you!” Emmet, who had risen to his feet to lead the cheering, ducked at the force of the last words, and quickly sat down again.

Mr. Kisner smiled, and briefly examined the microphone before him, no doubt ensuring that it was properly positioned to catch his every word. “As Deputy Dawson has just said, my boy and I have been installing new pews in the church. And I’ll say right now that these are not some store-bought pews, but made right here in town, at my shop over on Maybell Street. Many people have remarked positively on the fine level of the craftsmanship, and I want to say now that this is due in no small part to the efforts of my boy, who is well on his way to becoming a master-builder.”

Someone deep in the audience snorted hugely, and there was a bout of tittering from the ladies. Mr. Kisner immediately glared, and pointed to someone in the back rows. “I know that was you, Ben Fetter. I assure you, this is not a moment for levity!”

I couldn’t help grinning, just at the way the man spoke, drawing out the final word so that it almost crackled in the warm morning air. Lev-i-tay!

The accused raised a hand and waved it gently. “No harm meant, Kit. Just my allergies actin’ up, is all.”

Mr. Kisner immediately smiled. “You’re forgiven, then.” He cleared his throat, and squinted out at the crowd. “Umm…as I was saying, my son, Brad, is mostly responsible for the fine work being done in the church. So when I was approached by the town council with an idea to acknowledge Brad with an award for his work, why, of course I wanted to be the one to hand it to him personally.”

There was another huge snort from the back row, and Ben Fetter whipped out a huge hanky and made a show of burying his nose in it. “Sorry!”

The ladies tittered again, and I could see grins on a lot of faces. There just are no real secrets in a small town. Not for long, anyway.

Mr. Kisner glared again, and this one promised a payback of some sort. But he grimaced, and forced a smile onto his face, and turned to Myra Crawford. “You have the certificate?”

At some point a box had been set on the grandstand by the podium, which must contain the awards being handed out. Myra bent and retrieved one, and held it out to Mr. Kisner, whose chest immediately swelled beneath his medals. He turned to the back of the grandstand, and nodded. “Bradley? Front and center, son!”

Brad leaped up out of his seat and ran for the podium, causing another round of tittering from the audience.

Dev leaned against me and prodded me with his arm, and I knew he was ready for what came next.

Mr. Kisner beamed, and reached out and dropped a hand on his son’s shoulder. With the other hand he held up the certificate, took a breath, and launched into his speech. “Bradly Kisner, it my great honor to award you this certificate of merit, for your outstanding work on the new pews at the First Baptist Church of Muskrat Hill, and to congratulate you on your –”

“Excuse me!”

The voice was huge, and baleful, and it echoed about the square like the crack of doom. I saw people in the crowd jump at the power of it, and it was everything I could do not to laugh out loud.

Dev gave the power to the winch pulley a nudge, and Boney stepped forward to the rail of the bell tower balcony. A push to the joystick on the transmitter caused the scarecrow to wave both arms, and a number of people in the crowd caught the movement and looked up.

“Look!” someone yelled, standing up and pointing. “There’s a man on the bell tower!”

Mayor Stucky came up out of his chair as if he’d been stung, and shaded his eyes with a hand and stared upwards. Sheriff Dizzard was not far behind him…and my dad, as well.

Cupper Dawson, who with Myra had stepped to the side of the stage while Mr. Kisner made the presentation, turned, and also shaded his eyes and stared upwards. “Who’s that?”

Sheriff Dizzard pointed skyward. “You come down from there, boy, before you get hurt!”

“I am not going to be hurt,” Boney said, his voice somber with assurance. “I can’t be hurt. I’m already dead. I’m the ghost of Deke Hawkins.”

A total silence greeted that revelation.

Sheriff Dizzard snorted, and turned to Mayor Stucky. His voice was loud enough to carry to us, even without them being close to a microphone. “Is this a joke, Burt? This is a joke, right?”

The mayor turned and looked at the council members seated nearby, who all shrugged helplessly.

“If it is, I don’t know about it, Sheriff.”

The Mayor turned, and marched up onto the stage to face Cupper Dawson. “Is this some sort of entertainment that’s been planned without my knowledge?”

Cupper’s eyes grew wide. “I don’t know anything about it.” Their voices carried to the nearby mic, and emerged at a conversational volume from the speakers.

Sheriff Dizzard joined them, my dad in tow. “If this is not a joke, then maybe Deputy Dawson should go up there and bring that man down.”

Cupper’s eyes grew huge, and he glanced upwards at Boney. “Me? Why me? Send your deputy up.”

I bristled at that, and gritted my teeth. Another reason not to like Cupper Dawson!

Sheriff Dizzard wasn’t having it, either. “Because it’s your damn town, that’s why! It’s what you’re paid for, isn’t it?”

Mayor Stucky, aware that what was being said was also being blurted out over the speakers, waved a hand and glanced at the crowd. All eyes were upon them. “Let’s not let our tempers get the better of us, gentlemen,” he whispered.

