Sangria Summer – Short Fiction

Here’s a short story I wrote this morning. I thought my readers might enjoy it so here it is.

Copyright is retained by me, even though it is presented for free.

-Yuri Orlov

—————

Sangria Summer

“Hello Frank,” I say. I am standing on the steps to the covered porch. The old man turns to me and smiles. He is sitting in an old, creaking rocker smoking his pipe. His eyes peer at me from behind thick glasses perched on a sharp nose. He is a slight man, dressed in a simple western shirt, blue jeans and boots. What little hair left on his head is thin and grayed. A double barreled shotgun with cocked, exposed hammers rests at his side, propped up in the corner of the porch.

“Sheriff Philips, nice of you to drop by!” he says and taps out his pipe. “Would you like a glass of iced tea?” He motions to a glass pitcher on the small table beside him. There is one empty glass. He must have been expecting me. He scratches casually at his thin gray beard.

Franks only companion is a chocolate lab stretched out at his feet. It opens it’s eyes briefly to see who has disturbed its slumber. “Sure Frank, that sounds great!” I say and he pours me a glass. A couple slices of lemon and a handful of ice cubes make their way in as well.

I take the glass from him and sit down in the offered seat just to the other side of the table. Frank packs his pipe with sweet smelling tobacco. I wait patiently until he is done.

“Frank, you know why I’m here.” I say, and he nods.

The old man pauses to light his pipe. Once lit, he holds it cradled in his right hand. Dark puffs of fragrant smoke slip past his weathered lips as he stares off into the distant hills. Tender dry prairie grasses shimmer in the oppressive heat.. The sun beats down from a cloudless sky. “There was a time in this country when a man could stand tall.” he said. “Folks were polite too. Manners are good when one may have to back up his acts with his life.” He pauses once again to take a drag from his pipe. He starts laughing, smoke shooting from his nose and mouth with each guffaw.

“There was a woman over in the next county, a number of years back, who was raising three girls all on her own. One day she discovered a young cowboy was messing with the oldest daughter. She warned him never to come around again or she’d shoot him.” he said and turned to me. “Can you guess what happened next?”

I nodded. It didn’t take a genius to figure out. “Well, one day she came home and walked in on this cowboy and her daughter doing what came naturally. She started screaming at him to get out and so he jumps up, half naked, and runs out of the house. By this time she’d got her double barreled shotgun and takes out after him. So he’s running up the hill, trying to put his clothes on, all the while dodging shotgun blasts and being chased by an angry mother.”

It is all I can do to keep from laughing at the scene he’s describing, and when he starts I join in. We both laugh until we have tears running from our eyes. Once our laughter has run its course we sit there for a moment in silence. “What happened next?” I ask.

“Well, he managed to get his clothes and boots on, all the while dodging behind rocks and cactus. When he got to his horse, he swung up into the saddle and was about to head for the tall timber, when she caught up with him. She took aim at his head and let him have it with both barrels, but her aim was off. Two loads of 00 Buck caught him in the shoulder and blew his arm off. So he takes off and leaves his arm behind while she’s reloading.”

He takes another drag on his pipe and lets it out slowly. “Well, he lived, but the law came down on her and arrested her for attempted murder. She was tried soon afterward. We had speedy trials back then, not like they do nowadays. Anyway… Everything came out at the trial and the jury went back to decide her fate. It took them a whole fifteen minutes.”

He looks off into the distant hills again before continuing. “They found her not guilty and the shooting justified. You see, she was defending the morals and reputation of her daughter. In their minds, it was self defense, plain and simple. Nowadays she’d be lucky to see the light of day again.”

I look down and discover I am still holding the glass of iced tea. Condensation rolls down the glass and makes my hand wet. I place it on the small table between us and wipe the moisture off on my pant leg. “Sheriff, I know you’ve got a job to do, and people to answer to, but even if I did know where my nephew is I wouldn’t tell you.” he says. “Self defense is still self defense, no matter who ends up dead.”

It is not unexpected. People around these parts still cling to the old ways, their guns and their religion. And the more the outsiders mock them, the stronger it becomes. “I appreciate your hospitality Frank.” I say and stand. I take a long drink of the iced tea and savor the sweet lemony flavor. The cold liquid cascading down my throat feels amazing in the heat.

