Baby Put That Gun Down

Baby, Put That Gun Down
Leander Jackie Grogan

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Printed in the United States of America
Third Printing: December, 2013
ISBN-978-1-61364-032-6

BOOKS BY LEANDER JACKIE GROGAN
Orange FingerTips
Exorcism At Midnight (Book One in God’s Mysterious Tower Series)
Layoff Skullduggery: The Official Humor Guide
King Juba’s Chest
Black Church Blues
Help! The Bible Gobbled Up My Big Sister [Not yet released]
What’s Wrong With Your Small Business Team? [Nonfiction Bestseller]

About the Author

Leander Jackie Grogan is a native of Houston, Texas, graduate of Texas
Tech University and novelist for twenty plus years. His excellence in
writing extends over a multiplicity of genres with seven novels having
been distributed in eleven countries and five different languages. Both,
Exorcism At Midnight and Black Church Blues have become bestsellers
with worldwide distribution and popular choices for discussion on
national talk shows. He has won numerous local and national awards in
creative writing for radio, print and the web.
Besides having authored a number of nonfiction articles in such national
publications as the Houston Business Journal, AdWeek, Dallas Weekly,
Jet and Business info Magazine, Grogan is author of a current business
bestseller, What’s Wrong With Your Small Business Team; at one point in
2011, holding the #44 spot in the small business category on Amazon.
com. Grogan also serves as a guest blogger for the national crime/
suspense writer’s website, Murder by 4, has written and produced three
local spiritual comedies, and some years ago, had a work of fiction
published in Hustler Magazine.
Grogan’s popularity continues to grow exponentially as a member of
the new breed of storytellers unencumbered by the dictates of old
world cookie-cutter characters and a narrow spotlight, perpetually
shining on the rich side of town. His characters are bold and edgy and
unpredictable, and invariably in conflict with traditional values. His
writings go out of their way to explore spiritual unknowns and the deep
crevices of the mind that harbor raw insight and truth.
Grogan’s favorite writer, and most preponderant upon his current style,
is the late Sidney Sheldon. Specific works such as Polar Shift by Clive
Cussler, Dead Zone by Stephen King, Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison,
Deep Cover by Michael Tolkin and The Rainmaker by John Grisham have
also had a great influence on his commitment to rich, multi-layered
characterization and intricately crafted plots.

Dedication

To family and friends who have been so supportive
over the years; to fellow authors with whom I have
cherished each moment of Facebook collaboration;
and to the many die-heart, date-weary singles
who have jumped on and off the old romance bus,
searching for love and companionship. Sit back and
enjoy a good chuckle at the precarious process, and
never give up on finding your soul mate. Somewhere out there, Mr./Ms. Right awaits you.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One

..........

9

Chapter Two

..........

17

Chapter Three

..........

33

Chapter Four

..........

51

Chapter Five

..........

57

Chapter Six

..........

67

Chapter Seven

..........

85

Chapter Eight

..........

91

Chapter Nine

..........

99

Chapter Ten

..........

109

Chapter Eleven

..........

119

Chapter Twelve

..........

125

Chapter Thirteen

..........

137

Chapter Fourteen

..........

159

Chapter One

I

made my voice deep and croaky, like a pissed off bullfrog
that had hopped up on the greasy counter in Mama Pearl’s
Cajun Kitchen and lapped up too much black pepper and hot sauce.
I said, “Baby, put that gun down. Guns ain’t nothing to play
with. I know you’re a little upset with me right now. But let’s not take
this thing too far.”
Sometimes these women need to be reminded that a man was
put on this earth to be in control. They know where the first rib came
from and it wasn’t from Fat Fannie’s Rib Shack on Piedmont Rd.
They also know it was Eve who got suckered by the lizard in the holy
garden under the big shade tree. That’s why everything’s so messed
up today.
Of course, bedeviled from birth by great humility and not one
to abuse my God-given powers, I sprinkled a little sweet talk around
the extremities of my request, just for her sake, you know, a slight
disclaimer of “pretty please” here, and “Double-Dumplings” there.
Overhearing my limited rendition of sweet nothings, some narrowminded people might’ve taken my kind words as a form of begging.
9


But if you ask me to prognosticate on the fate of narrow-minded
people, I would tell you that ignorance is deadly, and not fully
understand the true essence of a woman’s rage, narrow-minded people
are the first to enjoy the amenities of a steel coffin and slow-moving
hearse to the gravesite.
The Bible says a woman was created with a natural-born hair
trigger. Although I have yet come across the scripture that embodies
this priceless wisdom, Crying Lazarus, a reliable third party source
back in my hometown of East St Louis, has assured me it’s in there.
Even without his loud, fire-and-brimstone, street-preaching corroboration,
the evidence speaks for itself. After being shot, cut and scaled with hot
grits, I stand as a credible witness. Women are born with a short fuse
that can go off at any time.
How was I supposed to know Loan-A-Bone Pawnshop was
going to burn to the ground with Lawanda’s grandma’s hundred year
old family heirloom ring inside? I mean, she’s my fiancée, a quiet,
unassuming, ever-supportive little brown skinned, big-eyed diva that
has been taught by her family to appreciate the finer things in life. Of
all people, I expected her to understand.
I told her, “I’ve got plenty of smarts, baby. Some people
speak of me in whispers as a powerful intellectualist and a great
orator. You remember that speech I gave at your family reunion last
year before that Jack Daniels slipped up on me? People were just
trembling and shaking with their hands over their faces, trying to fight
back the tears.”
What the people were doing was a point of contention I didn’t
really want to bring up. Her snooty, know-it-all, real estate magnet
mama had brainwashed her into believing the people were laughing at
me. When we got home that slight misconception escalated into a big
blowout with name-calling and personal insults that landed me on the
sofa for a few nights ... until she came to her senses. I didn’t want to

11


bring it up, but I had to bring it up because I needed her to remember
that even a man of my profound stature has human limitations.
I said, “I’m sharp, baby. But I ain’t no fortune teller. I can’t
look through the walls like Superman and see that some crooked
contractor’s rinky-dink, substandard electrical wiring is about to send
the whole shopping center, pawn shop, chicken joint, nail salon and
all up in flames.”
That’s when my sweet Double-Dumplings closed her eyes,
gritted her teeth and shot me in the arm with her dead daddy’s old
.22 pistol.
I think about my friend, Biggie Williams. He lost two gold
chains, a flat screen TV and a George Foreman grill in that same fire.
But you didn’t see his ole lady pulling out a gun and acting all crazy.
With Biggie laid off from his job and another repo man parked outside
trying to scoop up his Deville, she had every reason to act a fool. But
she didn’t.
I say another repo man as to distinguish him from the first
repo man that shamefully extradited that one-eyed monkey Biggie
was buying on installments from Jergobbi’s Abused Animal Habitat in
the Village. You know those Pakistani people ain’t right over there
at Jergobbi’s, repossessing the man’s monkey, especially after he
had spent his hard-earned cash buying a fancy clip & flip monocle
eyeglass like the ones people of royalty wear over in England. He
was even training that monkey to be a security guard down at
Blake’s Convenience Store on Fifth Street where they do all
that shoplifting. Whenever those hoodlums tried to steal something,
that monkey would clip on his powerful monocle, point out the assailant
and then proceed to scream like a hyena. That made the thieves run
away. One day the whole store cleared out.
That monkey was a business investment for Biggie before
those bloodsuckers at Jergobbi’s took him away. But you didn’t see

12


his ole lady tripping over their operational losses. She and Biggie
tried to deal with the problem in a calm and rational manner.
But you tell me. How was that spirit of cooperation going to
manifest itself at our place when Double-Dumplings had a gun in one
hand and butcher knife in the other?
I said, “Baby, look around at this fabulous, upscale condo,
overlooking Atlanta historic creeks and parks and monuments. We’re
a new breed of proud civilized black people with distinction and mutual
reciprocity. We’re not savages, baby. We got class. We got to let that
domestic violence thing go.”
For a moment it appeared she was calming down a bit. So I
stayed on my evolutionary roll.
I said, “You asked me why I waited until you went to sleep
and stole your grandma’s ring out of your jewelry box. In the first
place, I didn’t steal it. I borrowed it, like the time I borrowed the two
hundred dollars out of our savings account so I could buy you a nice
Christmas present. I did it all for you, baby.”
And I meant that. I had planned on getting her something
really nice for Christmas if my car hadn’t broken down on the way to
the shopping mall. The tow truck took most of the money; I bought a
Greasy Barn triple meat and fries with the little bit that was left. I had
to get a large strawberry malt to wash it down. Standing out there on
the freeway all that time, waiting for that trifling tow truck driver to
get there made me mad and hungry as hell.
Now, looking back on our tempestuous condo mishap, and
the way she processed my expression of devotion and good will, I
probably shouldn’t have brought the tow truck incident up at all. She
started ranting and raving; something about being tired and fed up.
That’s when she reached out and slashed at my precious face with that
butcher knife.
It was a good thing I had watched all of the Muhammad Ali -

