Corrupt Sheriff Suffers Payback

of liquid plant food from the chrome sissy bar. He knew Bacon County, Georgia was a dangerous place to be doing what he was doing, but he was sure he wouldn't get caught. He lit a cigarette and listened carefully for a few more minutes, hearing nothing approaching vehicle, He picked up the hoe in the jug and he stepped off the road. He had fifteen healthy female plants not four hundred yards off the road, and it was time to water them and hold the weeds from between the stalks.

There was a fairly worn trail leading from the road beside his bike to a small patch of grass, and he didn't look down to see the tracks made by somebody's heavily booted feet. He slung the hole over his shoulder and walked through the warm august woods, carefully watching ahead for snakes. There were rattlesnakes in these woods, and some of them were as thick as a man's wrist. Ahead of him a few hundred yards, Sheriff of Cecil Tailor lay on his enormous gut and wiped away the

streams of sweat running down under his sunglasses. His cruiser was backed up and carefully hidden down the road a piece, as it had been for the last three days in a row. He could have sent some of his deputies to do this job, but he wanted to catch Jerry Barlow with the grass himself. He liked to get these drug addicts under his thumb, especially when they were bikers

like Barlow. Sheriff Taylor had carefully estimated the yield on these fifteen plants, and by the time fall got here and they were fully matured, he was pretty sure he could make a really big bundle by selling the stuff to his brother in law, who also happened to own the finest whiskey still in this part of the state. But that wasn't the whole story, not at all. Sheriff Taylor knew this particular patch of weed would probably be good enough to save back a couple of pounds for

his own personal stash. He loved the good buzz as much as the next man. He watched Jerry Kress the last ridge coming into the small clearing where the dirt was dark and sandy. He had to hand it to Barlow. He picked a very good spot for his weed. The soil here was just right, just loose enough for a good root system and rich enough to furnish the plants

with the nutrients they needed. And they're damned sure wouldn't be anybody wandering around the rattler's roost in the summertime, not unless he wanted a fast, fatal case of snake bite. But Barlow had parked his bike in the same spot once too often, and Taylor had found his patch. He had hoped the Barlow boy wouldn't do anything stupid like trying to run or fight. He'd have to hate the shoot the shit out of him, because then he wouldn't

be able to keep the grass for himself. There'd be an investigation, and some of those damn Dea boys would be in here, and they'd confiscate the grass and keep it for themselves, like they always did. But even so, he reached back and unholstered the heavy three point fifty seven Mark III trooper and assumed the prone firing position from his hiding place under the low foliage of a small patch of honeysucknes. He was sure Barlow wouldn't see

him until he was ready for him too. He lay back and watched the young man as he eased carefully up to the clearing and looked all around. Sheriff Taylor chuckled to himself as Jerry laid the hole down and began pouring the blue liquid plant food around each plant. Abruptly, the fat man hollered here's cecil and laughed out loud when Jerry spun to face him. His expression won of Shock's surprise. Sheriff Taylor was a pretty sorry old son of a bitch, but he had a great sense of humor. Well.

Jerry was in a low crouch, looking almost as if he meant to try to run for it, but he stopped when he heard the hammer come back on the big pistol now drop. A sweat ran down his nose, and hung on the end, suspended in the hot, dusty silence between them. I wouldn't try that shit, boy, Taylor said, not lest you want the undertaker packing your ass so full of cotton about dark Jerry relaxed and eased his

lanky six foot frame to the ground. He sat cross legged and watched the red faced sherp get up off the ground, still holding the cannon in front of him. You can put the gun away, man, I ain't going nowhere. Oh yeah, boy, you ain't going nowhere. The pot bellied officer dusted off the front of his pants and shirt, but didn't put the gun away. His tone was almost jovial,

and the speech was well rehearsed. You're definitely going somewhere, probably up to Reedsville for a goodly portion of your life, either that or out to the farm for a while. Jerry knew what he was talking about. The county ran a small correction unit for the lesser criminals, a condition forced on too many county law enforcement agencies by the overcrowding of the prisons and the ever increasing number of felons.

