Page 56 of Road Refugees

Where had Town gone? Tobiah seemed to think Target. Was that to purchase my surprise? But what did this Irv Beagle have to do with it? I stood by the kitchen window that overlooked our barbecuing area, the hot tub where I’d squeezed Town’s thick, hard dick between my thighs, the bocce ball court. All good times, nothing that had ever caused me anguish or remorse. Now an uncomfortable feeling came rushing back to me like a football player. Why would Town become involved in some underhanded, sleazy dealing? It reminded me too much of Orson “testing out” the other teenaged wives before recommending them to other men in the compound.

Just as I was beginning to gulp my wine instead of sip, Slappy came in. His wife Chloe had recently asked for a separation. It wasn’t a big surprise. Apparently, the lustful text she’d been privy to was only the latest in a long string of infidelities. And she blamed him for what the army had put her through with their unborn baby. He put a hand on my shoulder.

“Tobiah got the surveillance videos. He used a burner profile he’s had awhile. Look, Heaven, Town would never do anything against us. We are literally his family.”

I turned to him. “You guys are my family, too! Listen, I was thinking about Irv Beagle—”

“—I was thinking about Irv Beagle. Isn’t it just too coincidental that his last name is Beagle when those asswipes at the puppy mill breed beagles?”

I grabbed the tall man by the shoulders. “Yes! It’s beyond coincidental, Slappy! I think we should just get down to Target right now and look around for my car.”

“I agree, Heaven. We can let Tobiah give us updates over the phone.”

Crybaby twirled around the kitchen corner like a stripper, eager to give his news. “Tobiah checked into Irv Beagle’s incoming calls. Guess who the only one was?”

Slappy and I went toward Crybaby with our hands out like claws. He was being dramatic just to draw out the tension, and neither of us needed that right now. I probably would have sliced him with my fingernails if Tobiah hadn’t skidded around the corner on his high-top tennis shoes and proclaimed,

“Byron Riddlesberger.”

Town

I only knew Stomach. He lurked behind the van, out of range of my piece—I may have plugged him through the head if he were available, through the shadow of his enormous scar. He made it through the Bare Bones attack. Probably more pissed-off than before.

Three other guys in black patched vests had jumped out of the Toyota minivan behind the Target and beaten the crap out of me. I held my own, I guess. I hit the first guy with a powerful jab to the nose, and blood sprayed like a red curtain. One Friend of Distinction was down.

To his credit, the feeble Darcy Bard tried to put the wooden vegetable crate full of puppies—there really were boxer puppies clamoring and peeping in the box—back into the Honda. I hit the second Friend in the forehead with a straight cross. I broke two fingers against the guy’s thick skull, but he went flying against the minivan too, like a guy zapped by lightning. The third reprobate lurched over to clinch Darcy Bard by the throat, and the box of squirming creatures banged to the ground. They escaped as well as they could, some confused and staying inside the topsy-turvy box. I instantly whipped my Glock from the small of my back and shot the reprobate in the shoulder.

I know, you should always shoot to kill. Never shoot anyone in the leg “just” to cripple him, and so on. If you’re going to use your weapon at all, you want to kill. And I had way enough justification in my position, being beyond outmanned, attacked as I was.

I don’t know. Maybe my time with Heaven had turned me softer, more introspective, kinder. If she could be so compassionate after all the abuse heaped upon her, couldn’t I? Instead of outright leveling a guy, could I maybe just not disable him?

It was my crowning mistake.

“Eat shit and die, you fuckwad!” Stomach shouted, uncreatively.

I plugged the Friend in the clavicle, expertly missing his carotid artery by two inches thanks to the laser I’d installed. To the thundercunt’s credit, he did let Bard go. Bard instantly dropped to his knees and collected the puppies—that’s the last I saw of him. Tiny hairless boxers squirming out of his embrace, resisting the wooden box. Maybe they knew what was in store for them.

The Friend I’d plugged was a sadistic toolbag. A Neo-Nazi judging by his forearm tattoo of a shield with a swastika, not to mention the word “TEXAS” inked under that. Although I had sixteen rounds remaining in my iron, this bastard overruled me. Coming at me like a cyclone hurricane, he slammed me up against Heaven’s car so violently I later knew I’d broken at least one rib. My Glock went whizzing into the sky, and when he head-butted me, I dropped into the unconsciousness that used to be my best buddy in arms.

Heaven

While Slappy sped and bounced Tobiah’s Prius down the mountain, in the back seat Tobiah showed me the videos he’d obtained from Target. One showed my blurry car drive up and a heavily pixilated Town step out, apparently talking to the emasculated Darcy Bard. Tobiah had enhanced the video as well as he could—we couldn’t see the van’s license plate. He said NASA would have to do the rest. And yes, apparently he had friends there too.

“See?” said Tobiah, pointing. “That’s a box of puppies. That’s how they lured him in.”

I sighed heavily. “That’s my Town.” My nerves were overwhelming me, and for the first time since moderating my drink intake, I longed for my flask. I kept telling myself you can do this. You can make it through this—whatever “this” is—without drink. But it was like a husband trying to convince a wife that dress didn’t make her look fat. Not very successful.

My heart did pound an off beat when the video showed a minivan pull up and three or four men leap out.

Tobiah said, “That’s a limited edition Toyota minivan. If the image was better, we could’ve gotten plates.”

“Well, we know Riddlesberger is behind it,” I reminded him. “He’s Irv Beagle.”

“Yes and no.” I gasped when Video Town beat on two of the thugs. Both went sailing into the sides of their own minivan. I’d seen him lift weights plenty—and what a sight it was—but never had I witnessed any violence on his part. Tobiah continued, “Riddlesberger obviously just called his own phone to make sure it worked. Mistake number one. Number two is that Irv Beagle is a real guy.”

“A fuckin’ puppy miller?” shouted Slappy from the driver’s seat.

Tobiah shook his head. “No. A nearby rancher, a neighbor of his. Maybe just used the name out of stupidity.”