13


Joe Frazier fights back in the 70’s. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known
to drop my head and turn to the side. I was floating like a butterfly.
But I couldn’t sting like a bee ... not with my wrists handcuffed to
the bed railing. That’s right. I was a hostage in my own condo,
going head-to-head with the worst possible adversary ... a wild
woman, locked and loaded, and driven by scorn.
The tip of the knife nicked me on the chin, sending a skittish
trickle of blood down my neck. I figured if I was going to die, I needed
to bare my soul so I could meet Jesus with a clean slate.
I said, “Okay, okay just listen. I took your grandma’s ring
because I wanted to surprise you with a new engagement ring. I
mean, the one I bought you four months ago didn’t exactly live up
to the impeccable standards that were originally propagated to me by
the seller. I was just as surprised as you when that super glue came
loose and the diamond rolled out on the carpet in front of all those
high level people at that hotel banquet. Honestly, baby, I never heard
of Cubic Zirconia before. The Lenox Square hustler that sold me that
piece of crap said it was the real thing. You know I want nothing but
the best for you, Lawanda. That’s why I can’t wait for this economy
to turn around so I can start looking for me a decent job and give you
the things you truly deserve.”
I wanted to continue while the words were getting through to
her brain. But I kept hearing the low thunder of a pot boiling in the
kitchen.
I said, “You might want to go in there and turn off that big pot
of beans, or whatever you’re cooking. We already had one hellacious
barn fire over at Loan-A-Bone. We don’t need another.”
I don’t know whether it was the mention of Loan-A-Bone or
the misconception I was ordering her around. But she took another
swipe at my face with that knife. It forced me to revisit an earlier,
tried-and-true strategy with which narrow-minded people would’ve

14


taken further displeasure. You know ... begging.
“Now please, baby, just think about what’s happening here.
This could only be the devil trying to come between us. Who else
would’ve put the idea in your head to handcuff me to this bed in my
sleep? Certainly not my sweet thing, my one-and only DoubleDumpling. Why don’t you throw those keys over here and let’s end
this drama? Let’s sit down over a bottle of Courvoisier and work this
thing out.”
I reminded her the real villain in this unfortunate state of
affairs was Loan-A-Bone. What irresponsible sleaze balls would
allow their place of business to burn down without having some
kind of insurance or bonding? The owners needed to be tarred and
feathered and run out of town.
That’s when the house phone rang. She didn’t answer it. But
the familiar custom chimes from the Wilcox Prison pay phone
ushered in a new sense of rage on her already teary-twisted face.
I said, “I know you’re still a little upset with me about that
call the other night. Not the collect call from my cousin, running up
your phone bill from prison. But the other one from that little lying
tramp down at the chicken place. I told you then and I’m telling you
now. That’s not my baby. Peaches is just another little street slut looking
for a meal ticket. I gave her a ride one time to the bus stop. That’s how
she was able to describe the inside of your BMW. And that’s how all
this lying started.”
I was hoping she wouldn’t hit me with that same blood test
question. But she did.
I said, “Baby, you know I’d be willing to take a blood test.
But I keep reading how these sorry, unprofessional testing labs
contaminate the evidence. That’s how I got arrested back in ’99, on
bad evidence. Even with my legal expertise and vast understanding of
judicial estoppelness, it took me a solid year to clear my good name.

15


You can understand that, can’t you?”
She wasn’t listening. Storming out of our small cluttered black
lacquer bedroom, she had completely tuned me out.
When she finally reappeared in the doorway, weighted down
with a silver hot maw pot, bitter face drenched in a white cloud of
steam, she tuned me in again, but this time with an Al Green melody
too painful to bear. I found myself singing Call Me, Let’s Stay
Together and Look What You’ve Done To Me ... all at the same time.
I said, “Baby, now, now, now, now, now baby. Whatchu planning
to do with that pot? Ba-ba-ba-Baby? Lawanda? Sweet thing? DoubleDumplingsssss!#!*!”
That’s it, the whole conversation. I’m telling you people the
same thing I told the doctor when I woke up from surgery three weeks
ago. He wanted to know how I got shot, cut and scaled with hot grits,
all in the same day.

16


Chapter Two
T

hese women are crazy out here. No appreciation for a
strong black man fighting through the toils and snares of
the world. I never thought my Double-Dumplings would go berserk
and leave the confines of her right mind like she did; a good Christian
woman from the peaceful town of Sandy Springs, Georgia.
The Bible says turn the other cheek, not slash mine with a
butcher knife. I’m just lucky her brother stopped by her condo when
he did.
These three weeks of rehabilitation and psychoanalytic healing
at Grady Hospital in Atlanta have helped me to cope with the scares
of my abusive relationship with Double-Dumplings. Now it’s just
a matter of coping with that $7500 bill they said I needed to pay
before I can go home.
Down here in Georgia, they don’t seem to realize the new
Obamacare law prohibits such outrageous charges against a person
of my meager fiduciary status. Here’s what I told that hair-lip woman
from the billing office with that big clipboard and all those forms.
“I’m a forty-one year old highly intellectualized legal

18


prodigy from St Louis, Missouri, the show-it-all, know-it-all state.
I’m tall and handsome and spoken of in whispers. And yes, I still
have a jheri-curl and one half-moon gold tooth in remembrance
of our great civil rights struggles during the 60’ and 70’s. I’m a
bonafide graduate of Meramec Community College night classes.
And I know my rights. Before the Republicans did the numbers and
decided it was cheaper to just let everybody die, the 111th Congress
House of Representatives passed Bill HR 3962 which prohibits the
willful gouging and degeneration of underprivileged patients such
as myself. But in the spirit of cooperation, I won’t report you to the
government if you don’t report me to the credit bureau.”
I was talking loud like Aunt Gussie use to do at the department
store when she was trying to return an item that was two or three
years old. It puts pressure on the reciprocal party and forces them
to take action whether they want to or not. So far, the only action
they’ve taken here at Grady Hospital is put me on an old Army cot
they brought up from the basement, and cut my rationings down to
one meal a day.
I realize this is a semi-private room. But SEMI doesn’t give
them the right to make me spend my last day in a corner on a broken
down Army cot.
I could understand if there were a bunch of patients coming in
all at once and room space was tight ... like when my mother took us
to visit Uncle Freeman in Mississippi, and somebody brought a pot
of bad hog maws to the church picnic. Since there was no hospital,
we all ended up being rushed to the same little country clinic at the
same time. Since the town doctor was also the veterinarian, we had
to share a room with sick goats, dogs, and parakeets, not to mention
a bunch of old people passing bad, Nazi-death-camp gas through
their bloomers while keeping a straight face. But at least there was
a reason for our constricted misery. What reason did Grady Hospital

19


have for downgrading my hospitality and relegating me to an Army
cot in the corner?
They gave my comfortable bed to a straggly, Mr. Peabodylooking white boy with a big purple bruise on his head. Turns out he
had a similar domestic experience; only, his torment had been going
on for three years. Can you imagine getting slapped around by a big
6-foot-1, 300 pound country-strong Sheriff Deputy for three years?
She was using her authority and size to keep the man in check.
I told him, “A strong black man like myself wouldn’t take
that kind of crap.”
He started coughing and laughing, coughing from his severe
case of emphysema and laughing from what he concluded to be my
short-sighted perspective on life.
Peabody spoke with a catty southern drawl. “You bad ain’t
cha?”
“You better recognize,” I confirmed.
“You Shaft all over again.”
“I’m Shaft’s daddy, knowemsayin’. Right on, right on.”
You could tell he had spent some time in the hood because
he started humming that bonafide Isaac Hayes Shaft theme:
WHO’S THE CAT THAT WON’T COP OUT,
WHEN THERE’S DANGER ALL ABOUT....
“Hush yorh mouth. You talking ‘bout Shaft, baby.” And then
I started making that yo-yo washboard sound in the theme song.
We jammed for a minute. Then Peabody looked at my
slashed cheek, bullet-grazed arm and slightly cooked chest. “So
why the hell is a strong black man laying here in a hospital bed next
to me ... Shaft?”
Technically, it wasn’t a bed. It was an Army cot. But I did get