He'd heard some bad things about that place. He talked to a boy who had spent fifteen months out there for passing a bad check, and the boy had told Jerry he'd leave the country before they'd let him put him back in that rat hole. The inmates were forced to work twelve hours a day in the truck patches raising vegetables, and he told Jerry that most of the money from the sale of the produce went right into

Cecil Taylor's back pocket. The boy also hinted that there were some people who went inside and never came back out, least not alive. He thought about all this as Taylor crossed a small patch of ground between them and stopped in front of him. Stand out. The words came up from his potgut in a wheeze. He wore a small, thin smile on his cruel lips. Jerry stood up slowly and waited while Taylor walked in a small circle around him. His mind raised as he tried to figure his way

out of this. The only chance he had was to get away right now the sheriff with his fist, or get the gun away from him, and if the cop ever got him in the jail, it would be all over. He didn't even want to think about spending the next few years in Reidsville. You fucking bikers think you can just do like you please, don't you? Jerry didn't answer, he dirty, greasy scum. The words made the blood rush up in Jerry's neck, turn his face red. It was now or never, and he whirled and through his fist,

But the fat man had already anticipated that. He stepped aside with a practiced motion and let the punch go over his shoulder, bringing the barrel of the gun down on top of Jerry's skull, and a light flashed inside his head and his brain shorted out. He didn't even feel it when he hit the ground. He couldn't tell how much time had passed when he woke up, but the sun hung low on the Blue Georgia's sky. He

was alone. The mosquitoes had bitting him all over his arms and face, and they buzzed around his head in a maddening swarm. He couldn't bat him away because his wrists were firmly held by a pair of bright chrome handcuffs. Jerry jerked him apart, but the cold steel only cut into the flesh of his wrist. There was no way to break them or get them off. But maybe he

could make it back to the road. He didn't know why the sheriff had left him alone like this, but he wasn't about to wait around for him to come back. He got up on one knee and almost passed out again from the pain throbbing through his head. It felt as if somebody had his head between two ball pink hammers, batting it back and forth. He had to let several

minutes pass before he could get to his feet. The pounding in his temples sent jolts of agony racing through him with every step he took, but he didn't take very many. He stopped when he saw Sheriff Taylor blocking the trail. The fat man and had been watching him all that time, and in his hands he was holding a very large diamondback rattler. It was on the end of a stick with a wire loop drawn tightly around its neck. The bulk of its stick body moved and

swayed in the air below the head. The fork tongue flickered and tested the air. Jerry froze where he stood. He was about to be murdered. There was no doubt in his mind. Interesting thing about these stakes, the sheriff said, you can catch them anytime you want to, And all you gotta have is a little piece of garden hose and a teaspoon of gas. Just stick the hose down his hole and pour in the gas. It runs about every time. They'll probably find your body sometime this winter,

after deer season opens. Wouldn't be nobody around till then. Now. I appreciate you leaving me the dope, though, then he came after Jerry. Jerry tried to run, but the pain was too bad. The fat man was laughing and wheezing as he closed in on him. Jerry turned and tried to get closer to the road, but he knew he'd never make it, not while he was still hurt like this, And if the situation hadn't been so deadly, it would

have been ridiculous. Jerry was running and stumbling and trying to jump the clumps of palmetto and sawbriar, and the sheriff was whooping and chasing him like a fun loving schoolboy after a little girl with pigtails, only there was no teacher for Jerry to run to. Taylor was about to catch him. Jerry risked one glance behind him, just as he got up close to the huge pino and

he saw an amazing thing happen. Sheriff Taylor was so intent on catching Jerry that he forgot about watching the handle of the stick, and he got tangled between his fat thighs. He tipped and landed face down on his flabby belly, and his giles hung slack with horror. As he sat up and Jerry duck behind a tree. The sheriff squealed at the top of his lungs like a stuck pig when he saw the snake hanging from his arm.

The fangs sunk to the roof of its mouth. The jaws were stretched wide, chewing and working and injecting the venom deep into his blood stream. He screamed while he clawed at the holster with his free hand, blubbering like a baby until he got the pistol out, and there was a mad panic in his eyes as he looked from Jerry to the snake and started begging him for help. Oh Jesus, God, help me. He bit me, He bit me. Jey,

oh God, to some of bitches in my arm. Then he cocked the pistol and stuck the muzzle against the smooth white scales of the snake's belly, and he blew it apart with one thunderous blast. Little pieces of pink meat and snake guts splattered against his face, some of it landing on his lips, and he laid the gun down, and Jerry watched in fascination from behind the tree as the sheriff grabbed the pulpy, writhing body and pull the head and the fangs out of his arm with an

