Hoss Mustang

 

Hoss Mustang weighed over four hundred pounds and decided to get skinny.  He cut grass for a living and rode a John Deere lawn tractor up to fourteen hours a day.  He had just run over Mrs. Peter’s cat.

It was not altogether an accident.

Hoss was a dog man and hated cats.  He run over countless cats with his pick-up truck, and shot a few that wandered innocently into his yard.  This was the first time he ran one over with an industrial sized lawn mower.  It barely missed a beat.  Cat guts spewed into the catch basket almost instantly and Hoss never thought for a second to stop, let alone slow down.  He just kept right on cutting that grass.

All Hoss could think about was getting skinny.  Minor details like mutilated cats could not be permitted into his thoughts of losing weight.  He decided to skip lunch that day, and dinner.  He didn’t eat breakfast either, and quit drinking beer.  He drank noting but water and ate nothing but fruit, nuts and fresh vegetables for a month and lost ten whole pounds.  He was standing on the scale admiring his progress when Mrs. Peters called.  He told her he didn’t know anything about any cat and hung up.

Hoss bought a dog the very next day and spent hours after work walking it around the neighborhood.  After another month, Hoss had lost twenty more pounds.  He bought new pants from Sears, and a cheap set of weights with a bench.  In another month he was bench pressing a hundred pounds and had lost another thirty.  By the end of summer Hoss was well under three hundred pounds and was actually developing muscular arms.  He reached two-forty before the end of September and decided to stop.  He felt it was his perfect weight.

With little grass left to cut, Hoss took up work at a local gym and spent his entire day working out.  By the time spring rolled around again he was an Adonis, and decided not to go back to grass cutting.  Instead, he sold vitamins, and made more money than he ever had in his life.  Things were good for skinny Hoss.  He had a web page and everything.  Hoss traded in his pick-up truck for a Ford Mustang with the biggest motor Ford made.  He had always wanted to have a sick Mustang.

In the next few months Hoss expanded his little cottage industry and was selling all kinds of healthy food, work out gear and fancy sweat clothes.  Hoss had a real talent for peddling his wares to store owners and customers directly.  It wasn’t long before he rented a real office and hired a receptionist and some old lady to fill the orders and give them to the UPS man.  Hoss just sat back and took trips to the bank to make deposits.  He could choke a roll with his horse.

The receptionist was a stripper who broke her ankle falling off the pole and couldn’t dance for a spell.  Hoss found out she could answer phones and sweet talk customers and provide the world’s best public relations in the field of sports merchandizing.  Her name was, Candy, of course.  Who knows how much Hoss paid her.  She drove a Corvette if that means anything.

Naturally Hoss fell in love with Candy and married her three weeks into her tenure at Mustang Distributors, Incorporated.  It was both the stupidest and smartest thing Hoss ever did.  Time will tell.

And then one day Mrs. Peters and this lady with purple hair walked into his office and accused him of killing her cat.  Purple Hair claimed to have psychic proof and Mrs. Peters kept going off about how no one else was around that day.  Mrs. Peters’ husband was an attorney and she claimed he was going to sue.  Candy handled the whole thing with the correct degree of aplomb.  She decked Mrs. Peters with a left hook and threw Purple Hair through the plate glass window into the street.  The cops came and arrested Purple Hair and Mrs. Peters, but let them both go when they promised to leave and never come back.  Of course, this was a lie.

Mr. Peters charged into the office the very next day and this time Hoss drop kicked him out the door and into a concrete tree planter outside the office.  Mrs. Peters was in the car parked at the curb and saw the whole thing.  The first cop on the scene was a meter maid and Mr. Peters socked her in the eye when she asked him if he had been drinking.  He had been, but that was beside the point.  The meter maid tazed him in the ball sack and that was that.  Mrs. Peters was arrested, too.

As is usually the case with rich people, Peters threw money at the problem and it went away.  Hoss didn’t care.  He just didn’t want any of them idiots coming to his office any more.  Not to worry.  They never did.  Some idiot process server did, and Hoss grunted when he accepted the court papers.  He called Candy’s lawyer who came right over.  His name was Variant J. Battle and he came from a long line of legal minds.  It took Variant a few minutes to piece the case together.  “It’s nothing but a harassment law suit, Mr. Mustang.  Mr. Peters means to grind you financially by forcing you to defend every little brief he can get some clerk to write up and file.  He won’t even consider settling because he can do much more damage by not settling.”