20


his drift. His rare exhibition of logic and wherewithal immediately
put us on the same cosmic plane, not to mention the fact that we both
had been violated by crazed, psychopath, over-the-edge women.
I wanted to further our acquaintance, especially since he
didn’t seem to be interested in that hot Salisbury steak plate the
nurse had just brought him. But two slickly dressed suits walked
through the door and interrupted our conversation.
The black alligator satchels and expensive imported loafers
gave them away as attorneys. The short one did the talking while the
tall one rummaged through a stack of documents.
They reminded me of high pressure salesmen with a background in loan-sharking. They kept telling Peabody he’d better
accept the offer before they took it off the table.
“You’re a maintenance man at a broken down apartment
complex. When are you going to see this kind of money again? We
advise you to take this $25,000 before it slips through your fingers.”
As it turned out, they represented a cigarette company that
was settling small claims left over from the big congressional law
passed years ago. Some people have gotten $15 million; Others
$5 millions; Others $500,000. And here they were offering him
$25,000. It wasn’t my business, but I couldn’t sit there ... well, lay
there while they took advantage of my new friend.
I said, “You clowns must be out of your mind. This man is
suffering from life-threatening emphysema because of those poison
white sticks you been dishing out for years. And you want to
compensate him with a funky $25,000? Oh hell naw! We’ll see you
in court.”
The short lawyer asked, “Who are you?”
I told them I was Bobby Felton Frazier, one of the greatest
legal minds to ever come out of the state of Missouri.
“Are you a registered attorney?” The tall lawyer demanded.

21


“I’m more than an attorney, baby. I’m a legal prodigy with
expertise far beyond anything you could imagine.” And then I
started quoting from the Declaration of Independence: “When, in
the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people
to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with
another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate
and equal station to which the laws of nature and of nature’s God
entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires
that they should declare the causes which impel them to the
separation. We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are
created equal....”
I hated my tenth grade teacher for making us memorize that
useless propaganda. But now I could see the true value in regurgitating
it in a strategic time of need.
The short lawyer growled. “What does that have to do with
this case?”
I told him the same thing that Article Six of the United
States Constitution had to do with it. And then I elaborated, “In
accordance with the supreme law of the land, the United States
government, under the Articles of Confederation, is responsible for
debts in pursuance of third party agreements, knowemsayin’? And
it must enforce harsh, unmitigated punishment against those in
conflict of such agreements.”
“What agreement are you talking about?” asked the tall lawyer.
“The $206 billion national tobacco settlement, of course.
You boys are in violation of Clause 230 which calls for the fair and
unbiased compensation of victims damaged by your immoral
practices. You’re leaving us no choice but to turn your names in to
receive the harsh, unmitigated punishment as set forth by law. But
if you was to decide to negotiate in a fair and honorable manner....”
The short attorney looked at his partner. “Why are we talking

22


to this idiot? He had nothing to do with this case.”
The tall lawyer looked at Peabody. “Surely, this nincompoop
isn’t representing you?”
Peabody looked at me for a long time. Finally, he responded,
“Yeah. Yeah he is. Whatever you need to say to me, you said to
him.”
They both look back at me.
I stood up and started pacing the floor like Perry Mason.
Actually, it was more like limping the floor, since some of the hot
grits had scintillated on my thigh, making it a bit painful to get into
my normal cool-daddy stride.
“Like I was saying, if you boys are willing to enter into fair
and honorable negotiations....”
“How fair?” ask the short lawyer.
“Off the top, I’d say $750,000 would be a good starting point
for a man stricken with deadly emphysema.”
“That’s ridiculous!” said the short lawyer. “Our client
wouldn’t consider anything over $100,000.”
Offering a man a measly $100,000 when you’ve taken away
his only breathing utensils is a disgrace to both our professions.”
“Look, I don’t even know what profession you’re in.”
“Legal mediation, with a specialization in Jurisprudus,” I
said. “And what my prudus is telling me is that we need to be
discussing matters along the half million dollar range.”
“Forget it. Two hundred thousand is as far as we can stretch.”
Since you boys deflated my character in front of my client,
calling me an idiot and all, I’m going to need another $50,000 in
slander money, just so I don’t feel the need to wait for you outside
in the parking lot.”
“Are you threatening us with bodily harm?” asked the tall

23


attorney.
“I’m just letting you know how things go down in the hood,
baby. Ask Tupac Shakur.”
“Who in the hell is Tuu-”
“Look, $225,000 is our final offer,” interrupted the short
lawyer. “Take it or leave it.”
The tall lawyer started gathering up all the papers.
I glanced at Peabody, signaling him with a slight twitch of
the eye. “Are you satisfied with this pathetic offer?”
He nodded in rapid sequence like a brand new bobble head
doll.
“We want our money transfer to his account within seven
days,” I said. “No stall tactics or waiting around until the Federal
Reserve stops making pennies or printing out $2 bills.”
Peabody shook his head just as rapidly. “No not my account.”
I found out later his bad-tempered, live-in Deputy girlfriend
was on the same account.
“Let’s make that a cashier’s check,” I reconfigured. “We’ll
pick it up from your office in seven days.”
Once the two soft-shoed sleaze bags had left the room,
Peabody turned to me. “Thanks, dude.”
“Thanks, hell. Mediation services are not free. We need to
talk about the split.”
“How about half?” he offered, spiraling off into a coughing
frenzy.
“How long you been smoking, fool?”
Peabody finally got his throat back. “Since the eleventh
grade. In the trailer parks outside Decatur, it was a cool thing to do;
That, and listening to rap music with my homies across the track.”
“None of your homies ever bothered to tell you cigarettes

24


would take you out?”
“A hustler named Johnny B did. But he died of an overdose
smoking crack. Cigarettes offered more of a long term alternative.”
He started coughing again.
The more Peabody coughed, the more his offer cut into the
busy itinerary of my vacationing conscious. It was his case, his
emphysema, his price to pay for being cool. I had invested, maybe,
thirty minutes tops? Half of the proceeds just didn’t seem right.
“Twenty percent is the going fee.” I countered.
“And I said half.” Peabody scolded me between barks.
An hour later we had agreed on 33 1/3 percent.
We were lying there in our own worlds, plotting out our
recently invigorated futures when he asked, “What are you gonna to
do with your money?”
“I’m starting over fresh, baby. A new car to get the ball rolling.”
“What kind?” Peabody asked. “Rover, Escalade, Jag?”
“I like that Toyota 4-Runner.”
“That ain’t no flash.”
I could already see the scene in my head ... Black man in
a big white Escalade, pulled over by ten red neck Georgia cops,
getting the hell beat out of him for having the arrogance to show a
free-and-clear title in his name.
“You know why it’s so easy for Po-po5.0 to catch the pimps
and drug dealers?”
“Why?”
“Flash, that’s why. Plus, it’s pretty stupid to pay an extra
twenty grand for a luxury decal on the hood.”
“I’d pay if it magnetized one of those soft, floozy types that
knew how to treat a man. If you had any marbles, you’d pay it too.”
“Why?

25


“Maybe it would keep you from taking swimming lessons in
a pot of hot grits.”
“Listen who’s talking, Mr. Gun-butt kisser, himself.”
Peabody rubbed gently across the purple knot on his head.
“Billy club this time.”
“Jesus Christ, man. Did she give you a reason?”
“She accused me of looking at another woman.”
“Well, were you?”
“Kind of. But she wasn’t looking at me. I mean, who’s going
to look at me? I’m just the maintenance guy, you know? I paint a
wall here; fix a washer and dryer there; Let some dumbass tenant in
who’s lost his keys.” Peabody’s chin was almost touching the floor.
I thought to myself, Why do so many people let their jobs
define them?
Hell, I didn’t even have a job. But it didn’t mean I was
nobody. I was somebody. I was unemployed Bobby Felton Frazier
with a key map that led directly to the unemployment office.
“Now see, with that low-self-esteem attitude, you’ll never
get away from that billy club packing jolly green giant and find
yourself a decent woman.”
“What decent woman is gonna want me? I got nothing to
offer.”
I quickly reminded him. “Except for those Mr. Peabody
glasses, straggly hair and bird chest, you’re not a bad looking fool.
And just in case you’ve forgotten, those two clowns that just left
here are cooking you up a big pot of greenback soup.”
He struck a shameful pose in the small dresser mirror across
the room. “Even with money, I’m never gonna meet the type of
classy broads you see on these videos.”
“Please! Don’t even think about rating those broads as classy.

