Possum Surprise

by Robert Tacoma

  Taco Bob sent Pete to borrow Hop’s laptop computer so they could check it out. A few minutes later they’d found what they were looking for.

  “Looks like Skunk is right. Some mighty impressive prizes.” Several of the boys crowded around and grunted approval. “But there’s a hefty entry fee too. About the same as what it’d take for Hazel’s bail.” Not an eye in the room blinked. “Well, I reckon Hazel won’t mind as long as it’s for Doc.”

  ♦

  With everyone helping, it only took an hour for Taco Bob to get his tackle packed and his bass boat hooked up to the truck. Hop got on the computer and had the pair signed up for the tournament before Taco Bob and Skunk even got out the front gate.

  Texas has some of the best bass fishing in the country, and Skunk often got invited to go fishing with Taco Bob – not because of the smaller man’s fishing ability, and certainly not for his conversational skills or overall presence, but mainly so Taco Bob wouldn’t have to worry about any major damage to his ranch while he was gone.

  Skunk was overly proud to be one of the few in the Possum Row area who didn’t make a living growing crops, or ranching cows or possums. He referred to his trade as that of Solenopsis purveyor, which was just a fancy name for ant farmer. For some reason he thought ant farming a noble profession, and this was often the spark that set off many a raging free-for-all fight between him and others – though it was usually just him and Mumbles going at it, tearing the hell out of each other and anything else in the vicinity.

  The fishing tournament was in south Georgia – where neither man had ever wet a line. But as everyone knows, the grass is always a little greener on the other side of the state line. Since there were several state lines involved in a trip to Georgia, they were convinced some truly great fishing awaited them in the Peach State.

  So with hopes and expectations running high, the two Texans were eastbound and down.

  ♦

  They got to the lake in time to do a little fishing and check things out for the tournament the next day. Then it was dinner in a little restaurant with some of the other people in town for the big event.

  It turned out they weren’t the only ones from Texas entered. Buck Kracker, the owner of a big cattle ranch outside Armadillo and cousin to Officer Raddick, had brought one of his cowboys and a brand new boat.

  Kracker had always looked down on possum ranchers and was telling possum jokes loud enough from his table so everyone in the restaurant could hear. Taco Bob and Skunk ignored the loudmouth and were almost finished eating when Kracker got around to telling ant farmer jokes.

  “Okay, I got another one. Why did the ant farmer cross the road? Give up? Because he couldn’t get his dick out of the chicken!”

  Skunk started eating real fast and Taco Bob knew why. He threw some money on the table and dragged a struggling Skunk out of the restaurant before he could finish his food and start punching cow-punchers.

  They went straight to the motel. At Taco Bob’s insistence, Skunk made full use of all the indoor plumbing facilities, and the optimistic fishermen both got to sleep at a decent hour.

  ♦

  The next morning the tournament lake was flat calm. As the sun first started showing signs of making yet another miraculous appearance, the only sound was an occasional bird call in the distance and the deafening rumble of thirty high-performance, 200-plus-horsepower outboard engines.

  When the judges determined that it was light enough that thirty boatloads of good ol’ boys might be able to navigate the huge lake without running into each other too much, they turned them loose. Within seconds there were boats screaming off in all directions at seventy miles per hour.

  Taco Bob ran his boat up to a cove they’d seen the day before and started catching fish right off. It was a beautiful early spring day and they were feeling fine. Skunk turned around in his seat in the boat and slipped out a pint bottle of Okefenokee Moon. He gave his fishing partner a sheepish smile and shrugged.

  “Wouldn’t ya know?”

  Skunk took a good snort and offered it over. Taco Bob waved it off.

  “No thanks. I need to be keeping my wits about me if I’m going – ”

  Before he could finish he got a nice hit on a plastic worm and wrestled in a small bass.

  “Hot damn, Taco! We gonna flat tear us up some fish today!”

  And they did too, except they were all pretty small. Even Skunk managed to tie into a couple of scrappy little bass in between pulls on his bottle of ‘shine.

