Buying your first home is both a thrilling and anxious endeavor, especially if you are newlyweds, on tight budget, and don’t know jack shit about houses, mortgages or insurance. Clyde J. Broham Home Buyers Association was a company developed specifically for people who did not know jack shit. Clyde, for a small fee, along with his brother run a complete and professional inspection on the home, help negotiate with the seller, and attend the closing. Clyde and his brother, Henry, were stand up guys. Work was steady.
The thing was, work stayed steady because of the home inspection part of the business. When the real estate market dumped, the houses the banks foreclosed on needed inspections. In a few short years the Broham brothers had established a profitable network of clients in Washtenaw County and that was when the other brother, Jonas, came on board with his sub-contracting business. They were well on their way to “fuck you” wealth.
But that is not what this story is about. It is about Junior and Mary Beth Franklin, a young, ignorant couple in desperate need of a home—at least, to hear them tell it. It was Clyde J. Broham who found a house for ignorant couple, and he did it lickety-split! Junior had money, if nothing else, due to his selling off his daddy’s place on Textile Road because he had died. And then he married Mary Beth. And then he bought a 1969 Chevelle SS, and a bass boat, and a Benelli shotgun and, of course, a dog. More on the dog later.
It was the first house Clyde showed them. Over the phone Junior said he had a hundred grand to put down, so Clyde just blew off the southern accent is stupid thing, and started with the A-list. Mary Beth, the bride, got out of Clyde’s BMW and stared dreamily at the home. “I want this one!” she declared. Junior looked and Clyde and said, “Make it so.”
“Don’t you want to at least look inside?” asked Clyde with great incredule in his voice.
They didn’t. In the end, when no one would finance Junior for such a house on his salary, even if Mary Beth waitressed three days a week, he just went ahead and paid cash for the house. “Only got a million left,” he told Mary Beth. “We should throw a party.”
The party comes later. In the meantime, Junior got promoted to assistant manager at the Rent A Whooptie, and a fifteen percent increase in salary. The former assistant manager run off with a night deposit to Taylor or someplace. The manager needed someone to close. After three people turned him down, he offered Junior, who took it on the spot. “I won’t let you down, Mr. Crebdeck.”
But, of course, Junior would let Mr. Crebdeck down. In fact, it was the very next day. The 105 inch 3D flat screen TV arrived with all the fixings. No way Junior wasn’t assembling that monster. By four o’clock in the PM he was whacking newbies online Call of Duty by the score. Mr. Crebdeck called, but Junior told him he wasn’t home and his wife would be picking up his final check tomorrow. And then he hung up and headshot some punk named, DethStarX. This part of the story establishes that now, Junior is going to be home twenty four seven. Pay attention.
Mary Beth love birds. So did Junior actually, but she really loved birds and Junior actually just chose not to fight that battle. In a seventy-five hundred square foot home, you can have a lot of birds and Mary Beth did. Except in the game room/man cave. No birds were allowed in there.
Things was going along just swell for Mary Beth and Junior when out of nowhere trouble loomed heavy. The neighborhood association president arrived at the door one day to tell them there had been complaints. Mr. President was from Pakistan or Iraq or something. He was polite and courteous and Junior told him to get his terrorist-ass off his property afore he filled his ass with buck shot pronto. The police arrived a few minutes later and Junior lied his ass off and cops believed him when he said the president was rude and demanding, and had something suspicious in his pocket. Maybe a gun. Maybe a knife. He showed the cops his game room and they stayed for an hour. Junior invited them over when they got off to drink some beers and shoot some bad guys. And they did.
Mary Beth decided to be psychic reader again and ran ads in some local papers. Junior hired some black dude named Denzel to design her a web page and hook up some Pay-Pal stuff. It was all rigged, but Mary Beth loved it and sure enough in a couple months she was raking in the cash. Junior bought a brand new pickup truck and said Mary Beth could use it any time she wanted. It had those naked lady mud flaps, and air horn, and Hemi engine. MISTRY was on the license plate right above the trailer hitch for the bass boat.