26


They’re just boodie-shakers and rap star groupies. You definitely
need to raise your standards, baby. Set your sights on some of those
sho-nuff gold diggers out in LA and the Big Apple.”
Peabody shook his head. “You talking pipe dream, dude.
Those broads looking for somebody with heavy flash and Ben
Franklins stacked to the ceiling. I ain’t no Kobe Bryant. How can I
meet somebody like that?”
At that moment, on the small wall-mounted television above
our heads, the commercials ended and a new show popped onto the
screen. The music revved up like the beginning of a Broadway play.
The announcer said,
“AND NOW LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, IT’S TIME TO
MEET JOE MILLIONAIRE”.
We both watched in awe as this young snot-nosed white
boy bachelor walked through a harem of beautiful women, handing
out expensive long-stemmed roses. These were high-end women in
tight shiny dresses and flowing gowns. They were all slobbering at
the mouth with a stupid “take me” expression, hoping for a chance
to be Joe’s chosen bride.
That’s when the idea suddenly invaded the visionary side
of my cranium-enclosed encephalon. We were beating life with a
small stick, still operating with self-imposed limitations rather than
the brightened futures Benjamin Franklin and Ulysses S. Grant had
recently bestowed upon us. We were like free slaves still living on
the plantation. It was time to re-emancipate our clouded minds.
I looked over at Peabody. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
He looked back at me. “That stalking is a hard crime to prosecute?”
“No, no look at the screen, baby. What so you see?”
“A crop of hot babes in heat, maybe, from places where
stalking is a misdemeanor?”

27


“What you’re looking at is capitalism in its grandest
form, the buying and selling of goods and services in a wide
open unimpeded forum. In the ghetto it would be prostitution.
But the powers-that-be have repositioned this thing with an elegant
smell to it.”
Peabody scratched the side of his head that hadn’t been
beaten in. “Okay, but when I look at it the way you describe, I get
confused. Who’s buying and who’s selling?”
“That’s the beauty of the whole thing. Everybody’s buying
and everybody’s selling. Joe Millionaire is using his money and
prestige to buy himself a hot young babe that’ll rock his world when
the lights go out. Those gold diggers are using their charm and good
looks to buy some high living and long-term divorce security when
the judge splits up that white boy’s property.”
“You don’t think there’s a chance they could fall in love? I
mean, I see some babes up there on that screen that already have my
heart throbbing.”
I shook my head. “If you check again, you’ll discover the
throbbing is way below your heart.”
Peabody raised the bed covers to conduct a more thorough
investigation. “Point well taken.”
“We don’t have time for love, baby. Our plan has to be
executed on the superficial side of the street.”
Peabody frowned. “Plan? What plan?”
“Our plan to put a big target on our backs just like Joe
Millionaire and have those greedy sweeties running after us.”
“But we ain’t no millionaires, dude. We barely two hundred
thousandaires.”
“Who knows that besides me and you and the lawyers?” I
asked.

28


There was no way those trifling gold diggers had checked
Joe’s bank account to see what was really in there? Women don’t
process like that. They were buying into the hype and the flash that
came along with the show.
Peabody perked up. “You really think we could pull it off?”
“Yeah, but we’re going to have to make some adjustments.”
He frowned. “Adjustments? Like what?”
“Like getting you a decent haircut, and making a few trips to
the weight room to recompunctualize that puny chest.”
I didn’t say it right then, but my hope was, with so many
seasoned drug dealers on English Avenue, we could find a batch
of that ghetto-enhanced Robitussin to put the clamps on his
sandpaper cough.
Peabody pondered a long moment. “Anything else?”
“I’ve been calling you Peabody all this time. As your legal
representative, business associate and personal friend, I’d consider
it a privilege to know your real name.”
“My name is Hadley. Hadley Ross, Jr ... thirty-one year old
escapee from the trailer parks of Decatur, Georgia and the most
reliable, non-stealing, fix-all maintenance man you’ll ever meet.”
“You know, I think I like Peabody better. Why don’t we call
you Hadley Peabody III?”
He thought about it. “How about Dr. Hadley Peabody III,
dashing young resident from the General Hospital soaps?”
“You know anything about being a doctor?” I asked.
“I just know they cut people open and sleep with the nurses
after work.”
I took a moment to evaluate his unique qualifications. “That’s
close enough.”
“What about you?”

29


“What about me?” I fired back at the ridiculous notion of
meddling with perfection.
“No offense, but the brothers stop wearing those whip and
drip jheri-curls light years ago.”
“Not true. Not true at all. As I pointed out to my former
grit-slinging fiancé, Michael Jackson wore a curl right on up to the
time of his death.”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t a full drip like yours,” said Peabody.
“Plus, he had a good reason with that skin disease and all.”
“I’ve got a good reason too.”
Peabody eyed me thoroughly and shrugged his shoulders. “I
suppose, if you’re trying to cover up that little baby scratch across
your cheek and short-circuit any future talk about your ass-whoopin’.”
“First of all, your crude and misguided summation of the
tragic events of that day dishonor the great restraint I show in
controlling my temper. Not too many people know this, but my
powerful Kungfu-Jeet Kune Do techniques make me an unregistered
weapon of mass destruction. Just my concentrated thoughts alone
could probably take out a city block, knowemsayin’?”
Peabody flashed a disbelieving smirk. “Really? Exactly
where did you learn this powerful Kungfu Jeetzy?”
“YouTube, baby. All the lessons are uncut and right there for
the taking. But you need to ride it slow and easy until you get to my
level.”
Peabody took note of the thin white bandages covering
the modest burns on my chest. “At what level do they cover grit
attacks?”
“This ain’t nothing but a thang, my man. With that new
money coming in, I’m heading over to that cosmetic laser clinic on
Rust Ave. Before you know it these little scratches will be nothing

30


but baby-smooth memories.”
“And the jheri-curl?” pressed Peabody. “I mean, you just
said we gotta be willing to make some adjustments if we want this
plan to work.”
I didn’t like that idea; didn’t like it at all. But in the spirit of
compromise, and with the pendulum of fashion swinging in the
opposite direction of my trendy ‘70’s look, I decided to go with
the flow.
“Fine! Fine! Against my better confunctionation, the curl
goes too. But don’t ask me to give up my March From Selma t-shirt
autographed by comedian Dick Gregory, himself. My uncle gave
me that shirt when he came back from one of his many exploits
in the great movement. Course, you’re too young and too white to
know anything about that.”
Peabody paused. “There were actually three marches from
Selma to Montgomery back in 1965, including Bloody Sunday
where hundreds of civil rights workers got beat and tear gassed by
Alabama State Troopers.”
My mouth fell open. “That’s absolutely right, Peabody!”
“Dr. Peabody, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure, sure, doctor. My bad. But tell me. How do you know
about such a proprietary event?”
“My first girlfriend was a young black history buff that
worked at the Decatur library. She was a bit on the chubby side, but
smart as a whip with the sweetest lips. Cheryl McCoy ....... Gave
me my first kiss behind that dusty encyclopedia rack on the second
floor.”
“What happened to her?” I asked.
“Don’t know. One day her parents just upped and moved
away.”

31


“Well, no more chubby girl for you, my man. From this day
on, we’re strictly dealing with the A-list.”
“Agreed,” he nodded.
“Now any more complaints from the great trailer park fashion
expert?” I asked.
He made a visual sweep across my face. “Nothing, except
maybe that gold tooth?”
“Ahhhhhhwww hell naw!!! It took me a full year to save up
for this exotic workmanship. Do you know this is pure 24 carat?”
“Name one rich movie star that’s got a gold tooth?”
“How about Lil Wayne?” I asked.
“Lil Wayne’s grill was covered in platinum and diamonds,
not gold. And it got so rotten underneath, he had to take it out. Plus, a
renowned brain surgeon like myself has no business running around
with Lil Wayne.”
“Wait a minute. You were just a General Hospital resident a
few seconds ago.”
“That was before the growing demand for a highly trained
specialist, familiar with drills and saws, forced me out of my
comfort zone,” Peabody explained.
“Fine, fine, brain surgeon Peabody. Who am I to place
restrictions on a man’s career?”
I’m just saying. If we’ve got a plan, let’s go all the way,
unless you got doubts?”
“No doubts, baby. When Attorney Bobby Felton Frazier lays
down a plan, it’s as good as gold.”
Peabody’s face lit up. “I can see it all now, dude. We gonna
have em’ begging; begging like blind women on the corner.”
“Begging, baby. begging with a tin cup that only holds the
Peabody liquid of love.”