“Shit!” exclaimed Hoss Mustang.  “What can I do?”

“Well, Mr. Mustang, dare I say it but you haven’t a chance legally speaking because he isn’t trying to win.  If you choose to go blow for blow with him in a court of law, you will deplete your savings, lose your business and probably anything else you own just to pay the legal bills.”

“Shit,” repeated Hoss Mustang.

“I’m sorry Mr. Mustang.  I really am, but there is just nothing you can do, legally speaking, to effectively defend yourself against Mr. Peters.”

“Shit,” three-peated Hoss Mustang.

And with that, that lawyer got up and walked out on Hoss Mustang.  He wouldn’t be the first.  The only lawyers in town willing to take on Mr. Peters were either drunkards or owed bookies money.  Candy went to her sister’s in Vegas for a week.  Hoss tried to sell everything in his inventory.  By the time Candy got back the store was practically empty and Hoss had fired the old lady who filled all the orders.  It was a dark day indeed.

Mrs. Peters went out and bought herself a new cat. She had finally given up hope that the old cat would wander on back to her again.  She dropped a thousand dollars on an imported Siamese cat that Mr. Peters loved just fine. He even let his wife splurge for a jewel encrusted collar and with a computer chip that she could use the GPS on her phone to locate her cat anywhere in the world.  She named that cat, Jade.  That chip never worked.

Candy was indeed not happy with the most recent developments and decided to take matters into her own hands.  She was the happiest she had ever been in life since she married Hoss, and she meant to stay that way.  Candy sat herself down in from of the illuminated make-up table Hoss had bought her and starting applying.  She thought best when smearing stuff on her face and after only a couple minutes Candy come up with a plan.  Her fingers jumped to her smart phone on the table beside her and started dancing on those keys like a crack head in a cocoa tree field.  It only took her a few minutes to put down that phone and exclaim, “I got it!”

“Got what?” asked Hoss from the easy chair in front of the flat screen TV with the rodeo going on.

What Candy did not know was that she had it much more than even she realized.  Her concocted little plan was a blasting cap to a metric ton of dynamite.  Hoss didn’t figure it out right then either.  Time would tell.

Candy threw her smart phone into Hoss’ lap and told him to check it out.  She had called up some book of face page, and the dorkiest guy in the world had his picture on it.  “Who’s this dork?” asked Hoss, but Candy just told him to read the words there on the screen.  Donald J. Peters, Junior.  Hoss was suddenly interested.

“You see,” Candy explained, “All we got to do is hook one of the girls up with this little fuckwad and we’ll own him.  I bet he’s never even ever got a sniff of a really pussy let alone what we’re going to throw on him.  And, once we got the kid, we got his old man.”

Hoss still didn’t understand.

“He’s a lawyer student,” Candy added.  “And five will get you ten Tiffany can flip him and make him work for us against his daddy!”

Hoss still didn’t understand.

Candy wasn’t listening to Hoss any longer.  She was on the phone to Tiffany telling her to rush right over.  She arrived an hour later and she was the finest black girl Hoss had ever laid eyes on.  She had junk in the truck, spice in the rack and lips that could seal off a nuclear explosion.  “Don’t get no ideas, Hoss!” warned Candy. “We married now.”

The girls sat at Candy’s make-up table and made pretty and talked turkey about the plan.  Hoss didn’t know how they even heard themselves because they were both constantly talking and never listening.  He engrossed himself in the rodeo and tuned those two out completely by increasing the volume level.  It stayed that way for a good hour.

And then the girls headed to the door.

“Where you going?” asked Hoss.

“To implement our plan,” answered Candy.

“Now?” asked Hoss.

“There is no time like the present,” Answered Candy.

“But what about dinner?” asked Hoss?

“Pizza is on the way,” answered Candy.  “Don’t make a mess, and walk that damn dog of yours.  I don’t want to come home and find poop stains on the carpet!”