“No problem Sheriff, glad I could be of assistance.” he says and grins. The irony of his statement is not lost on me. We shake hands and I take the steps down from the porch to the gravel driveway. It is just a few more steps from there to the patrol car. I get in, shut the door, start the vehicle and raise the windows in quick succession. It takes the air conditioner a few moments to start blowing cold air, and when it does, it is a welcome relief. I put the car in drive and pull out onto the road. Behind me, Frank’s house begins to shrink in the distance. The house sits alone in a sea of prairie, and that’s the way he likes it. The nearest neighbor is several miles away.

“Well?” asks my deputy from the passengers side. I look at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s a short man, thin, five foot five inches, if that, and the attitude to match. He is several decades my junior, fresh out of the academy, and already gunning for my job. He pulls out his Glock 21 and fiddles with it absentmindedly.

“Put that away dip shit! Did you ever see what a .45 ACP round can do to a person? You could blow your nuts off, or worse yet, mine.” He holsters his weapon sullenly. My Smith & Wesson 28-2 sits comfortably in its holster at my side. In my opinion, only an idiot would play around with a loaded gun like that. I sigh and focus on the road ahead.

“Well, does he know anything?”

“Yeah, he knows.”

“What’d he say?” he asks. His eagerness reminds me of a puppy being offered a treat.

“He didn’t say shit, and he’s not going to either.”

“We’ve got to go back there!” he exclaims, “He’s got to tell us where his nephew’s at!”

“Listen to me closely now, I’m only going to say this once.” I wait until I am sure I have his full attention before continuing. “He’s not going to tell us, let alone you, anything. People around here have a very basic sense of justice, and he doesn’t believe his nephew did anything wrong. The Bill of Rights still means something here, no matter what some federal agency may say. Besides, we’re outsiders here. I’ve lived here, and been Sheriff, for over twenty years, and they still consider me a new comer. We’re also the law. Folks around these parts resent being told what to do. They’re self reliant and can take care of themselves. We could tie him down and torture him and he’d still tell us nothing!”

The deputy is silent for a couple of minutes. “What do we tell the BATFE?”

“We tell them the same thing the old man told me. Nothing. They may not believe it, but that’s what we tell them.”

“You mean lie?”

“Yes, lie. Do you have any idea what would happen if they came down here and descended like the hammer of God on him?” He shakes his head. “They’d surround his house, kill his dog on principle, then kill him and burn down his house on the off chance his nephew was hiding inside. And that’s just for starters. How many other people in this community may know something about where Frank’s nephew’s at?”

“Lot’s probably.”

“Exactly. And each one of them will end up either dead or incarcerated by the time the FED’s are through. They have two dead agents to avenge after all. So we lie. We lie our asses off and pray to God they believe us.” I shift in my seat, my sweaty shirt sticking to the fake leather upholstery. The deputy is quiet the rest of the trip back to the station.

Once there, and inside where it’s cool, I sit down at my desk and file my report. They may not believe me, but it is the best I can do. If they don’t, there will be blood, lots and lots of blood.

I hope it doesn’t come to that.

The End

Idots With Guns »« The Little Red Hen – Repost

The Little Red Hen – Repost

Another repost of a popular article from before the blog crash. Enjoy!

-Yuri Orlov

————-

The Little Red Hen sat at her kitchen table cleaning her guns. The Remington 870 Express Magnum 12GA had already been cleaned and reloaded with 00 Buckshot and the AR-15 was next. Her EAA Witness in .45 ACP in the holster on her hip luckily hadn’t been fired and wouldn’t require cleaning. She sat the AR-15 on the stand in front of her and slid the pins out, separating the two halves of the rifle. In no time she had the bolt carrier and bolt disassembled and with the application of some Hoppes #9 and some brass brushes, the carbon fouling became a memory. After she had cleaned the barrel and the rest of the rifle, she lubricated all the parts and reassembled it. After a quick wipe down to remove stray lubricant, she function tested it and slapped in a freshly loaded magazine. There, she was fully operational once more.