32


“Eating out of our hands.”
“Like little puppy dogs at supper time.”
“You know why, cause we bad.”
“We badder than bad.”
“We Shaft all over again,” he declared.
“Naw, baby. I’m Shaft’s daddy and you’re his white
step-daddy. And there’s nothing going to get in our way. Can you
dig it?”
Peabody started up with the Shaft theme again:
WHO’S THE BLACK PRIVATE DICK
THAT’S A SEX MACHINE TO ALL THE CHICKS?
SHAFT!
YA DAMN RIGHT! I followed up in my deep, croaky voice.
And then I chimed in with that yo-yo background. Our jam
session was louder this time and hitting on all cylinders. The room
was jumping, with the hard smell of testosterone in the air.
That’s when the door swung open and Peabody’s big
Lumberjack Sheriff Deputy girlfriend stormed in.
And that’s when we started to scream.

33


Chapter Three
F

lying down Atlanta’s Northeast Expressway in Peabody’s
old green junked up Ford pickup, I scolded him with
unrestrained ferocity.
“If you hadn’t run out the room so fast, screaming like a little
girl, you would’ve heard the woman say she was there to apologize.”
In a jittery, cough-riddled voice, he fired back in. “You
screamed just as loud as me.”
“Naw, baby, you got that wrong,” I said. “You need to
understand I was sending out a high-pitch, siren-type signal to
hospital security.”
“You think they heard you, hiding under that Army cot?”
“I wasn’t hiding. I was trying to find my pepper spray so
I could-”
“Look, dude, cut the crap. If we gonna be friends, we gotta
be honest with each other. We both got caught off guard. Just face the
facts and move on.”
“Youuuuu ... you think she’ll move on too?” I asked.

34


“Not a chance. There’s this co-dependency thing where she
needs somebody to knock around. She’s probably putting out an APB
on my license plate right now.”
“Oh, naw, naw. I can’t afford no lock-up time. Been there,
done that. You’ve got to fight like hell just to come out of there not
wearing a skirt.”
“Don’t worry. My Uncle Toby has a summer place in the
woods. We can hold up there until those cigarette lawyers cut the
check. After that, I say we follow our plan, blow this town and hook
up with those high-class babes in LA.”
“You think your uncle has some extra clothes out there st his
place? This hospital gown is freezing my bergenitals.”
Peabody paused for a long time. “As a medical doctor, I should
recognize that word. But I don’t. In fact, I’ve heard you use several
terms that are, shall we say, a mystery to the English language as we
know it in the South.”
“And you want to know the origin of my unique venaculation.”
“Yeah, dude, I do. Like, when did you start creating new
words?”
I hadn’t told many people about my chaotic, uninspired
background. But somehow I felt he deserved to know. In East St Louis
where I had grown up, many of the schools were a joke; no books, no
teaching, just a juvenile prison to keep us off the street during the day.
I graduated from one of the worst of the bunch. When I enrolled as a
hardship case at the University of Missouri in Columbia, it was like
getting off the boat in a foreign country. People spoke in a totally
different language. It was like English on steroids, where they added
five or six extra syllables to every word. Everything had to pursue
relevant synergy to circumvent the emancipation of a physiological
enigma detrimental to the university’s bequeathed destiny.
Overwhelmed, unwelcome and a drag on the school’s national

35


standing, I finally bailed out. The Dean of academic probation was
happy to assist me in the matter. But not wanting to completely
disappoint my mother and other relatives who had sacrificed so
passionately to give me a shot at college, I enrolled in night school
at the local community college. It was totally different. It wasn’t long
before I realized these home town hoaxers, including the instructors
and administrators, were just as clueless as me. So to get ahead, I
started throwing extra syllables in on them, the same way those ivory
dome egg rollers had done on me.
“That’s amazing!” said Peabody.
“What’s amazing is I was still dumb as swamp water. But the
A’s and B’s kept showing up on my transcript. At one point, I made
the Dean’s List.”
“Did you finish?” Peabody asked.
“Damn straight. Two year Associate in Pre-law. Got a junior
clerking job at a law firm and started making some nice change.”
“How long before they busted you as a Pharisee?”
“Five months,” I proudly reported. “But it didn’t matter. I had
a good run. Got another gig shuffling papers at the County seat, where
my repertoire of syllablism elevated me to Section Supervisor.”
Peabody grinned with imagination. “I bet you were the man!”
“You better recognize. It was the sweetest deal this side of
heaven, that is, while it lasted; all these young pretties with high
ambitions and low morals working for yours truly. Then those fools
in Washington DC came out with that sexual harassment crap. You’d
think they had better things to do than mess with a man’s gravy train,
knowemsayin’?”
“Hey, I ain’t mad at you. Sara Palin started making up words
and almost got to be Vice President of the United States.”
“So you don’t think I come off as, well, ghetto ignorant?”

36


“Actually, some of your words sound better than the real
thing,” said Peabody. “As I further my studies in the medical field, I
just might come up with my own itterationaries too.”
“Right on, baby. Right on.”

Uncle Toby’s old three room log cabin with a sinking front
porch and rusty swing, darkly tinted split-log windows and black tar
gable roof was located deep in the Jonesboro thickets, a few miles
from the dingy waters of Lake Harbin. Pulling up the narrow gravel
drive and into the front yard, the whole place looked run down and
thoroughly engrossed in a losing battle with knotweeds. Big black
metal boiling pots, filled with animal sculls and sodium cleaning
solution, surrounded the front entrance. Clumps of deer and
alligator remains were scattered throughout the yard, attracting flies
and maggots and giving off an awful stench. Wire lines, extending
from the outside walls, sagged with drying animal skins.
Following Peabody through the carnage, I couldn’t help but
wonder whether Davy Crockett was still alive and on some kind of
slaughtering rampage.
“What does your uncle do?” I finally asked.
“He makes a good living selling animal hides. Some of those
$900 alligator boots you see in the downtown Atlanta store windows
come from his place. Course, this is only half of the business.”
“What’s the other half?”
Peabody didn’t answer right away. Once we were inside the
cabin, a shoebox of tan walls, cheaply framed military photos and
scuffed hardwood floors, he swung open the bulky green accordion

37


drapes covering the back picture window. Marijuana plants stretched
out into the woods as far as the eye could see.
“Your uncle peddles pot?”
“He says it’s for medicinal purposes only. He’s got a distributor
in California that buys all he can grow.”
My crusty lips started to water. “Living with Lawanda and the
ghost of her strict upbringing, it’s been a long time since I had a drag
on one of those home-grown Stogies.”
Suddenly, a soft yet unnerving voice boomed out from behind
a crack in the bedroom door. “Maybe we’ll throw a farewell joint in
your casket on the way down.”
Immediately, a muscular woman in her early thirties with
short, bleached blonde hair, wearing a black jumpsuit, stepped into
the living room. She poked and waved a custom pearl handle .45
automatic a few inches from our noses.
The hostile reception sent Peabody into another desperate
coughing frenzy. Eventually, he recovered with a wheezy, owl-like
inquiry. “Who-whooooo are you?”
“If you haven’t already noticed, I’m the irritated, constipated,
man-hating lunatic holding the gun,” she declared with a threatening
whine. “So I’ll be the one asking the questions. Now march your
pitiful asses over to that table and sit down!”
When she said pitiful, I suspected she was mostly talking to
Peabody with his cough and all. But just in case her request was of an
all encompassing nature, I took a seat as well.
“Now let’s turn that question around. Who are you clowns?”
“Dr. Hadley Peabody III,” he blurted. “And this is my associate,
Attorney Bobby Felton Frazier.”
She paused a brief instant. “Hummm. Never whacked a
couple of professional bozos before. Wonder how that would look on