awful groan. Clear liquid oozed from the twin punctures on his forearm. The holes were red and puffy, and he could feel the tingle starting in his fingertips, and he screamed for help again. You gotta help me, You gotta help me. Please, you gotta cut me. Oh Lord, you gotta cut me. And then his voice trailed off to a weak whimper as his head sagged down on his chest. You throw me that gun, man, Jerry called. He didn't intend to step out and help and then get a

hole blown in him for his trouble. I got a knife and I'll cut it, but you gotta throw me that gun. Sheriff Taylor was shaking and a rigor went through his body. His heart was pounding, and he knew each second that passed and each beat of his heart would send the venom closer closer to the big muscle. But instead of throwing the gun, he snatched it up and screamed, you son of a bitch. Jerry duck back behind the tree as four deafening blasts rocked the woods

around him. The soft nosed slugs tore into the trunk of the tree, and he pressed his face flat to the ground and trembled. A shock after shock ran through the wood, and then he heard the dull click of the hammer striking on spent cartridges, and he looked up. The sheriff's face was a pasty white color, drained of blood, and the man realized that he was about to die a slow and horrible death hearing these woods where the

maggots and the buzzards would strip his riding carcass. He was crying now, and the pistol fell from his stiff fingers and dropped to the dusty ground, And Jerry got up immediately and walked toward the fallen man, holding the cuffs in front of him. Open them quick, if you want me to help you. He knelt in front of tailor and the fat man fumbled for the key on his belt and his hands were shaking, but he found the tiny hole in the cuffs and they clicked open. Yeah,

cut it, cut it, you gotta cut it quick. Jerry dug in his pocket and found his knife, the three bladed case that would shave the hair on his legs. He didn't waste any time telling Taylor how bad it was going to hurt. He just grabbed the sweaty arm and made two deep slashing cuts through the fang marks. The skin and meat peeled apart like overripe fruit as the blade bit deep blood jumped out in two gushing streams, but Taylor didn't seem to fill the fiery bite of

the knife. A look of relief washed across his face. Okay, Jerry said, that ought to hold you till you can get to the hospital. If you hurry, I don't think he hit a vein, or you'd be having a heart attack by now. Taylor got to his feet and swayed dizzily, and he clutched it with his bloody hands and begged him for help. You gotta walk me to my car. It sparked right up here about two three hundred yards away. Jerry pushed his hands away and backed up. No way, mad,

I did all I'm gonna do for you. I'm getting the hell out of here. You can't leave me. I can't make it out. Help me to my car. Jerry started to walk away, but he turned back because the fat man was crying in the most pitiful voice he had ever heard. It was stupid even to consider helping him, and as soon as he got to his car, he'd get on the radio and call for help, and more

than likely for some deputies to come after Jerry. One part of him said leave him, but he didn't think he'd be able to live with himself if he did that. He didn't want to be responsible for a man's death, even after what had just happened. All he wanted was to just get away. Against his better judgment and against the nagging little voice of his concent he slipped the sheriff's arm around his neck and said, come on. The

bit and arm was swelling rapidly now. Already the fingers were puffed up so bad he could barely move him. Which way's your car? Man? Jerry was having a hard time holding up the fat man and sweat poured off both of them straight up the hill over to the left. It's a bunch of pine trees. Jerry staggered under the dying man's weight and the pounding pain still racing through his head. After five minutes of all out effort, he came out on the road below the car, and he

was so tired he could hardly stand. Taylor sank down slowly to his knees, and his arm was turning purple, and every vein stood outlined against the skin, and his flesh looked as if it was about to burst. I can't go no further, he panted. You gotta drive the car down down here, give me to a hospital. Keys under the seat. Jerry sagged against the tree and looked down at them. The sheriff had lost his hat somewhere back in the bushes, and his gray hair hung in

his eyes. The man appeared near death. Jerry closed his eyes briefly against the sweat steaming them, and then turned and ran in a shuffling, head jarring trot. He almost ran past the tan cruiser hidden in a thicket of pine trees. The keys were right where the sheriff had said they would be Jerry cranked it quickly and then pulled out and back down the road until he saw Taylor,

the sheriff, was sinking fast. Jerry couldn't tell that the fat man was watching him carefully from under slitted eyes, and he allowed Jerry to pull him to his feet and help him under the wheel, And then, with a practiced fluid movement, he reached and pulled a double barrel shotgun from under the seat. The barrels were so off, six inches ahead of the chambers, and the spit dried