Hoss was sad.  His whole life seemed to be slipping away from him.  His business was all but gone.  He had a stack of court summons three inches deep.  And, now his princess bride was stepping out with strippers to take care of plans.  And, the first bill from that idiot lawyer had arrived.  Hoss was about ready to cry when the pizza arrived, and then he was happy.  He weighed about two-sixty-five afore that pizza.

Dorkus Peters, as the girls called him, lived in the Phi Epsilon Delta fraternity house at the corner of Hill and Forrest.  The Internet said this was a law school, academic oriented house and had been around almost since the beginning of the University of Michigan Law School in Ann Arbor itself.  Famous people came from this fraternity, but Tiffany and Candy had only heard about Jack Kervorkian otherwise known as Dr. Death.  They had parked on the street outside the frat house to wait for Dorkus to arrive.  Meanwhile, they conducted research on Candy’s smart phone.  Dorkus was a real loser.  All he did was study law, write for some smart alecky sounding law review, clerk for some fat guy and practice astronomy—as a hobby, no less.

“That’s our in,” declared Candy confidently.  “Tiffany, how much do you know about stars and planets and the universe?”

“Practically nothing,” admitted Tiffany.  “I been dancing since I was fourteen.”

“We’ll fix that!” promised Candy.

And they did.

Just then, Dorkus walked out of the building they thought he would be walking into, which was all the better.  He climbed into a brand new KIA Optima, backed into a small tree, drove over the curb and east on Hill Street.  Tiffany was right on his tail and followed him all the way to his daddy’s house off Geddes down by the river.  “Nice crib” remarked Tiffany.  “We best not stay long in this hood in this car, Girl.”

“Change of plans, Girl. Forget about them stars and such,” declared Candy.  “Let’s get back to the ranch.”

“Hi Dad!”

“Hi Son!”

“How are things for you, Dad?”

“Just fine, Son.  Thank you for asking.  How are things with you, Son?”

“Excellent, Sir.”

“That’s my boy!”

This exchange occurred in this exact same manner, every Tuesday and Friday night of every week since Dorkus entered law school at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor, Michigan.  In fact, the University of Michigan law school had learned several generations of Peters through the years.  It seemed there were always Peters in the law school from the get go.  Dorkus had a cousin and an uncle in some of his classes.  But, anyway, Dorkus was a creature of habit and that him an easy mark.

In some ways, the girls had out-smarted themselves.  The desired result occurred, but it came about completely different from what was drawn out in lipstick on the make-up mirror with illumination back at Candy’s.   Tiffany had the engine hood up of the rented BMW 520i, was wearing her favorite golden mini-skirt and matching top with the cleavage excess, and had spent four hours on her hair alone.  And, exactly at 5:10 PM Dorkus drove past in his KIA Optima at exactly the speed limit with his hands at ten and two.  All that part worked flawlessly.  Dorkus was supposed to see the damsel in distress, pull over to help and then be seduced by Tiffany.  That ain’t what happened at all.

What Dorkus actually did was see ass peeking out from underneath that mini-skirt and rest of the world ceased to exist for him.  He never acknowledged the slight curve on Geddes and plowed straight into a parked Jeep CJ5.   All five air bags went off.  Dorkus was stunned, but not badly injured.  Tiffany was Johnny on the Spot.  She had him out of his Optima and into her Beemer before you could shake a stick.  Tiffany was racing down Geddes at break-neck speed managing the curves like Mario Andretti and all the time talking faster than Whoopie Goldberg.  In five minutes they pulled into her assigned parking space and were in her apartment.  The rest was easy.

Tiffany called Candy after Dorkus passed out and brought her up to speed on the situation.  Candy couldn’t have been happier.  “  I fed him three shots of Tequila and a Valium,” reported Tiffany.  “He don’t know where he’s at.”

This was even better than Candy dared hope.  Not only did they have Dorkus in their feminine clutches, Tiffany had caused him to get fleeing the scene of an accident charges, and had copied all the numbers off his cards in his wallet—including the key code to the old man’s crib over off Geddes.  And, as luck would have it Tiffany found out Dorkus was going to feed the cat because the Peters were in Europe on vacation.  As soon as it was dark, Candy and Tiffany towed Dorkus to the mansion and went to work.  Dorkus slept on the couch the whole time.  It took a while but the girls finally found what they were looking for, which they had no idea of until they found it in Mr. Peters’ home office on his laptop computer and in his safe.  Mr. Peters, it turns out, was lazy with passwords and combination keys.  He kept them scribbled down on a piece of paper under his mouse pad.