38


my resume?”
“I’m 99.9% sure it would be a waste of time,” I assured her.
“You’d earn a lot more street credit knocking off the big names like
Frank Nitti and Al Capone.”
“And maybe Osama bin Laden,” said Peabody. “That would
really help your career.”
She seemed momentarily puzzled, but continuing her
interrogation. “What are you doing here?”
“We dropped by to see Uncle Toby. But if this is a bad time....”
“So that sleaze bag Toby is your uncle?”
“His uncle, not mine,” I said. “Far as I’m concerned, he’s
a disgrace to this community, selling this disgusting and illegal
paraphernalia.”
“Any idea where he is?” she pressed. “And don’t make me
shoot your tongue out for lying.”
“My guess is he’s long gone. Probably won’t be back this way
for weeks,” said Peabody. “But if I happen to see him, I’d be glad to
give him a message.”
At that moment, a shiny black Silverado pickup pulled into
the front yard. An older man in dark shades and faded Army fatigues
jumped out. With a lively step and a couple of bags of groceries, he
headed toward the cabin.
“Weeks, huuh?” she jeered, tiptoeing with cat-like precision
behind the front door. “If you make a peep, I’ll splatter your brains
on that table. Now sit there like he’s Santa Clause and you’re stupid
enough to believe in the north pole.”
Uncle Toby, a short, stocky man with a reddish beard and
receding hair line, walked through the door completely unaware of
her awaiting ambush. His ruddy face brightened with surprise. “Hadley,
my boy, what are you doing here?”

39


The woman lunged from behind the door and slammed the
butt of her gun against Uncle Toby’s head. As he crumpled to the
floor, she stood over him, her huge feet crunching open the busted
carton of eggs next to him.
“He’s here for a funeral ... your funeral, you piece of red dirt.
Now crawl over there with the other cockroaches and take a seat.”
She flipped out her cell phone and hit the speed dial. “The
chicken is in the hen-house, ready to be plucked.”
She pulled out a pair of silver handcuffs and locked Uncle
Toby to his chair. “Sorry, boys, I don’t have enough toys to go around.
But think of it this way. Your wrists won’t be all sore and bruised up
when it’s time to dig your own graves.”
She slid over to the front window and started to peep out.
Peabody whispered in a raspy voice. “What’s going on, Uncle
Toby? You know this woman?”
“Kinda. She’s a member of the Street Angels motorcycle gang.”
“Why is she so pissed off?”
“It’s just a slight misunderstanding.”
“Hey, shut your traps over there,” she ordered. “There’ll be
plenty of time to discuss the slight misunderstanding and maybe
even the size of your tombstone ... like a chance in hell you were
gonna get one.”
An hour later, three Harley-Davidsons and a black custom van
roared up the gravel drive in a cloud of dust. An entourage of six
women dressed in black leather jumpsuits with orange, blonde and
blue hair barged through the door. A seventh woman, much younger
with streaming black hair, a pale face and a bullet stomach
that protruded beneath her flowered blue sun dress, followed,
reluctantly, behind.
The tall, sunburned, pointy nosed, cropped-curled blonde was

40


the obvious leader. She spoke with a Cajun accent.
“ Wellllll, Comment ça va, my friend! If it ain’t de Georgia
stud-hoss, himself. How you be, Mr. Toby, full of dat Viagra, yea?”
Uncle Toby swallowed hard. “Now wait a minute, Jestine. I
can explain everything.”
“Can you now. Even the disgraceful condition of my baby
sister, here? You can explain dat?” She pointed to the young girl’s
protruding stomach.”
“Believe me, it wasn’t supposed to happen like that. I mean, I
didn’t intend to....”
“Knock her up. Sho you didn’t, Mr. Toby. You were just
trying to have a little fun, yea? A fifty year old man having fun with a
innocent, young twenty-seven year old baby child. Isn’t dat what all
men want to do, Mr. Toby ... have a little fun, a little laissez les bon
temps rouler?”
“I keep telling you, Jestine. I’m not a child anymore,” declared
the young girl. “Stop calling me that!”
“You hush now, Gracie Mae. We don’t need no Gumbo ya-ya
from you. Your head’s been in a bayou fog for de last eight months.”
Jestine took a seat on the small sofa and parked her $500
knee-high Victorella Biker boots on the flimsy wooden coffee table.
The short, fleshy biker with the orange hair raided Uncle Toby’s
refrigerator and brought over a cold Abita Pecan Harvest Lager.
Jestine tilted the bottle toward the ceiling and didn’t stop drinking
until it was three-quarters gone.
“Aaaaoooh!” She belched, loudly, a yellowish stream still
dripping down the side of her mouth. “Glad to see you still keep my
favorite in stock. It’s hard to find a lager made from real Louisiana
pecans. Almost as hard as finding a man dat can KEEP HIS DAMN
PANTS ON!!!” She snatched an eight inch, jagged-edged, stainless
steel gutting knife from her belt and stabbed it into the coffee table.

41


Both Peabody and me sent out a high-pitch, siren-type signal
to hospital security.
She continued with a cold, deliberate stare. “Now, Mr. Toby,
you were about to explain how our simple, good-faith purchase
of some thirty reefer bricks led to my baby sister’s awkward and
somewhat deplorable condition.”
He stammered. “Ma-ma-maybe it was the first or second time
you came by, I don’t remember. When you reached into your pocket
for that roll of cash, you must’ve dropped it then. Anyway, that night
I found a piece of paper on the floor with a phone number on it. When
I called the number this soft, sexy voice answered. It was the most
beautiful voice I’d ever heard. I had no way of knowing it was your
baby sister.”
Jestine looked over at Gracie Mae. “Foolish gul. You didn’t
tell him about your family tree?”
“What did it matter, Jestine? He was interested in me, not my
family.”
“It matters because you’re the last chance for us Thibideaux’s
to protect our good name. At least, you were before you got yourself
mixed up with dis crib-robbing chew.”
“Come on, Jestine. Let me take this scumbag out for a little
walk in the woods,” pleaded the woman with the pearl-handle pistol.
“Not yet. Not till I hear de whole story, she said. “Now
continue your pitiful lies, Mr. Toby, before my boots plug your mouth
up for good.”
Uncle Toby stammered again, worse than before. “Weeee-we
had coffee at Starbucks a few times; then dinner at the Steak & Dance.
One thing led to another. The next thing I knew, we were ... well ...
involved.”
“Involved like screwing around behind my back,” she said.
“I should’ve known it was you when she started coming home with

42


them alligator purses and matching shoes. You bribed de good sense
right out of a head.”
“No, it wasn’t like that at all. I gave her those things because
I, well ... fell in love with her,” Uncle Toby confessed.
Sometimes, when a witness takes the stand, you can tell he’s
lying through his teeth. But Uncle Toby wasn’t lying. He was
speaking from his heart. I just wished I had been in a position to
dismiss all charges and order the whole courtroom to go home.
“Then if you be that in love, why didn’t you do de right thing
when you knocked her up?” asked Jestine.
“I try. I really did,” he said. “But when I asked her to marry
me, she said no. She told me I was too old.”
Jestine turned to Gracie Mae who had flopped on a bar stool
near the counter. “Is there any truth in dis sad fairy tale?”
“Yes, but I didn’t mean it.”
“Why you say it, den?”
“I didn’t want anybody marrying me out of obligation,” she
said. “So I told him he was too old.”
“Auuh, you give him the easy way out, yea?”
She nodded, affirmatively.
“You see dis? She give him de easy way out because she’s a
sweet angel child with a good heart. But it ain’t right. Too many of
dese deadbeat creepers getting de easy way out. They on dat Maury
Show lying through dar teeths. IT AIN’T MY BABY! Dat’s what they
say. Next thing you know, dey prowling the bushes for another young
toot-toot to cover in shame.”
“Men are nothing but dogs!” declared the biker with the
orange hair.
“That’s why we’ve got to kill ‘em. Kill em all,” said the woman
with the pearl pistol.