  “I’m feeling mighty lucky today!”

  Skunk took off his old hat and spit on it for good luck – allegedly a time-honored Johnson family tradition.

  “Taco, I sure wish you’d a let me have a word with that man in the restaurant last night.”

  “You should be thanking me for keeping you out of the hospital. Buck Kracker looks to be about twice your size, not to mention he had that big, mean-eyed redneck sitting with him.”

  “Them cow-humpers don’t scare me none!” Taco Bob looked over at his scruffy companion taking another slash of liquid courage. “You know about them boys working for ol’ Butt Crack, don’t ya, Taco?”

  “I heard he hired Jed Rawlings as ranch foreman when he bought the place.”

  “Well, Jed’s the only one worth two shits still there. Kracker fired all the other real cowboys as soon he got cattle ranching more-or-less figured out, then hired on a bunch of ex-cons and other low-lifes he could get on the cheap. The man’s ended up with a whole pile of ignorant, bad-tempered rednecks working for him these days.”

  Skunk continued to express his displeasure with cowboys in general and Buck Kracker in particular as they came up on a nice-looking spot along the shore. Taco Bob flipped a black plastic worm up on the bank and slowly eased it into the water. There was a swirl and a splash, and the fight was on.

  “You got ‘em, Taco! Yeehaw!” Taco Bob had his hands full – fighting the fish and trying to keep it out of the weeds – meanwhile Skunk was jumping around in the boat, all excited. The fish launched itself part way out of the water and they got a quick look at some serious bass – which got Skunk yelling again.

  “We have liftoff! Space Shuttle Bass has left for its mission to the moon!”

  Taco Bob was holding on for all he was worth. The fish dived deep for the bottom and was pulling line off the reel. Skunk was holding the bottle up and directing.

  “Man the depth charges, Captain! It’s an enemy submarine!” He grabbed a bag of corn chips and started throwing them in the water one at a time making explosion noises. The fish came up from the bottom and jumped clear out of the water, shaking his head. It was an impressive fish, maybe six or seven pounds of angry trophy largemouth bass. Skunk wasn’t being much help at all.

  “That sub’s shooting Nukes at us! We must notify Washington at once!” Skunk dropped his bottle of ‘shine in the boat and reached for the landing net. Even during rare instances of sobriety, the man had the poise of a hog on ice. Taco Bob was about to tell him to settle down when Skunk stepped on the bottle, slipped, and went overboard.

  Not only did the ensuing ungainly meeting of Skunk’s body and the surface of the lake get Taco Bob soaked, but Skunk’s flailing-around also broke the line and caused them to lose the fish as well.

  Taco Bob was none too happy with the situation at hand. Even though he knew it unlikely a jury of his fishermen peers would ever convict him if he let Skunk drown, he reluctantly helped Skunk get back into the boat.

  The cold lake water sobered Skunk up some, though – enough for him to pull in one more fish later on, a respectable three-pounder. Taco Bob never got another bite the rest of the day.

  ♦

  Back at the weigh-in, they found out that the others in the tournament caught a lot of little ones too, but not many big ones. The biggest fish of the day was just under six pounds and won Buck Kracker a new bass boat, $5,000 in cash, several gift certificates, two nice rods and reels, a guest appearance on a TV fishing s
how, and a big trophy. Skunk’s three-pounder was good enough for fifth place and a small trophy along with a gift certificate.

  While Skunk and the other winners were getting their pictures taken with Miss Georgia and their hands shaken by the governor, Taco Bob loaded the boat back onto the trailer and got all the gear stowed. There was a big banquet afterwards, but they left because it was getting dark and they had a long haul to get home.

  Skunk was all full of himself on the ride back, and Taco Bob was happy for him to win something – but some people can let a little success go to their head. Taco Bob still wasn’t doing any drinking on account of driving, but that didn’t stop Skunk. He had his little trophy sitting there on the dash of the truck as they headed along Interstate 10, and was just a-knocking back the ‘shine he’d traded the gift certificate for.