Sheriff Dizzard looked exasperated, shook his head, and turned and pointed up at the bell tower. “You there! This is Sheriff Mike Dizzard of the Hawkmore County Sheriff’s Department speaking! You just get your butt back on that ladder and get it down here, right now, ‘fore I send someone up to get you!”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Boney said, sounding almost cheerful at the prospect. “Not unless he can fly.”

The sheriff actually took a step backwards in shock. “Are you threatening one of my officers?”

Boney gave out a sinister laugh that made my skin crawl. “I wouldn’t do that, Sheriff. I’m just saying, the ladder up here isn’t very safe, and I’d hate to be the cause of one of your boys taking a tumble!”

“Then come on down!” the sheriff bellowed.

Mayor Stucky raised a hand, and waved it. “There must be a reason you’re up there, son! Tell us how we can defuse this situation.”

Boney laughed, and it was just so scary that sounds of alarm issued from the crowd, and two youngsters on the edge got up and ran.

“There ain’t nothing to defuse,” Boney said then. “I come here every year, to hear you people talk about me, and I always just sit up here and listen. I’ve never said a word until now.”

Mayor Stucky looked astounded. “You’re up there every year?”

“I just said so, didn’t I? And every year, you people use my commemoration day to hand out awards to people who made the best dish towel, or cooked up the best pie. I’ve never minded that, until now.”

Dev nudged the joystick, and Boney’s right arm came up and froze before him, as if he were pointing at the crowd below. “But now, you want to use my day to hand out an award to this peckerhead? I can’t stay silent at that!”

Brad and his dad had been standing silently, frozen before the podium. The elder Kisner still had the certificate in one hand. Brad, who was looking up, too, suddenly frowned and looked at his daddy. “Is he talkin’ about me?”

“Yes, I’m talking about you!” Boney yelled. “You little dirt weasel, muckin’ up my day with your phony award! You ain’t done an hour’s worth of work on those pews. Your daddy has done it all, and he’s just trying to boost you up to make you look good.”

There were a couple of screams from the crowd, but it was laughter, not terror. I could see people convulsing, not just at the total craziness of what was happening, but at what had been said about Brad. Like I say, small towns have few secrets.

“I don’t need no boostin’ up!” Brad yelled, waving his fist skyward.

“Shut up,” Mr. Kisner said crisply, swatting him. “Don’t say anything else.”

“I’m not totally unsympathetic, however,” Boney continued. “I do think you need to get awarded something. Something in keeping with the truly little penis that you are. That’s why I’m speaking out today. I want to present you with just what I think you deserve.”

Only Brad and his dad were currently in front of the podium, so when Dev nodded at Joey, and Joey pushed the button on the other transmitter, I was reasonably certain that it was only them that would get wet. Still, there were a couple of seconds delay as the pump under the stand primed itself, and began pumping the contents of the gas can through the line.

There was a sputtering sound, and then a multitude of tiny jets of dark liquid erupted forth from the hidden shower head, striking both Kisners full on. They backed up in reaction, and threw their arms up, even as the fronts of their uniforms got soaked with the sticky liquid. But they had nowhere to go. Brad’s back hit the podium, and his dad’s the rail beside it, stopping their retreat. And then, again in reaction, they both turned their backs to the flow to protect their faces, thus ensuring a liberal coating of the stuff all over.

There was enough force from the jets to knock their hats off, and Brad’s hair immediately fell down over his eyes in gooey strands, while his dad’s balding crown glistened with black stickiness in the hot, hot sun. Both of them were drenched, no doubt about it.

“Yeeee-hah!” Boney yelled. “Sweets for the creeps!”

Joey let the stream of molasses run seven or eight seconds – a very long time under such a situation – and then lifted his thumb from the button on the transmitter. The flow of liquid from the shower head drooped, and then ceased. Both Brad and his dad took a couple of steps backwards then, and looked down at the fronts of their sodden uniforms.

“God…damn!” Mr. Kisner bellowed, brushing at his sticky medals and ribbons. “Somebody get that son of a bitch!”

“But I’m not done!” Boney called, sounding gleeful. “You can’t have tar without –”

Joey pushed the button on the last transmitter.

There was a soft whump!, and the front of the podium blew outward. A cloud of white and gray erupted forth as between five and seven thousand chicken feathers, propelled by an instantaneous release of helium at fifty pounds pressure, filled the air in front of the podium, totally obscuring both Kisners for a full five seconds. The square settled into stunned silence as everyone, everywhere, simply stopped what they were doing and stared at the slowly dissipating cloud.

And then the breeze briefly strengthened, carried away some of the cloud, and the Kisner’s reemerged, now covered from head to foot in feathers.

On the roof, Joey managed to cut the transmitter to Boney as the four of us keeled over, sputtering and gasping, trying not to make a sound as we laughed our asses off. Dev held onto me, hugging me, and I could feel his chest bouncing against me as he laughed. Rich and Joey were similarly engaged, and it was a full minute before we realized that what we were hearing now was a commotion from the square below.