Next door to Junior, on the right if you were facing Junior’s house, lived a real live Chinese guy with his wife, daughter and father. Junior could never remember his name, but it sounded like Biangow, which is what he called him. Biangow did not speak good English. He only spoke Chinese good, and he hated Junior. Anyway, Biangow worked nights because he worked on his computer in China while he was living next door to Junior. So, he had crazy hours and mixed with the cultural differences, just didn’t cotton him to Junior none. But, what could he do? He heard the stories of how Junior terrorized the NA president. Biangow was four foot eleven and weighed ninety-eight pounds. Junior was six foot four and weighed two forty five—and definitely had an athlete’s muscular body. And there was that tattoo!
And then on the other side of Junior was a law talker lawyer guy who had no sense of humor whatsoever. He had a big shot practice that handled just about anything legal and mostly played golf while the clerks did all the real work. He had more reason to hate Junior than most at this point. Junior had outsmarted him with stupid luck and just generally annoyed him with that Southern Hospitality shit. It was that plain and simple. Clarence J. Sorbutte, however, was not one to give up easy and were it not for him making this mistake repeatedly this story would be much less entertaining. Seriously.
Junior had retained Clarence’s law firm.
Behind Junior lived some Google executive, his Barbie doll wife, and four perfect snowflake offspring—a girl and three boys, in that order. Rasmus Hafney was an elder at his church, active with many local civic organizations and the Scout Leader of the Boy Scouts. Rasmus hated Junior, but spent a month praying on it afore he could take it no longer and went to see Clarence. Oh yeah, and Rasmus was an utter and complete gun nut, and that would come back to haunt him.
And then across the street from Junior lived the old, mysterious man who was a widow and had a quartet of Yorkshire Terriers he walked several times a day up and down the street. They shit and pissed in everyone’s yards, but no one ever said anything to him. They were little dogs. Their poops were small. Widow Man hated Junior because he basically hated everyone. But, later, he would come to hate Junior the most. He had powerful telescope, three kinds of binoculars, linear microphones and could hack into any telephone line he wanted with his laptop computer. Widow man retired from the phone company ten years hence, but they still called him into consult and repair junk. But nobody knew any of this. They just knew about them Yorkies.
And so it went. One week after Junior’s arrival and he had alienated or outright pissed off all his neighbors and he didn’t even know how or why. His new hound dog didn’t care neither. He had one of the neighbor’s cats in his teeth, but it wasn’t even dead. Just then Mary Beth came walking onto the porch with her Mina bird on her arm. “Listen to this!” she said. In the next few minutes that bird did say:
Junior loves Mary Beth
Biangow eats cow
Grits and tits
Me love long time
I am the Bat Man
Eat my shorts
Where’s the beef?
Stop or I’ll shoot!
Danger Will Robinson
Give me some whiskey
I was framed
What’s up, doc?
Junior found this fascinating and told Mary Beth some new phrases to teach the bird, and then he got a beer and when he got back the hound dog was gone. “DOG FOOD!” yelled Junior. That was the dog’s name. Sure enough, Dog Food come a running and this time without that cat in his teeth. “Good boy” said Junior while pouring some beer into his dog’s thirsty mouth. Junior spent the next four hours trying to teach Dog Food to talk.
Satellite TV permitted Junior to Roll Tide all the way up in Michigan. He hated Michigan university of, by the way. With a passion. But on this day he’d flown up some good old boys from back home to watch the game with him and perhaps drink some whiskey and consume a half a steer. Mary Beth cooked the steer half. Took her all night and the neighbors could be heard voicing their disgust in the distance. Junior yelled at them to shut the fuck up and they did. That stupid law talker Clarence arrived at Junior’s door at three in the morning to complain about the smoke from the steer barbeque. Junior considered the man with a blank expression on his face. He could probably kill this little nerd with one punch to the gourd, but instead he pulled out his dick and pissed all over the leg of Clarence’s silk pajamas. “I thought I saw a jelly fish on your leg,” said Junior. Just then Dog Food appeared at the door and unleashed a throaty growl. Clarence’s pajamas were much wetter by the time he made it home.
And the police came again and shot pool and drank beer with Junior, and were invited to the big Roll Tide party the next day. They believed Junior’s story about how Clarence pissed his own pants when Dog Food offered to shake hands. They loved Dog Food. He brought them beer from the cooler and loved having his belly rubbed. They blamed the Jews for Clarence and started doing shots of Jack. A good time was had by all.