in Jerry's mouth. When he found himself staring into the twin black holes, he wondered what it was gonna feel like to be shot in the face, And when he heard the hammers come back, he knew there would be nothing but a roar and then blackness forever. He couldn't hold his words back. Is this how you pay me back, you fat son of a bitch. You'd have died if it hadn't been for me. I should have left your fat ass back there on the trail. Taylor's lips and

face were swollen. Then he couldn't speak plainly. He drooled a little. It was hard for him to hold his head up straight. Jerry had trouble understanding his words. You damn bikers ain't got you, ain't got. Nobody fooled, not me. I know, I know. A great pain seized the Sheriff's chest, causing him to sag back against the sea. It felt like a huge fist holding his heart and squeezing the

blood out of it. His tongue went up to the roof of his mouth, and the barrel swung away from Jerry as he fell back, holding his flabby tent with a hideous black hand three times its normal size. Jerry moved fast without thinking. His foot lashed out and struck the shotgun, pushing it up into the air, and it went off, both barrels going at the same time, blowing a shower of pine cones and needles down through the

tree limbs. Jerry didn't wait to see anything else. He took off running, hearing the car behind him, and he didn't stop until he got to his bike. The cruiser came roaring out of the dirt road, sliding sideways with a madman behind the wheel. The tires were churning and bucking across the dusty ground, throwing a curtain of dirt

and sand into the hot air. Taylor had the transmitter off the radio in his puffy hand, howling and screeching orders and instructions that were never heard because his fingers were too thick to depress the transment button. The Harley coughed once and roared to thundering life as Jerry put all his weight into the kickstarter. Even over the rumble of his own motor, he could hear the carburetor of the Plymouth engines sucking in great gusts of air as

Tailor laid his dying foot into it. Jerry kicked the bike into first and he goosed it and popped the clutch and laid it over, spinning in a tight circle in the sand, the swing arm bouncing and jarn until he pulled it back up and flew down the road behind the Tan cruiser, eating dust, but determined to see the end of it. The car pulled out of sight quickly, and then he was riding blind in a cloud of dust, and he rode through one hundred yards of it until

suddenly the clouds stopped in a sharp curve. Jerry's foot came down hard on rear brake and he stopped with the sound of his motor beating loud in his ear. The big Pine tree was still shaking from the impact of six thousand pounds of airborne car hitting it at sixty miles an hour. Sheriff Taylor was lying part way out on the hood in a pool of shattered safety glass and he was spewing blood. Miss Jerry spun out

of the sand and hit the second gear. He laid the bike low into the next curve and started picking up speed. He glanced over his shoulder and it seemed to him that the dead man was waving goodbye with his puffy black hand. Okay, I hope you all enjoyed that story by Larry Brown. I'm going to start doing I'm going to try to start uploading a video every Friday and call it Fiction Friday. What I'll try to do is get permission from published authors who have published

works with short stories and share those with you. Some of them be monster stories, some of them won't be. Some of them just be damn good stories like this one. This was a good story. Larry Brown is a was a prolific author and well published author. There's just his story of how he learned to write is amazing. I've never read a short story that he wrote that I didn't like. And next week I'm going to do another one by Larry Brown for Halloween. It's actually a really

good ghost story. They're kind of Southern themed. Anyway, I think you guys who enjoy fiction will enjoy it. I probably won't hit every fiction Friday because I'm no good with schedules because I never know. I never know what I'm going to do the next day or what's going to be asked of me to do the next day in my regular job. But anyway, I really appreciate you listening to this. I hope you enjoy and I hope you appreciate the talent of these writers that I'll try

to share their stories with you over time. I don't know how long this will go. And by the way, I did get in contact with Larry Brown's family. Larry died back in two thousand and four, so he's not alive anymore. But I got in touch with his family and they said, yeah, go ahead and do his story, and so I actually did two of them. We're going

to do another one next week. And anyway, I can't do copyrighted stuff without permission, A verbal permission is fine with me because if it's ever a problem, all I have to do is delete the video. But anyway, I just want to share with you some really good, well written stuff, along with the emails that we get from viewers and pretty much everything else we do. So I don't know, that's all I wanted to say. I really appreciate you listening, and we'll see you guys on the next video. Thanks and