It’d all started the week before when she’d heard a knock on the door. When she opened the door the government Weasel on her front stoop informed her that he was there to collect some of her “pie” to give to the Duck, Cat and Dog. Apparently they hadn’t taken it well when she had refused to share her food with them, even though they had declined to help her plant, care for, harvest and process her grain. Now, with winter approaching and starvation looming, they were desperate for something to eat. No amount of reasoning or cajoling would convince the Weasel that the Duck, Cat and Dog didn’t deserve any of her food. “When you spread the wealth around, it’s good for everybody!” the Weasel said, and when she protested further, he’d called in two Jack Booted Wolves who had forced there way into her home and ripped the door off of her pantry. It was then Weasel noticed her shotgun over her mantle and a couple of back issues of American Rifleman laying on the kitchen counter.

“Ah, so you’re a gun owner!” he crowed with a wicked gleam in his eye. “Our Dear Leader has authorized common sense gun control legislation to keep dangerous weapons out of the hands of criminals and children. You wouldn’t have any of those dangerous “Assault Weapons” in your gun safe, would you?” The Little Red Hen was flabbergasted. Who had ever heard of such a stupid thing in their entire life? All the children around these parts went hunting after school and used firearms to protect their property and themselves. In fact, as a young chick she had been on her schools rifle team and thought nothing of bringing her .22lr to school with her. …and what the hell was an “Assault Weapon” anyway?

“I most certainly do not! Besides, I have my second amendment rights!” she sputtered with her wingtips at her hips. It was then her feathers shifted slightly and exposed her pistol at her hip.

“GUN!!!” the JBW’s screamed and they rushed her. She backpedaled into the front room and managed to reach her shotgun before they reached her. She turned, flipped off the safety and squeezed the trigger. The first JBW took the load of buckshot dead center of his furry face, and the results were truly horrifying to behold. The Little Red Hen pumped the action and loosed another load of buckshot at the other JBW, but his vest stopped the pellets. With a growl he knocked the shotgun from her wings and tackled her. She struggled with him and managed to break free. She ran to her bedroom at the back of the house and grabbed her AR-15 from her closet. As he charged up the hallway after her, she ventilated his hideous form with several 5.56mm rounds. The poor JBW didn’t have a chance as his vest was only rated to stop handgun rounds. Each round left the muzzle of her Bushmaster traveling in excess of 3,200 fps and punched through his bullet proof vest like it was cheesecloth. She stepped over his twitching body and entered the kitchen, where she found the Weasel crouched up against her kitchen cabinet.

“You wouldn’t shoot me, would you?” he pleaded, voice trembling. Without saying a word she punched a .22 caliber hole neatly between his eyes and he slumped to the floor. The remains of the Weasel and the two JBW’s now decorated her front gate as a warning to other intruders, the crows pecking at their lifeless eyes.

She climbed up the ladder behind her house to the roof where she set up shop. Several rifles of various calibers lay arranged neatly beside her along with several remote controls. Being a farmer did have certain benefits, one of which was the ready access to large amounts of Ammonium Nitrate and Diesel fuel. She’d arranged several surprises for her soon to be arriving visitors, who she could hear on the Police scanner discussing how to proceed with her arrest and murder. She was as prepared as she was ever going to be, but if all else failed there was one last surprise she’d cooked up. He entire basement had been converted into a large bomb. If she triggered that one, people in the next state would hear it. Soon the authorities arrived, broke down her gate and rushed her house.

Witnesses later say there was intense gunfire that day, as well as several explosions which rocked the Earth around The Little Red Hen’s farm and lifted several patrol cars into the air in flames. Toward the end, the Little Red Hen was mortally wounded and the Police began to close in on her. When they approached the house, a tremendous explosion which registered on the Richter scale rocked the ground and the shock wave blew out windows for miles around. In the end, almost all of the Weasel in Chief’s minions he’d sent that day didn’t go home alive.

…and all because they pushed one Little Red Hen too far.

The End

III

Sangria Summer – Short Fiction »« The Farm – Repost

The Farm – Repost

This is a repost of one of the most popular features I had from before the blog crash. I hope everyone still enjoys it.