Reality TV taught Junior he could “suppress” a shotgun, which would turn out to have both humorous and terrifying results. Junior did the math, and the angles correlated vigorously to the trajectory he’d calculated, which coincided with Billy Bob’s exact opinion. They could shoot skeet in Junior’s backyard and no one would ever know except them. So, during half time of Roll Tide, they did just that for twenty minutes. The neighbors were mystified by what sounded like intermittent hail on their roofs. It was a perfectly sunny day outside. Rasmus’ eldest son, while looking at the sky for this hail, didn’t see the pellet until it spider webbed the left lens of his glasses. He screamed like a little girl and ran into the house.
Junior was pretty drunk when he leveled that suppressed Benelli at the side of steer on the spit next to the pool. Billy Bob double dog dared him. Joe Ray bet five dollars he couldn’t hit it from there. Danny Lee, who was standing exactly next to Junior, threw his shot glass and hit the steer dead on. That was all it took.
That first shot blew steer all over the place, and so did the second and the third and the fourth and the fifth and the sixth—but at least it didn’t make a lot of noise. But when the cops opened fire with their service pistols, which were not suppressed, it got just a bit out of hand. Widow man got it all on tape with the hidden camera he placed in the Maple tree overlooking Junior’s backyard and pool. He also had video of Mary Beth skinny dipping and sun bathing, and video of Rasmus and his busty wife in the throes, and of Clarence jacking off in his office with negro porn on his computer screen, and of Chinese guy butchering and cooking a dog. A Beagle or some small dog it was. He used a lot of sauce.
Rasmus and his entire family were vegetarian, so the odor of the cooking steer made them nauseous and irritable enough without suddenly being beset with the eye glass crisis. The wife called an ambulance, Rasmus called his insurance agent and the daughter called the Reverend. All arrived at approximately the same time, along with Officer Bradley Cooper who as it turned out loved him some barbeque steer which perturbed Rasmus to no end indeed. Even Clarence the law talker wandered over as he was meddlesome and nosey, and was pissed at Junior, too. It was yet another bad idea on his part.
Clyde J. Broham and his brothers retained Clarence for all their legal doings, and recommended him to their every client on most every deal. Junior, who from previous experience already knew the value of a good mouth piece, immediately contacted Clarence’s firm and set up an appointment. He arrived in a suit just bought from K-mart, and with Mary Beth in a slinky red thing and spiked heels five minutes early and used the office bathroom. Later Clarence would learn Junior stopped up that toilet with a large turd and did not report it. Anyway, Junior ended up in an office with Theodore J. Buckley, fresh out of law school and just full of piss and vinegar. Before he could say a word, Junior slapped ten thousand dollars in cash on his desk and said, “I don’t never want to be guilty of nothing. That’s your retainer and there is plenty more where that come from.”
Without a word Theodore reached into a desk drawer and removed a form and placed it before Junior who read it word for word over the next five minutes before he signed. After reviewing Junior’s remarkably neat signature, Theodore counter-signed, then dropped the form into a wire basket on his desk. “Is there any legal matter you require assistance with at this time, Sir?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, there is,” replied Junior.
Jim Carnes was the dude with the elephant. He rented it out to local carnivals and commercial events whenever he could. Junior got it for five hundred dollars for the day and evening, and another two hundred for the trainer to make it do tricks and stuff. Jim Carnes said it was small for its size, and that was good because it was easier to control. Junior asked how much it weighed. Jim Carnes said a half a ton or so. He did not tell Junior the elephant was stolen, or that he didn’t have a license for it. He just took Junior out back where the elephant sat, and had it stand on its high legs and blow its trunk on cue. Junior forked over the five bills. Roll Tide.
Theodore secured insurance for everything, and held an escrow account of fifty-thousand dollars in a safe behind his desk from Junior. He was making a name for himself at the firm with this account and a couple dozen others he’d reeled in during his first six months. He knocked off early and hit the strip club on the way home. Life was good.