43


I whispered into Peabody’s ear. “Did she say ALL ... like in
ALL of me and you, too?”
“Yeah, dude. You gotta do something quick!”
“Me? Why me?” I asked.
“Because you’re the lawyer. This is your area of expertise.”
“Maybe, this little fantasy ride’s got you overlooking a few
minor details, like the fact I’m not a real-”
“Uh-uh, don’t say it,” Peabody forbade. “Don’t let that negativity
creep in and keep you from doing your job.”
“My job?!!
Peabody had brought us out to a death trap in the woods, and
now he was telling me it was my job to keep us from landing in a dark
hole with no tombstone.
“Look, Cheryl McCoy told me all about these Cajuns,”
whispered Peabody. “They’re really Acadian exiles from Nova Scotia.
The British kicked them out during the Great Upheaval.”
“What Great Upheaval? The only Upheaval I know about is
that big fight over on Sixth Street when Holy Bethel kicked Pastor
Blake out for dipping in the collection.”
“No! This is the 1770’s, when the Spanish Governor let the
Acadians settle in New Orleans.” Peabody explained his history way
too loud.
Jestine looked up. “Did I hear one of dem cooyons disrespect
my home country?”
“No, no not at all,” I said.
“Then why I hear New-Ar-leans coming out your filthy
mouth?”
I stammered. “Theee-the-eee-the doctor was just saying how
much he enjoyed those floats at the Mardi Gras.”
“Oh Yea? Name your favorite one,” she challenged.

44


“That big, ah, you know, ah biiaaah....”
“The Bacchagator Float with de green man chopping wood?”
She seemed eager to help Peabody remember.
“Yeah, yeah, that’s the one.”
“Dat man ain’t green and he ain’t chopping no wood!” she
roared. “I think, maybe you go in the hole first.”
“Now, now that won’t be necessary,” I said with an artificially
calming voice.
The only black biker who looked like Whoopi Goldberg with
short blonde hair started to sniggle. “He’s got a jheri-curl, Jestine. He
needs to go in the hole first.”
Peabody bristled. “You must be forgetting that Michael
Jackson had a-”
I waved him off before he led us down that oldies but goodies
rabbit trail. “Listen, people. Nobody’s going in the hole if we abide by
the strict Restitutionary Decree of 1771, issued by Spanish Governor
Fernando Pekabaloni to all Cajuns arriving from the Nova Scotia
Islands of Europe.”
A sudden hush fell over the room.
Jestine frowned. “Who dese clowns again? And why dey
dressed like jompers over de crazy house wall?”
“I’m Dr. Hadley Peabody III.” He reintroduced himself. “And
this is Attorney Felton Frazier, expert in Southern law and historic
adjudication. You’ll have to excuse our attire. We were trying to get
away from my crazzzz-”
“Crazy schedule,” I interrupted again, not wanting to
mention any connection to law enforcement. “Yes, a schedule so
crazy it almost prevented us from completing our fire drill simulation
for the hospital and staff. These uniforms help us to evaluate the
potential legal recriminations from the patient’s point of view.”

45


“In my duel role as renowned brain surgeon and top hospital
administrator, I always say an ounce of prevention is worth a pound
of legal suits. Ah-haaaaaah.” Peabody chuckled, awkwardly. But no
one joined in.
Jestine studied my bandaged cheek and bullet-grazed arm
protruding from the white cloth medical sling around my neck. “How
you done got massacred? You lose a big case?”
This time the room erupted with laughter.
“Oh this? Just props, just keeping it real for the fire drill,” I
explained. “When I get into character as a hospital patient, I like to go
all the way.”
The Whoopi Goldberg biker, who evidently had extensive
experience with black men lying, walked over and rammed a hard fist
into my bullet shoulder.
I screamed, “Aaaaaaaahhhhhhh! I feel good ...duna, duna,
duna, duna dunt. I knew that I would now....” I broke into an old
James Brown song.
To my anguish and surprise, the women started laughing
again. The devastating punch had momentarily softened up their
bitter guts and given us hope for a peaceful reconciliation.
Jestine finally regain her serious glare. “What about dis here
decree from the governor?”
“Yes, the governor, of course.” I rattled my over-taxed brain
like it was some kind of Cracker Jack box, hoping a brilliant prize
would fall out. “The Great Cajun Upheaval Decree of 1771 states
that under the powers of the earth, and the separate and equal station
to which the laws of nature preside, families of royal decent must
carry on their copulated ancestry without interruption or delay, or
otherwise be found in violation of the Treaty of Paris signed by King
Louis VI, authorizing the release of all Acadians to the United States
of America.”

46


The room fell silent again.
Jestine appeared confused. “Dat’s high-powered lawyer talk.
Put dat in Cajun language?”
Peabody intervened. “It means Cajuns of royal decent gotta
keep on knocking boots and having babies or otherwise be sent back
to cold ass Nova Scotia.”
She thought about it a long while. “We ain’t no royal dissenters.”
“You did say Thibideaux, didn’t you?” asked Peabody.
“Dat’s right. Me, my brother, Elmer, and Gracie Mae are
offsprings of the Thibideaux clan from Canada.”
“Then, according to the secret archives of Mother Teresa, that
makes you a direct descendent of Louis XIV’s half-brother, Winston
Churchill,” I explained.
The orange haired biker frowned. “Wait a minute. Wasn’t that
Churchill man in World War III?”
You thinking about his grandson,” I clarified. “I’m talking
about Winston Churchill LeBlanc before the family dropped the last
name under the persecution of the Jews. The LeBlancs married the, ah....”
“Bourgeois,” said Peabody.
“Yeah, the Bourgeois who married the, ah....”
“Brasseaux,” he added.
Yeah, the Brasseaux then married back into the Thibideaux
family. That inner marriage is what really did the trick. Now your
blood is just loaded with royalty.”
The room went silent for a final verdict. Gradually, Jestine’s
hardened face melted into a delightful smile. “You hear dat, Gracie
Mae. We got royalty in our blood.”
Gracie Mae sat quietly without a response.
“This means you have to abide by the Governor’s Royal
Decree,” said Peabody. “The husband and wife have to raise that royal

47


baby together and report it to the state of Louisiana Royal Decree
Committee.”
“But dey ain’t legally hitched,” said Jestine. “How is de
Committee going to feel about dat?”
“As an attorney familiar with the inter workings of the
Committee, I can assure you that is not a problem. To avoid any
miscarriage of justice, we simply allow these two lovebirds to go
down to the courthouse, get hitched in front of a judge and live
happily ever after. That way, we all can put this contentious matter
behind us and live happily ever after too, knowemsayin?”
Jestine snatched her jagged knife from the table and hurled
it passed our ears, into the puke brown flowered wallpaper behind
us. Peabody and I sent out another high-pitch, siren-type signal to
hospital security.
Jestine barked. “My baby sister ain’t getting married at no
stinking courthouse! If she’s got dat royal blood, den she’s gonna have
herself a royal wedding.”
“No, no, no problem,” I reassured her. “A royal wedding it is.
Just tell us the date, time and place. We’ll be there like clockwork.”
“Ahead of clockwork,” added Peabody.
She looked at Gracie Mae. “You hear dat, chey? Dey want you
to do all de work and then dey just show up.”
“What’s the big deal?” Gracie Mae asked. “I don’t have a
problem going to the courthouse.”
“Forget de courthouse! You having yourself a royal wedding
and dey gonna plan the whole thing.”
The woman with the pearl pistol began to protest. “Now wait,
wait a minute, Jestine. You promised me I could whack ‘em. How can
they plan a wedding when they’re busy being dead?”
Jestine beckoned her over to the sofa and put her arms around

48


her.
“I’m sorry, chey. Dis royalty thing done turned our plans everwhich-a-way.”
“But you promised,” she whined.
“Don’t worry. You’ll get a chance to whack somebody else.”
“Like who?”
“Well, how about dat judge you hate, the one down in Nashville dat
wouldn’t grant your parole. I heard he’s retiring next year. Shouldn’t
be no problem catching him on the fish creek all alone. We could gut
him like a big flathead catfish.”
She perked up. “You’d make the trip to Nashville just for me?”
“I would, indeed. Plus, if these cooyons don’t get my baby
sister’s wedding right, you can gut dem too.”
She glanced at us with a lustful smile. “Honestly, Jestine, I
don’t see no expert wedding planners sitting over there. All I see is
three big flatheads.”
She was still gawking with anticipation when the faint hum of
a rotary engine flooded our ears.
“What’s dat sound?” asked Jestine.
“Probably that same DEA helicopter that’s been flying over
the last few weeks,” replied Uncle Toby. “I advise you to unlock these
cuffs right now. Otherwise, this place is going to be swarming with
drug agents.”
Jestine turned to the woman with the pearl pistol and cuff
keys. “Unlatch him, chey. And if he so much as twitches his fuzzy
eyelids the wrong way, put a nice bullet in his big fat chew rouge.”
I asked Peabody, “What’s chew rouge?”
He replied in his medical voice, “His posterior rectanitus. As
his potential physician, and being professionally bounded by the
Hippopotamus Oath, that’s all I can reveal.”