Inside the safe were stacks of bills and yellow, legal sized envelope by the dozen.  There was also a Smith & Wesson 38 caliber police special and a single thumb drive.  They took it all.  Tiffany Crazy Glued the edges of the safe door before slamming it closed and spinning the dial.  They both wore latex gloves, hair nets and Glad bags over their shoes because they watched Miami CSI.  They had Dorkus on their shoulders and were heading out the door when they saw the cat.  “Wait a minute,” directed Candy.

A few hours later Dorkus reached a relative level of sobriety, and of course, Tiffany was there with him.  She was naked and holding his head in her bosom and watching Jerry Springer on her flat screen TV.  Dorkus didn’t remember much, but he did remember he had lots of sex and drank a lot of Tequila, and at just that moment hadn’t a care in the world.  “Baby,” Tiffany said. “What are you going to do about your car?”

Dorkus thought this over for a minute, and realized he didn’t care.  He had lots of money and could buy another.  “I’ll just report it stolen,” he said.  “I’ll tell the cops I lost my keys somewhere on campus.”

“What kind of car you gonna get?” asked Tiffany.  “I hope you not gonna get another one of them lame-ass Korean turds again.”

“What kind of car should I get?  You know if I want to quit being such a dork?” asked Dorkus.  “I want to be cool for once!”

“Oh, that’s easy,” explained Tiffany.   “But first we gotta get you dressed proper, and get you a phat haircut, and then we go car shopping, Sugar.”

“The defense rests!” concurred Dorkus.

“You gotta stop talking like that, Sugar.  That’s how dorks talk.”

But by now Mr. Peters had filed so many motions against Hoss his lawyer said he couldn’t keep up and needed more money and lots more help which would cost lots more money.  That’s when Hoss said fuck it, and he and Candy moved into a double-wide trailer in Ypsi and lived under an assumed name.  “Like Sun Tzu says,” explained Hoss.  “Hide so they can’t find you.”  He’d just reached 300 pounds.

And then Candy told him about the plan.

Dorkus, now known as Sugar, was on board.  Tiffany had convinced him that, in order to be cool, he had to take drastic measures.  He could go to school, but not hang out with his dorky friends any more.  She took him to the strip club and taught him about lap dances and how to pay off the bouncers.  His entire new wardrobe looked like it had been stolen from Dave Chapelles’ closet complete with a new diamond stud earring.  But, claimed Tiffany, he looked ghetto fabulous climbing out of the shiny black Porsche.  Candy agreed.

Sugar strode into his daddy’s house the day after they returned from Europe on their six week vacation with a bottle of Tequila in one hand and a riding crop in the other.  He wore mirror sun glasses and had a four finger gold ring on his right hand.  He met his dad in the hall and said, “My Nigga!”

Tiffany swept in a second later.  She was wearing spiked heels, a tiny black dress and two feet of dreadlock weaves.  In her right hand was a wine cooler and a blunt, but her left hand was the feature event.  There was a rock on it the size of a golf ball.  “Thanks for parking the ride, Kitten,” said Sugar before planting a big, wet kiss on her lips.  Tiffany’s dress hem jumped above her sculpted legs revealing her lack of panties and a thick, furry pubic mound.  Mr. Peters fought hard to compose himself.  He put his hand against the wall to steady himself just as Sugar said, “Meet your daughter in law, Nigga!”

Mr. Peters collapsed on the spot and didn’t recover until he was in the ambulance.  Mrs. Peters had been roaming the neighborhood looking for her cat and wasn’t aware any of this was going on.   When she arrived back home everyone had left and she was angry and called the police to report the missing cat.  The police thought it was a prank and ignored her.  Besides, most cops hate cats anyway.

Sugar had been busy.  He had been typing up law suits against his father as fast as he could and when he had a sizable stack he had Hoss deliver them to the court house.  He and Tiffany were one of two places for a week straight: the law library or her apartment where Sugar now lived.  By now Sugar knew the full plan and just didn’t give a fuck.  His trust fund would carry him financially pretty much no matter how stupidly he spent it.  He didn’t need his dad’s money.  All he needed was Tiffany’s sweet, sweet ass and coffee in the morning.  And Tequila.