When Mary Beth took the Mina bird to the pool she never worried when he would fly off. It always came back. And when it came back it often had learned new phrases which amused Junior and Mary Beth to no end. Mary Beth would not let Junior feed Mina bird beer or buds, lord knows he tried. Mina came back on this afternoon after an extended absence and said, “Daddy, it’s the devil!” By now Mary Beth learned how to record Mina bird, and then put it on the computer for what Junior did not know. She had hundreds of phrases now. That bird was smart as Hell. Mina bird took off once more and when it came back a second time it said, “Clarence hired a detective!” That got Junior’s attention directly. At that time he didn’t know Clarence was Theodore’s boss. That was like an ace waiting to fall. Junior rose from his lounge chair and went to the man cave book shelf and pulled down his copy of the Art of War by Sun Tzu. He opened the book to page 69 and there it was. Doobius Shebangus. Fire made it work.
Widow man could care less of all the stupid shit. From his perch, his house being set way back from the street and all, afforded him natural insulation from the goings on all around him. He house was brick and amply girded with brand new triple pane, double insulated, Viton sealed, fiberglass windows. Off his property, everything was just cheap entertainment. On his property was vastly more serious. But, he valued his jaunts up and down the streets with his Yorkies in tow. Pinkie was his favorite and was the youngest. She had a smile that would melt a glacier and loved to yip and run. She was quite feisty indeed. So, quite naturally when they heard the blare of an elephant trunk Pinkie was the first to respond which caught Widow Man off guard, as well. Pinkie got away from him and was heading straight toward the elephant noise. Widow Man panicked and lit out after Pinkie not realizing he’d dropped all the leashes and now everybody was running at the elephant noise. It was dark out at this time, and that didn’t help one bit.
Turns out Mina bird had landed on Rasmus’ daughter’s window sill, and that is when the devil statement was made, which Mina bird duly reported. When Mina bird returned he landed on the kitchen window sill and went undetected. He heard one sentence coming out of Rasmus’ wife’s mouth, and then said, “Never more,” and flew off. Rasmus’ wife fainted in his arms causing him to fall into the China cabinet with her full weight against him. He was in surgery for six hours.
Junior hired Theodore to hire a private detective of his own, for Junior, that is. John J. Doe came highly recommended. Theodore said he’d used Doe in the past. His work was impeccable. Junior forked over another five grand. Theodore produced another form which the three of them signed. He made copies and kept the original. It was a contract. A legally binding contract. It brought another ten grand into the firm. Theodore was positively beaming.
Junior instructed Theodore to take a hike. Then he told John Doe what he wanted. “This Clarence guy, my neighbor, I want you to make him guilty of something.”
John Doe understood. “How guilty?”
“Painfully guilty,” replied Junior. “But, there’s got to be a trigger mechanism. I got to be able to play this card when the stakes is just right.”
“Done and done,” drawled John J. Doe.
No one could believe Junior brought an elephant to a backyard party barbeque Roll Tide celebration. All the usual suspects were present, including the law enforcement contingent all decked out in Bama gear. It was Junior’s second Roll Tide party, and he meant to top the first. Three pigs turned on spits for twenty-four hours in preparation and had the neighborhood smelling like a bacon factory. Indian summer kept the temperatures in the nineties even at night. The pool was popping and the bodies were dropping. Even Toe Jam the elephant got in the pool. All things considered, he probably should have stayed there.
But he didn’t and that is the crux of this tale here. Toe Jam climbed out of the pool and after shaking himself silly blew his trunk like someone had jammed a hot poker up his ass. By now Toe Jam had figured out every time he blew, the humans would imitate him and training humans got good to him fast. Even Mina bird was imitating Toe Jam, and so was Dog Food. It was like an orchestra of pachyaderms were conducting in Junior’s backyard and it was thing of beauty until them Yorkie’s arrived. That’s when shit got downright ugly.
By now John J. Doe had sabotaged Clarence, found all Widow Man’s cameras and listening devices, seduced Rasmus’ wife, and determined that the Chinese guy was an operative for the Chinese government trying to steal trade secrets and corporate information from the Americans. He told Junior all this whilst getting a blow job from a hooker in Junior’s pool. He also advised Junior to hire another attorney—this guy from Detroit with mob ties and great political reach. “We are going to be rich, Junior,” declared John Doe, but that actually happened a different way.