-Yuri Orlov

———————–

Once upon a time there was a farm. It was a tranquil place, nestled into the serene countryside down in a small valley. The grass was always green and a placid creek which gurgled down the center of the valley provided pure, cool water for the animals to drink. A large sturdy barn provided shelter and sheep dogs, along with the farmer and his shotgun, provided protection from the predators who lived in the surrounding hills.

Life was good at the farm. The animals lay in the field sleeping in the warm sun, secure in the knowledge that the farmer and the sheep dogs would keep them safe. Things continued this way for a long time. Soon however, things began to change.

It started innocuously enough. A lamb went missing one day and while it was terrible for the mother, it wasn’t out of the ordinary. Lambs went missing from time to time, either eaten by the predators from the hills when they wandered too far astray, or gotten lost somehow. Over time however more and more lambs began to go missing, and soon adult members of the farm began to disappear. Search parties were created and they traveled far and wide inside the fence that surrounded the farm until it had all been searched. Dejected, they made there way back to the barn as the sun hung low in the sky. This happened every time another animal would go missing, with the same predictable results.

One day, as the horse was trotting past the farmhouse during the evening meal, he happened to glance inside the dining room window, and what he saw chilled him to his marrow. There on the table was a steaming lump of charred flesh with an apple stuck in it’s mouth. In horror he recognized the lump as Ham, a recent member of the growing number of missing animals. As he watched, the farmer and his family sliced Ham into pieces and began to devour him. The farmers dogs all gathered around the table to snap up the scraps of Ham being fed to them by the farmer and his family. The horse couldn’t take the sight before him and galloped away furiously. He headed straight for the barn.

“They’re eating us!” he whinnied, his sides heaving. The other animals turned around in surprise.

“Who’s eating us?” the rooster clucked. The horse paused to catch his breath and then continued.

“The farmer! The farmer and his family are eating us! They’ve got Ham on the dinner table right now gorging themselves on his charred flesh! That isn’t all either, the dogs are there, and they’re eating Ham too!”

“I don’t believe it!” the rooster crowed piously. “The farmer and his family feed us and protect us, likewise the dogs. They would never hurt us!”

“Come see for yourself!” the horse snorted and galloped back to the farmhouse without waiting for a response. Soon the other animals caught up and together they peered through the dining room window, the shorter animals who could fly perched on the horses back. On the dining room table inside, the remains of Ham were being consumed and the dogs were gnawing on his bones. A collective gasp went up from the assembled animals outside. “See, I told you!” the horse neighed indignantly. They all had to agree, even the skeptical rooster. It was late into the night before any of the animals got to sleep, and the next day they held a meeting in the barn to try and figure out what to do about the situation.

“I say we go to the farmer and try to reason with him.” the rooster clucked. The horse whinnied in amusement.

“You’ve got to be kidding me! This has been going on for a long time and I don’t see any evidence it will stop anytime soon. They’ve got us out Manned! When they come for one of us we need to fight back! We’ve got to draw a line in the sand and stand up for our rights!” Some of the animals, perhaps three percent of them, the other horses, most of the cows and even some of the Pigs agreed.

“Stop being so reactionary!” one of the chickens from the roost in the side of the barn said. “The pragmatic thing to do is try and reason with the farmer. We could try and elect a new farmer, one who is more sympathetic to us. We’ve got to work within the system!” The sheep in the barn all baaed in agreement. They were like that though, timid and easily convinced by others.

The horse rolled back his eyes in annoyance. “Fine, you do that. Let me know how that works out for you.” Having said his piece, the horse walked out of the barn and went to graze in the field. After he left, the rest of the animals held a vote, and it was decided that a delegation would go to the farmer and reason with him. The rooster and the chickens went, along with the sheep and a number of the Pigs. When they returned later that night the rooster was crowing to anyone who would hear and the whole barn was alive with the news.

“He has agreed!” the rooster crowed arrogantly. The horse looked surprised by the news.

“What did he agree to?” he asked.

“From now on, he will only eat one of us on special occasions. He said something about he and his family needed to go on a diet anyway.” The rooster was positively glowing with excitement.

“Wait a minute!” the horse said, “He’s merely going to cut back? He’s not going to stop eating us?” The horse whinnied in exasperation.

“Be grateful! He didn’t have to make any concessions at all!” the rooster clucked. “Besides it’s only the beginning. It’s only one step, but the first of many. Soon, he won’t be eating any of us at all!”