  With the scenery of several states flashing by in the darkness, Skunk started in on how it was too bad Taco Bob had lost his fish.

  “Shoot, you might have even won a fine trophy like this here!” Skunk had the trophy in one hand and the bottle in the other. “Maybe if you’d played that fish better, it might not have come off when I tried to net it for you.” Then Skunk launched into a long slurred explanation of the proper way to catch bass and all the things Taco Bob was doing wrong.

  “You know, Skunk, I did catch a lot more fish than you did.”

  Skunk ignored this and instead started in on about how he thought maybe the judges had cheated him and he should have gotten fourth place, or even third place. Taco Bob was trying to concentrate on driving since it had started raining.

  “Maybe you should take it easy on that ‘shine.”

  After offering the kind of assurance of complete control that comes easily from someone half in the bag, Skunk slid into a far too detailed account of what he thought about various parts of Miss Georgia’s anatomy. Next was what sounded like it was going to be a long, critical analysis of Taco Bob’s personal life, when Skunk suddenly got quiet. Taco Bob was enjoying the brief respite when Skunk said in a real small voice, “I don’t feel so good.”

  Taco Bob immediately braked, but before he could pull over, Skunk puked all over the inside of the nice clean truck, then passed out slumped against the door.

  ♦

  Taco Bob knew how much Skunk loved telling stories, which is why he left his fishing partner passed out in the grass along I-10 with his fishing trophy and lucky hat. Taco Bob figured taking Skunk’s pants would just make the story of how he got back to Texas even more interesting, and that someday Skunk would thank him.

  ∨ Possum Surprise ∧

  11

  The Gang

  Taco Bob was just outside Possum Row when he slammed on the brakes and barely missed whatever had run across the road. He’d been having trouble staying awake. He was worn out from the full day of fishing and long drive, but wide-awake now.

  “What the hell was that?”

  Had to be a small deer, not much else out that time of night. He stopped alongside the road and took a stretch, a leak, and a quick flashlight inspection of the boat and trailer. Everything looked okay on the rig, but something up ahead wasn’t right. There was something just over the next hill – a glow that vanished about the time he noticed it.

  He took a minute to think, then locked the truck and eased along the side of the road keeping low and close to the bushes. Something small scurried off in the brush.

  “Oh, yeah, that’s what I need. Get myself snake bit out here.”

  He’d heard of bandits who worked the roads at night, getting unsuspecting motorists to stop and then robbing them – or worse. Sure enough, over the hill sat a car with the hood up. He moved quietly hoping to see if there was someone by the car. About the time he had a bad thought, it was too late – a bright flashlight shined right in his eyes.

  “FREEZE!”

  Taco Bob stopped in his tracks.

  “Hot damn! If it ain’t our old buddy Taco Bob!” The possum rancher held stock-still. Another flashlight came on, also shining in his eyes. The voice continued, “Why, I’m so happy to see you, I don’t know whether to shoot you now or wait a few minutes so I can savor the moment!”

  Now Taco Bob was really scared. He recognized the voice and it wasn’t good news. This was way worse than bandits – this was the infamous Dalton Gang.

  “Yep, me an’ Lenny here broke out of prison this morning and stopped by your place for a visit. The possum boys was all asleep and your truck and boat gone, so we figured you’d be coming by here eventually. We just wanted to talk about old times – like the time four years ago when you sent us up the river!” A strong hand pulled the flashlight out of Taco Bob’s hand.

  “Look here, George. I was just on the jury for all those armed furniture robberies you and Lenny pulled. It wasn’t my fault you got sent to prison.”

  Taco Bob didn’t know much about big, quiet Lenny, but he’d heard plenty about George. The man was small in build but big on meanness. After the trial, one of the jurors, one who it turned out not only was the most insistent for a guilty verdict, but kin to George, told a newspaper reporter all about mean little George. Seems as a boy growing up he’d gone from frog stomper, to cat kicker, to horse whipper. George finally stopped all that after getting horse-kicked real good once, and stayed away from them since – proving the man possessed some ability to learn from his mistakes, even if the lesson had to come in the shape of a heavy horseshoe at the end of an angry leg. The newspaper story said George had changed his ways with animals, but not with people.