Meanwhile, Theodore was growing frustrated that after six long months and thousands of dollars in revenue, he was not being offered a partnership. He just didn’t know whether he should go someplace else, or start his own firm. Dreading the thought of grinding his way back up another ladder, he decided to start his own firm. All he needed was lots of money, and there is only one way a lawyer makes a lot of money. He sues something. He filed suit against the tobacco companies and was fired the next day.
When Rasmus shot Mina bird you’d thought that bird swallowed a lit M-80. There were feathers everywhere. Rasmus had a Remington over/under and had let both barrels go. He claimed later Mina bird landed on his patio table, defecated, and then said, “Me so horny. Me love you long time.” But no one believed Rasmus except his family and Clarence. He was arrested and taken away in a squad car. He claimed to have been raped in the drunk tank that night because his wife couldn’t find the check book for him to make bail. Clarence sprang him the next day. “I think we have a case,” he said. Truer words were never spoken. They had a case alright.
I guess Yorkie’s are like mice in that elephants don’t like them. Just as soon as Pinkie entered Junior’s backyard through the left open gate, Toe Jam spun on his rear legs and then squished Pinkie under his flat, right foot—and hard. Pinkie died without so much as a squeak. One after another those Yorkie’s run into Junior’s backyard, and one after another they got squished by Toe Jam. Widow Man saw the last two bite the dust and it brought him to his knees. A naked hooker leapt out of the pool and rushed to his side. She put her arms around Widow Man and cradled his head in her shoulder. John J. Doe wasn’t a stupid man. He’d pirated Widow Man’s camera feeds, installed a few things of his own, and was now sitting in Junior’s basement enjoying the show. You just couldn’t make shit like this up, he thought. On the monitor to his left, Clarence didn’t know the camera on his laptop had been activated and was recording his every move as he surfed black girl porn and jiggled in his seat. The monitor to John Doe’s right recorded every key stroke, web site, login and password the Chinese guy made.
But when Mary Beth found out Rasmus had shot Mina bird, she went total ape shit crazy and Junior had to hold her while John Doe gave her a shot. Then they tied her up. When she came to she was calm but Junior didn’t trust her. The next day she was able to control herself. Junior knew she was still a wild card. Mary Beth loved that bird, but he couldn’t keep her tied up forever. Sooner or later, Rasmus’ ass was going down. Now, it was a race against time because Junior knew that if he didn’t take care of business, Mary Beth would and that might prove disasterous. She snuck out later and threw a brick through Rasmus’ picture window.
The next day a guy from PETA showed up and Mary Beth invited him into her bird-aculture area and he fell in love. He got on his cell phone and got a local TV station to rush right over and film a story about the shot Mina bird and Mary Beth’s fowl love. Junior was out bass fishing in his new boat so it was perfect. Mary Beth played the southern belle routine perfectly and somehow that story made the national news, and the next day Mary Beth was on the set of Good Morning Americans. None of this was good news for Rasmus, or Clarence for that matter. When Mary Beth bragged about busting out that picture window the audience gave her a standing ovation. And then the San Diego zoo promised to send her a brand new Mina bird for free. But all this wasn’t even where the gold was struck. Oh no, not even close.
So Clarence was fit to be tied. He just found out his firm was retained by the very guy he wanted to sue to death until infinity, and the partners were whining about public image. They wanted him to take care of this quietly. They wanted him to throw some money at Junior. Just make him go away. And, they were mad because they had taken a retainer from Rasmus, but now had to give it back due to the conflict of interest. “We can’t make money by writing checks, Clarence!” cried the senior partner.
Clarence stormed out of the meeting and went home. He didn’t even feel like golfing any more. Once home, he opened a bottle of bourbon and went to his den to surf for porn and whack off. And that is exactly the position he was in when the SWAT team burst through every door in his home preceded by flash/bang grenades. John J. Doe and Junior watched on the big screen in the game room. “Just let me know when you want the real bomb dropped, Junior.”
“Wait until them Yorkie’s are in the ground,” replied Junior solemnly. “Then we will take care of all family business.”
Meanwhile Widow Man was trying to figure out what was going on at Clarence’s house. There were cops in black uniforms with machine guns everywhere. Two helicopters circled above and FBI guys started arriving by the dozen. And then, out of nowhere, that crazy Chinese guy runs out his house with a pistol and starts shooting the FBI guys. Widow Man about shit his pants. Chinese guy shot about seven of the FBI guys, reloaded, and then capped about seven more. Finally some SWAT guy ran up behind him and blasted him in the head with his machine gun. Chinese guy was dead as a door nail. Widow Man reached for his binoculars.