The private eye Sugar hired to report on the private eye his father had hired to report on him reported that his father was getting desperate and would most likely resort to planting evidence of the incriminating kind in an effort to discredit Hoss, Sugar and or Tiffany.  They weren’t worried though.  Their ace in the hole was trump tight and standing pat in the weeds.

In a last ditch attempt to righten things, Sugar went to his father’s house and tried reason.  “Nigga,” he said. “The script done been flipped, you feel me?  I mean, like dang, Nigga.  You can step but you can’t run.  You feel me, Nigga?”

Mr. Peters was fit to be tied.  No matter what he said his son “Nigga’d” him and told him it was my bad or something about a script.  Finally, Sugar said something Mr. Peters could work with. “Nigga, just back up off from my dawg Hoss, and shit be real again. You feel me?”

“So, that is what you want?  This Hoss fellow has somehow managed to seduce you with this woman and you have lost your mind!”  Mr. Peters was screaming now, and when his wife entered the room, he pointed his finger at Sugar and said, “This Nigger has lost his mind!”

Mrs. Peters had but one question.  “Why did you glue our safe door shut?”

“The cat is in there,” lied Sugar.  “I always hated cats.”

The Safe guy told Mr. Peters the door had been glued shut with Crazy Glue.  Lots of Crazy Glue.  He said he would have to torch cut it to get it open, and that would have to be done back at the shop and he couldn’t get to it until a week or so.  It cost Mr. Peters two thousand dollars to move the safe to the shop.

“Better hurry,” Sugar warned.  “There is only enough air for a month.”

At that, Mrs. Peters fainted.

In the end, even the Safe guy couldn’t open that safe.  A torch would get the safe too hot and Mr. Peters needed the contents intact.  It was quite the quandary.  If a cat actually were inside that safe, it would obviously be dead by now.  Mrs. Peters wanted to bury the safe in the backyard, but of course Mr. Peters would not allow it.  He had to get into that safe.

Finally, he found a way.  Jake Farmstate, the crane operator at the twelve story high rise going up on Main Street gladly agreed to help out.  The logic was that it would create an inverted explosion without all the fire and shrapnel.  All he had to do was hoist that safe a couple hundred feet in the air, and drop it directly on the one inch plate steel positioned directly below.  They did it on a Saturday and luckily there was absolutely no wind whatsoever.  Jake Farmstate hoisted the safe up and kicked loose the footbrake and the safe fell like Wily Coyote off a precipice strapped to an ACME rocket pack.  Everyone held their breath as the safe raced toward Earth and finally impacted that thick plate of steel—and went directly through it and six more feet of dirt and hit the gas main and went BOOM!

It was the stupidest thing ever done in the city of Ann Arbor in the history of the world.  There was nothing left of the safe.  It had been vaporized.

Mr. Peters stood on the street alone for a long time after the fire was put out.  He was crying like a baby.  A fat man walked up to his side and hugged him.  “My name is, Hoss,” said the fat man.  “And I want to apologize for drop kicking you out of my office because of that cat that went missing which got your wife so upset.”

Mr. Peters was incredulous.  “That was you?”  Mr. Peters had never seen Hoss fat.

“Yes, Sir.”

“I thought it was that office guy!” lamented Mr. Peters.

“Will you stop suing me now, please?” begged Hoss.

Mr. Peters waved his hand. “Yes, I am done with it.”  He didn’t need this anymore.  He had money up the ass.  He could retire.  What the Hell was he holding on to?

“Thank you,” replied Hoss.

Sure enough Mr. Peters stopped all legal action against Hoss and did his best to tolerate his son and his new squeeze.  Mrs. Peters found the Siamese by offering a reward of three thousand dollars to which a young lady arrived with said cat in tow.  She gave it all to Tiffany for a wedding present.  Everything else they split down the middle.

Hoss never thought about being skinny again.

Candy and Tiffany burned the envelopes with all the papers in them, and melted the thumb drive with a butane torch.

Sugar gave up law school.  Too many dorks.  He bought a sail boat and hired Hoss and Candy to crew for him.  It was the best way for this story to end.    Everybody is happy.