  Taco Bob could see George was working up the kind of righteous indignation that comes easily to a man who sees himself as unjustly wronged, especially when he’s the one holding the gun.

  “What? What do you mean it wasn’t your fault? You was the damn jury foreman wasn’t you?”

  “Yeah, but – ”

  “And found us guilty of eighty-seven counts of armed robbery and burglary?”

  “Yeah, but – ”

  “AND, we got sentenced to five years! Damn good thing they didn’t know about the few hundred other jobs we done – or it might have been REALLY bad!”

  There was a loud click in the darkness, like someone cocking a gun.

  “Look, George – ”

  “Stand over to the side, Lenny. Don’t want you to get no blood or anything on your clothes went I pull the trig…”

  There was a dull thud. George’s flashlight dropped. Lenny spoke up for the first time.

  “George?”

  The other light came out of Taco Bob’s eyes and shown on George sitting on the ground holding a hand to his head.

  “Ouch! Something hit me on the head! Lenny, put your light back on Taco Bobs so’s I can plug him one with – OUCH! Something hit me again.”

  Taco Bob saw it that time – a rock had come out of the night and hit the ornery little man square in the forehead.

  “Ow! Hey, George! Something hit me too!” Taco Bob took a step back, then another as more rocks started coming in and hitting the Daltons. Then he turned and ran.

  He could hear George yelling and then shooting into the bushes. Taco Bob made it to his truck in record time and somehow got the door unlocked and the truck going and turned around and didn’t stop until he’d gotten back to the ranch by taking the long way.

  ∨ Possum Surprise ∧

  12

  Dot

  Dottie had already hit rock bottom when she got to Possum Row. She got off the bus that day in the not too distant past and walked the dusty streets to check out the sleepy town just across the tracks from Armadillo. It wasn’t much: a general store, a few businesses, some empty storefronts, and an assortment of houses that had scattered themselves in a haphazard way out into the scrub. There was even an old-style whorehouse. The houses ranged from shacks, to doublewides, to one-story ranch-style, to just plain odd.

  With only an old suitcase and a new attitude Dottie went into the lone diner and ordered coffee. The waitress gave
her a wary look, and a sheriff’s deputy came in, and after the briefest of introductions, started asking stupid questions. She’d been though some shit and didn’t need a hard time or charity.

  At thirty-two Dottie was a good-looking woman, just coming into her prime. She’d wasted eight years married to a cowboy in Brownsville who started taking her for granted the day they were married. By the time she’d finally got the courage to stand up to him and his overbearing mother, she’d become more servant than wife.

  The deputy sitting next to her wasn’t hard to figure out.

  “Well, Dottie, Possum Row’s not a bad town. There’s a few kinda rough-edged types around here, but there’s some good folk, too. Not too many real men – if you know what I mean – but there’s a few of us.” This was accompanied by a fresh outbreak of creaks from the deputy’s shiny black cop belt as he gave it an unnecessary adjustment. “You should stop by my place outside of town sometime. I got a new tractor, a few head of cattle, and a big ol’ dog named Rex. He tends to bite most folks, but I bet he’d like you.” A big lewd wink.

  Dottie knew she didn’t have to worry about the law in this town. The fact that there was a whorehouse spoke volumes.

  “Really? What kind of house?”

  “Why, I got a nice doublewide with a queen-size bed and a wet bar.”

  “Indoor plumbing?”

  “Yep. Two bathrooms even, though the toilet don’t work in the master.”

  Dottie smiled and was about to tell this clown the toilet and him were likely full of the same thing, when his cop radio squawked about a fender-bender – and he was gone.

  Suitcase in hand, Possum Row’s newest resident walked down the dusty street that day. She hadn’t come to this particular town by accident. Research had been done, her mind made up. She knew what she was going to do. She’d heard all the lame jokes about its being one of the oldest professions; but she had a little something in her suitcase – her ace-in-the-hole.