The horse shook his head in disbelief. “That’s not the point rooster, he shouldn’t be eating any of us at all! What’s next, he’s only allowed to eat the pigs, the ducks or the goats? How about just the sick, the old and the young?”

A chicken, the same one from earlier fluttered up and clucked her disapproval. “The farmer is more powerful than us and this is the only way we can prevail. If we work within the system we can change things. Besides, you’ll only scare the humans with your kind of talk.”

“Look, “ said the horse, “I’m not saying we shouldn’t try and work within the system, but if that doesn’t work, there’s got to be something to fall back on.”

“But it is working!” the chicken clucked. The horse opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, turned around and left. He could hear their laughter behind him, but he ignored it. He had his dignity after all.

Time passed, and things did seem to be better. The farmer kept his word and only ate one of them on holidays or special occasions. Over time though, the holidays and special occasions began to grow more and more numerous. Soon, more of them were being eaten than before. The farm animal delegation met with the farmer often, and they made many agreements. Soon the farmer was legally allowed to eat one of them a month, then twice a month and then once a week on Sundays. The old, sick and young were next on the menu.

The horse and others who thought like him looked on in dismay as the situation deteriorated. “More of us than ever are being eaten now!” the horse neighed to the rooster.

“Bah! Don’t be silly horse, we have made much headway in the reestablishment of our rights! Stop your insurrectionist talk at once before you scare the People!” The horse lowered his eyes in sorrow for he had seen inside the farmers house earlier that day and seen a recipe book open on the kitchen counter. It was open to the page on how to make chicken dumplings. Before he could tell the rooster, he flapped away and was gone. Later that night a shrill clucking was heard from the vicinity of the woodshed beside the farmers house and then there was silence.

When the rooster didn’t show up for the nightly barnyard meeting, the horse told the assembled animals what he had seen. The chickens scoffed at him and gave excuses. Perhaps the rooster was merely off somewhere working within the system, they clucked. That made the horse chuckle like a madhorse. When the chickens asked why he was laughing he had to explain that he was sure the rooster was working within the system all right, the digestive system. This only made them mad at him and so he left the meeting to go graze in the field. Soon other animals joined him, a small percentage of the remaining animals to be sure, but they had come to join him. “We’ve had enough!” exclaimed the cow. “I’m tired of cold hands on my udders at four am and I’m tired of all my milk going to the humans, but I’m most tired of my calves being killed to satisfy that carnivores palate!” The other animals in the field nodded in agreement.

The horse looked around to see if they were being monitored before he bent his head low and whispered, “Okay, here’s what we do!”

It was early the next morning when they put their plan into action. The farmer and his family were sleeping in, being minus one rooster, and they were caught completely by surprise. The horse kicked open the front door and stepped out of the way as the others streamed through. The farmer fought back with his shotgun and his dogs. The animals weren’t armed in the traditional sense, but they had horns and hooves and their bodies, and the damage inflicted on the humans was shocking to behold. Many of the animals suffered terrible wounds inflicted by teeth, claws and lead shot, and some were even killed, but in the end they prevailed.

The horse stood before the glowing embers of what had once been the farmhouse and addressed his fellow animals. “Today we have engaged the enemy and he has been defeated! No more will we be preyed upon by the farmer and his trained wolves. We are free once more, with all the rights we posses by virtue of being born an animal. In freedom we were born, and in freedom we will die!” A large cheer went up from the animals there, for it was a momentous day.

Never again were the animals of the farm preyed upon and eaten. The emboldened denizens of the farm formed defense squads and protected themselves from the predators around them. The serene valley returned to peace and they lived there forever after.

The End

The Little Red Hen – Repost »« We Did It To Ourselves

We Did It To Ourselves

A great 2nd Amendment song from Joe Bethancourt. This one is featured on Leslie Fish’s new CD “Lock And Load”

“How a politician stands on the Second Amendment tells you how he or she views you as an individual …. as a trustworthy and productive citizen, or as part of an unruly crowd that needs to be lorded over, controlled, supervised, and taken care of.”
- Dr. Suzanna Gratia Hupp

The Farm – Repost »« HCAN Playbook