Joe Elliot’s house was a two-story redbrick mansion with a wrap-around porch, the garage had four stalls, and his shed, where he kept a bevy of mechanical toys and farm equipment, was big enough to house a football field. The driveway was a hundred feet long, paved to the highway, and not a damn blade of grass was out of place on the palatial estate. Ricky Dean Glenn flicked his cigarette into the lawn, stepping onto the property, his knees aching from the walk and his temper flaring.
The Orange Blossom Special was parked on a cement pad before the shed’s giant sliding doors. The sun hit the mirrors and the rear pointed slightly up just like the Korean whores Ricky visited back in his war days. He’d got laid three times in Korea before his first kill, but that number evened out eventually and then swayed greatly in the direction of kills by the time he was discharged. A guy like Ricky can only take orders for so long, and while there certainly was a thrill to killing, even that was dulled when done daily for no apparent reason. He learned in Korea that the army was great at killing, but not much else. So, he got the fuck out and never looked back.
While Ole Ricky was finding out about whores and killing in Korea, guys like Joe Elliot made money and had kids, too much of both from what Ricky could tell. The greedy bastard was standing next to the truck in a checkered shirt and blue jeans, the perfect image of some asshole politician on TV trying to sell himself as a farmer. Joe’s gut plunged out before his waistline, his brown hair was combed over his balding dome, and his boots were entirely too clean to be those of a man doing real work. Beside him was his junior, or the youngest of the Elliot clan of juniors. A boy with a wide base and shoulders, wearing a ridiculous cowboy hat and a pair of sneakers. The boy might have been sixteen, he might have been twenty, either way Ricky figured he was about ten ass-kickings away from being a man. Maybe Ricky would get him one closer in a few moments.
“Well, well, if it ain’t Ricky Dean Glenn,” Joe said. Ricky was ten feet away, his steps were even, his shoulders square, and his jaw set. He only nodded.
“Who the hell is this?” Joe’s son said, a toothpick dangling from his soft boy lips.
“Local trash collector,” Joe said. “We don’t have any trash around here.”
Ricky kept coming, no words, no change in expression. He had learned in the army that talking was for those that stay back in tents and make plans while the action is miles away. Ricky wasn’t made for that when there was action to be had.
“Is he deaf, or just stupid?” Joe’s boy said. His hands were in his jacket pockets. How could a man call someone stupid and keep their hands in their pockets?
Ricky punched the boy in the mouth with his right fist, and he wasn’t sad when he saw that the fist drove the toothpick through the boy’s upper lip and into his nose. There would be a mark, nothing major, but a mark just the same, and each time that stupid boy looked in the mirror, he would remember getting his clock cleaned.
The boy landed on the cement with a thud, his eyes rolling back in his head. Ricky supposed the boy had never been hit before and would run the other way whenever anyone else near him ever balled their hand into a fist for the rest of his pathetic life.
“Jesus, Ricky,” Joe exclaimed. “What the hell has got into you?”
Ricky took one step toward Joe, but the fat bastard backed off four. Never once did Joe Elliott lean down to see how his son was doing. Naw, he just scurried backward, too scared to care about anyone else.
Ricky opened the Orange Blossom Special’s door and the key was in the ignition. A fancy looking metal Confederate flag emblem dangled from the key ring. Ricky reached in, grabbed the keys, and tore the flag off the chain.
“Only idiots celebrate losers,” Ricky said. He whipped the flag emblem at the groggy boy on the ground before climbing onto the truck’s bench seat.
“Hey,” Joe said as Ricky turned the engine over. Joe’s head swiveled on his neck, sure that someone had to be around to save him and keep his truck from being stolen. Guys like Joe always needed someone. A fella to do the hard work, the labor. Someone to cook. Someone to clean. Someone to wipe their butts. Someone to win their battles. The Joe Elliotts of this country were in charge, they just didn’t understand how unsteady that pedestal was that they were perched upon. Ricky slammed the door and shifted into gear.
“It’d be best for everyone to keep all this quiet until tomorrow, you hear.” Ricky eyed Joe like a sniper, making sure the fat bastard caught the drift that calling this in any earlier would mean more trouble sometime down the line.
Joe nodded, his chins jiggling, and Ricky hit the gas, spinning the tires and, leaving black marks on the cement before skidding out of the driveway.
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