“Damn! Did you see that?” exclaimed Junior.
“Yeah, I did. And, I got it on tape,” replied John Doe.
“Damn!” repeated Junior softly.
“I wasn’t expecting that,” declared John Doe.
“No fucking shit, Bro.”
Clyde Broham sold Chinese guy that gun, and the extra clip, and like four thousand rounds of ammunition. The extra clip and the bullets were nothing. He bought those at a gun show under an assumed name. The gun he stole from his brother Jonas because of his drinking problem. Jonas got that gun from their daddy, who for sure registered it. The shit was about to get real deep.
Clarence went to jail in his robe and boxers and his knee high socks. They threw him in the drunk tank and called him a traitor and a spy, which totally confused Clarence who thought he was arrested for porn, which made even less sense. He had no way of knowing the FBI messed up the search warrant and raided the wrong house. He asked for a phone call, but the guard just grabbed his crotch then gave him the finger.
Clarence was freed the next morning when they figured out that the mass murdering Chinese guy was the real target. Clarence was returned home in his boxers and robe by a pair of FBI agents with crew cuts and bad breath. His wife met him at the door crying. Clarence just wanted to go to bed, which he did directly and slept for three days straight.
The lady at the FBI with the blue hair and yellow teeth first called the Senior Agent in Charge, and when she couldn’t reach him, just called a regular old agent. She told him the gun was originally registered to a Clyde Broham Senior who was dead now and had been for a number of years. Agent Sheffield checked the file and sure enough found that the Chinese guy had only been in country a couple of years. How could a dead guy give a gun to a Chinese guy, he wondered? But, of course, he was wondering the wrong question.
Meanwhile, Junior had just arrived home after dropping off some kin and friends at the airport for them to fly back to Bama. They were all pissed off because of the Chinese guys shooting the American FBI agents and they wanted some payback. But, they settled for a Grand Slam at Denny’s and some Detroit Tigers jerseys courtesy of Junior. When they come back, they claimed, they would be bringing they own guns—just in case. Junior was fine with that.
Widow Man buried his dogs at the pet cemetery out on Ridge Road south of town, and sat quietly in the limo for the ride back home. As they pulled into the driveway he saw Junior washing his truck in the driveway and gave him the finger. Junior grabbed his crotch and told Widow Man to suck his dick. John Doe got all the incriminating stuff on camera.
Being a creature of habit, Widow Man took walks every day at what time them dead dogs would need to go to the bathroom. He took the same route every time and Junior could see him as he checked out his cameras hidden in the trees and such. Widow Man still hadn’t figured out that John Doe had hacked his system and added even more cameras. Widow Man was just too emotionally distraught. But, he did accidently on purpose happen into Clarence every day, and the two of them spoke in whispers on the street by the mailboxes. John Doe’s mics picked up every word.
“We’ve got to get that son of a bitch!” said Clarence.
“Your darn tootin’!” replied Widow Man. “What the plan?”
“Come inside and I’ll show you,” answered Clarence
Clarence would never have done this if he knew John Doe had bugged his house with microphones and movement oriented close circuit TV cameras. No sir, he would have kept his big mouth shut. But he didn’t so he did, and that was the flaw in his plan. He would be surprised when he found out, but not nearly as surprised as the FBI guy who found the video of him jerking off on the Chinese guy’s laptop. They had finally hired a contractor to come in and break the encryption and now the trove of treasure was their booty indeed. The FBI guys also found video of Widow Man planting and maintaining his network of cameras and microphones throughout the neighborhood. There was video of the other neighbor, Rasmus, flinging excrement into Junior’s backyard with a shovel. “We need samples,” said the FBI guy to his partner.