“Let me up!” Dev hissed, his face still spit with a huge grin. I kissed him, and we helped each other up, and raised our heads just enough to see over the facade of the building.

Sheriff Dizzard was yelling up at Boney, but we couldn’t understand what he was saying, because the crowd had gone crazy, laughing and carrying on, while the two Kisners stood in shock before the podium, looking at each other. The explosion of feathers had been better than our wildest dreams, and both Brad and his dad were evenly covered, head-to-foot.

Remembering the camera then, I grabbed it up, aimed it, zoomed in on the Kisners, and took a half-dozen pictures in quick succession. The looks on their faces were priceless as they just stood and stared at each other! Both of them had also gotten a pretty good faceful of helium, so when Brad brushed at the feathers stuck all over himself, and shook his head in complete shock, and yelled, “Just look at me!”, his voice came out high and thin, like some kind of crazy cartoon character.

“Don’t say anything else!”, his daddy warned, but he also sounded like a Munchkin from The Wizard of Oz.

The crowd erupted into more laughter, and both Kisners quickly stepped to the back of the stage, disappearing underneath the canopy.

“I can’t hear what Sheriff Dizzard is saying!” Joey warned. “We can’t have him doing something we can’t handle.”

“I’ll fix that,” Dev said. “Everybody be quiet. Joey, switch me on.”

Joey nodded, and reactivated the transmitter.

Dev took a breath, and then bellowed into the mic: “Shut up!”

The herculean voice echoed around the square, and the crowd fell silent as if a switch had been turned off. Even Sheriff Dizzard gaped upwards, temporarily at a loss for words.

“You people really should get a life,” Boney said. “All this hoopla about a bunch of dead people like me isn’t good for you.”

Sheriff Dizzard swore, and turned to my dad. “That’s it! Frank, take Deputy Dawson and go up there and get that bastard!”

“No need,” Boney said quickly. “I’m leaving. I’ve had my fun.”

“You’re coming down?” the sheriff asked, smiling thinly and patting the little pocket on his belt holding his handcuffs.

“I didn’t say that,” Boney replied. “I don’t need to come down to leave. I’ll just fly away, and leave you people to your problems.”

Dev bumped the pulley control, and it looked like Boney was now leaning over the rail.

Someone screamed, and then several someones, and a dozen women in the crowd sat down hard in their chairs.

“He’s gonna jump!” Cupper Dawson yelled, waving his arms in alarm.

“And ruin my best suit?” Boney returned. “Don’t be silly.”

And with that, Dev flattened the pulley control. Boney leaped over the railing…but did not fall. Instead, he sailed across the sky, his arms waving like a giant bird’s wings.

“Yeeee-hah!” the scarecrow roared, looking for all the world now like he was flying. “Yeeee-hah!”

The crowd simply gaped in disbelief; and then about a third of them turned and ran. Chairs went flying, and those not running had to jump to get out of the way.

But it diverted attention from Boney, who sailed over the sidewalk, down the line of shops next to the courthouse, straight towards us.

Rich and I jumped up and stood on either side of the line, and caught the scarecrow as he came over the facade of the building, and onto the roof. With the battery installed, he weighed at least forty pounds, and the impact nearly knocked us both off our feet. But we stopped him, and I whipped out my pocket knife and quickly sawed through the line on either side of the clamps, freeing Boney from the line. The loose end of the paracord skittered away across the roof as gravity took hold; but Joey had reversed the power on the motor control for the pulley, and now he mashed the power button flat. It took thirty seconds for the winch to reel in all the line from the clock tower, leaving a large pile of it at our feet. All that was left on the clock tower balcony now was the second pulley attached to the brick wall.

Dev tossed the transmitters into a bag, while Joey pulled down the pocket of Boney’s shirt and turned him off. Then he quickly unbuttoned the scarecrow’s shirt, reached inside, and worked out the dowel rod that kept him rigid. Joey and I folded Boney in half and put him into another sack, while Dev and Rich spun loose the wingnuts holding the winch-pulley in place, snatched it from its mount, and crammed it, the pile of paracord, and the pulley’s battery into another sack.

We cleaned up the binoculars and the canteens, grabbed the camera, and into the sack with the transmitters they went. And then we were at the ladder, and Joey was heading down, and then Dev. We handed the bags down, one-by-one, to Dev, who handed them to Joe, who stacked them on the ground until he had them all. And then we got ourselves down that ladder in a hurry, grabbed up the sacks, and were heading into the woods. The whole thing, from grabbing Boney as he landed to stepping in among the trees, took less than two minutes.

We crossed that mile of woods in record time, tossed the bags in the back of the pick up, and were heading down Route Two for home while Sheriff Mike Dizzard was still yelling in the square for order.

Our Authors Deserve Your Feedback. It is the only payment they receive. Your emails let them know that what they write resonates with you, the Reader. GeronKees at Runbox dot com.

4,648 views