49


Uncle Toby had the routine down pat. He rolled back the
refrigerator, opened up a secret console in the wall, and began to flip
a series of levers and coils. Like stunted dead men, rising from the
grave, a line of twenty or so wooden poles lifted from the ground on
both sides of the hemp garden. Large sheet of thick brown plastic
rolled over connecting chains to form a makeshift roof and walls. In
less than five minutes, the whole garden was boxed in and hidden
from the gray helicopter that passed overhead.
Uncle Toby speculated out loud. “My guess is some snitch
told the authorities about this place. Luckily they’re too stupid to find it.”
“They can’t see that big greenhouse?” asked Peabody.
“That plastic’s been treated with a special military camouflage
solution,” he said. “All they see from the air is what looks like the
forest floor.”
“That’s brilliant, Uncle Toby,” said Peabody.
Jestine agreed. “Yea. Mr. Toby is quite de rainmaker. Now,
let’s see if he can brang in enough rain on dis royal wedding to keep
you jackasses from going in de hole.”
Jestine didn’t seem to understand how awkward it was going
to be for machos like me and Peabody to dirty our hands with such a
girly proposition. The whole effeminate nature of the assignment ran
contrary to our strong masculine instincts.
Realizing how women have no realistic sense of time, I
offered fair warning, “Such an exquisite royal undertaking is not like
pulling a rabbit out of a hat. It’s going to take some time.”
“You flatheads got three days,” said Jestine. “Me and the girls
got some banking business over in Baton Rouge. When we get back,
dis place better look like a French palace, fit for a queen.”
“Three days?” Peabody protest the unrealistic timetable.
“You heard the lady.” The pearl pistol women strolled over to

50


us, coolly, methodically, like a meat market butcher sizing up a new
arrival of prime cuts. She snatched the jagged knife from the wall and
slid her thumb across the sharp edges. “Otherwise, let the gutting begin.”

51


Chapter Four
Me and Peabody had a simple plan. They would leave, and then
we would leave right behind them. How were a bunch of ding-bat swamp
bitches going to track us down in the Big Apple or LA?
The bad thing about our simple plan was it blew up in our
faces. Everybody didn’t leave. The psychopath pearl pistol woman
and Whoopi Goldberg biker stayed behind to watch our every move.
Our first move was to change out of those over-ventilated hospital
gowns into a pair of Uncle Toby’s spare jumpers. Our second move
was to concoct a new plan to override the first plan the pearl pistol
woman and Whoopi Goldberg biker had screwed up. No way were
we going to hang around, wasting our precious brain cells on a stupid
wedding. That was girly stuff, a pain in the posterior rectanitus that
only women deserved to endure.
My grit-slanging fiancé had forced me to go to her girlfriend’s
wedding a year earlier. I suspected it was a subtle hint our thirteenmonth engagement was dragging on too long. That’s the way women
think, knowemsayin’? I was supposed to see a washed up Las Vegas
stripper in a ruffled, long-tail, purity-white dress, a fake operetta

52


singer bellowing out Ave Maria, and some snot-nosed kid throwing
flowers in the aisle, and all of a sudden be overcome by enchanted
voices from heaven telling me this beautiful experience was waiting
for me too. Please!
It was Double-Dumplings’ idea to get engaged in the first
place. The process had drug out too long because we had started too
early. People need to understand that a man’s got have time to get
himself together before venturing into these long-term, irrevocable
agreements.
Luckily, a few days before the stripper’s wedding, I had
bought a used Blackberry from Biggie Williams with two months of
ESPN sports still left in the subscription box. I tuned out the useless
ceremony and tuned in the heart-stopping action as the Pittsburgh
Steelers beat the Ravens in the last two minutes of the game. The big
game on smartphone ... just another example of how men circumvent
the pea brain traps women set all the time.
In the cabin’s back bedroom, changing out our gowns, I made
my intentions clear to Peabody.
“Tell you right now. I’m not wasting my time planning some
ridiculous shotgun wedding.”
“Me either,” he proclaimed.
“I say we tell your Uncle what the real deal is so we can put
our three heads together and find a way out of this place.”
“Two heads,” he corrected.
“Uuhh?”
“I already talked to Uncle Toby. He’s going through with the
marriage if they don’t kill him first. He’s really in love with that
Gracie Mae broad.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “You a doctor, aren’t you? Tell
me how a severe case of pantynitous could slip up on a seemly

53


normal, sound-minded, seasoned player like your Uncle Toby?”
“He’s hit that ole man, settle-down, smell-the-roses stage, a
common symptomatic dereliction found in Baby Boomers his age.”
I knew exactly what he meant. They were a lost generation, still
making tips to the Post Office and writing checks in the Walmart
checkout lines.
“So what you saying is we on our own?” I asked.
“That’s my prognosis,” said Peabody.
“Which, as a seasoned operator used to thinking on my feet,
I really don’t have a problem with that revised two-headed battlefield schematic.”
“Cause we bad.”
“We Shaft’s daddy.”
“And white step-daddy,” Peabody reminded me.
“Let’s go out here and bust this thing wide open.”
Peabody looked at the back bedroom window. “Better still,
let’s bail through that window and get the hell out of here.”
We pulled up the window, kicked open the screen and dove
head first through the stingy boxed opening. I hit the ground first, rolling
over and up in a fighting stance like a pissed off Green Beret. Peabody
followed with a pumped up karate kick and grizzly bear growl.
“I pity the fool!!!”
“That wants a piece of Shaft’s white step-daddy?” He finished
it off.
“Kungfu Jeetzy, baby!”
“Ooooh yeah! In a slow and pimp-slappin’ kinda way.”
The instant we turned the corner, headed for the front yard,
the pearl pistol woman stepped out and wacked Peabody across the
head with a long link chain. With a pathetic resemblance to melting
butter, Peabody slithered to the ground. Understanding the classic

54


moves of military warfare, I tried to execute a strategic retreat, or
in ghetto language, run like hell. But before I could turn around, the
Whoopi Goldberg biker rammed a long hot rusty cattle prod into my
posterior rectanitus. It torched the back of my blue jumpers with a
jolting buzzing lightning strike from hell and forced me to send out
another desperate high-pitch, siren-type signal to hospital security.

Inside the cabin, link-chained to two chairs, me and Peabody
watched the front door, waiting for the two women to come back
inside. When the door finally swung open, the pearl pistol woman
walked over to Peabody and slapped him across the face. “You stupid
cockroaches got less sense than I thought. Did you really believe we
had forgotten about that back window?”
“Maaaaaybe.” His voice trembled, nervously.
“Not a chance. That was just a test. And you idiots failed with
flying colors. Now we got to treat you as a high security risk.”
“Exactly what does that mean?” I asked.
“It means you stay shackled in those chains, in this room. And
you don’t leave this room unless one of us is with you.”
“And, every time you get out of line, you get a free counseling
session with Little Jimmy, here,” said the Whoopi Goldberg biker,
gripping the vicious electric sausage in her hand.
“Where’d you get that cattle prod from?” I demanded. “Don’t
you know that’s an instrument of torture and that it violates the
Geneva Convention?”
“Awwwh, no hard feeling against Little Jimmy,” said the

55


Whoopi Goldberg biker. “He’s never been to Geneva.”
“And you ain’t going either,” declared the pearl pistol woman
as she snatched the front curtains back and point to the flat tires on
both pickups. “You see how those tires are kissing the ground like
pancakes? Ain’t nobody going nowhere.”
Still handcuffed to his chair, Uncle Toby sniggled with
amusement. “Might make sense for you boys to get your planning
caps on.”
“We don’t know nothing about planning no stupid wedding,”
sulked Peabody.
The pearl pistol woman looked down at the shiny gutting
knife on her belt. “I sure hope that’s a true statement.”
“What he’s saying is we don’t know all there is to know yet,
knowemsayin’? But we’re willing to learn.” I tried to tidy things up.
“That sounds much better,” said the Whoopi Goldberg biker.
“Maybe we won’t have to buy new batteries for Little Jimmy after all.”

56

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