The FBI guys are morons, John J. Doe announced to Junior. “What did you expect?” replied Junior, bellowing Blunt smoke like a locomotive. “Wish I could of sicked Toe Jam on ‘em!” John Doe chuckled at the thought. Now that he knew Clarence’s exact plan, he could relax and enjoy a Jack and a hooker or two. “Make the call,” Junior said. John Doe made the call. It was to an associate who would cancel all utilities, hack every bank account and credit card, and make numerous calls to Protective Services claiming child abuse on Clarence and Widow Man. He put the Clarence jerk off video on YouTube and another of Widow Man planting a camera in a tree outside Clarence’s window. He then sent emails to each of the men with the videos address in them. And then he just sat back until the happy ending and then the hooker went to rinse out her mouth.
The FBI guy showed up at Clyde’s office with his partner and the gun in question. “Do you recognize this here gun?” he asked. Clyde about shit his pants. “It was used in the murder of fourteen FBI agents,” continued the FBI guy. “And was last registered to your father.” Clyde realized the gig was up and there was only one thing for him to do: Lie. “Of course I know that gun,” replied Clyde coolly. “It’s the same one my Daddy shot my Mama with when she had her fit and attacked him with that axe. Daddy threw her in the cotton gin so the police wouldn’t find no bullet holes.” Clyde thought the FBI guy was going to come in his pants he got so excited. He had a million questions for Clyde and Clyde lied to each one. It worked and would have kept on working had not Jonas walked in and once he saw the gun said, “Hey! Where’d you find my gun at?” That is when the FBI guys arrested everyone and took them downtown.
Rasmus was sitting there, handcuffed to the bench when Clarence was brung in. “What they get you for?” asked Clarence. “Creating a hazmat situation or something,” whimpered Rasmus. “What they get you for?” The fact is Clarence had no idea. They hadn’t actually charged him for terrorism at that point yet. Widow Man came in about five minutes later and wouldn’t stop screaming for his lawyer—which was Clarence—who as we know was already there. It was just the same like for Rasmus who didn’t know John Doe had sprinkled some anthrax on that dog shit Rasmus had flung into Junior’s backyard which he FBI guys found. And then, Clyde and Jonas were brought in as people of interest and for lying to the FBI. This story then becomes far too complicated to record every detail.
Mary Beth’s Mina bird recordings took off like rockets. She managed the entire marketing plan by her own self, and distributed them to Amazon somehow and was now getting sixty-nine cents every time some idiot downloaded one of them ten to fifteen second recordings of Mina bird saying something cute or stupid or tacky or rude or insulting or sick or obscene. The new bird was just as talented as the one what got shot and Mary Beth had it trained in no time. John J. Doe even got involved and showed Mary Beth how to do fake videos the Mina bird could talk in and pretty soon them were selling like hot cakes, as well. Junior was so happy he bought another dog. Money was rolling in.
The FBI confiscated everything Widow Man, Clarence, Rasmus and the Chinese guy owned and put it up for auction even before any of them were convicted of anything. Junior bought it all at rock bottom prices. Since John Doe was doinking Mrs. Rasmus, he gave them the Rasmus house, but rest went to his Roll Tide buddies and existing family members, and they commenced to partying like it was the 90’s again. The local home owners association threw fits, but Junior had long money and fancy law talkers and it turns out the best thing they could do was move the fuck out which they did and sold at rock bottom prices and you know who picked them up for pennies on the dollar and brought even more Roll tide north. Within a year or two, Junior owned Farmbrooke Meadows and changed the name to Roll Tide Nation and imposed strict admissions regulations.
And that is about how long it took the FBI and the CIA and Homeland Security and the Justice Department to straighten out the whole legal quandary the antagonists in this story was suffering through. The country was in no mood for domestic terrorists at this point and railroading them fellows into a prison cell for the rest of their natural lives proved easy and garnered great headlines for the politicians taking credit for keeping America safe. Rasmus hung himself during his first day in stir. The rest of them just wallowed in self-pity through the years and did not appreciate at all the post cards Junior sent them every few months or so.
Junior staged a “Fun Run” through the neighborhood every year on the fourth of July to benefit the families of the gunned down FBI guys and always a few thousand dollars were raised. He made sure the chalk likes were painted in wear resistant white paint every month as a tribute to them FBI guys. No one was allowed to park over them. Several people tried to sue, but they lost every time. All the neighbors were fine with it, and the FBI guys liked hanging out at Junior’s pool and drinking so they didn’t give a fuck. Relatively speaking, it was a happy ending.