Mo & Curio & Old Man Rivers Gimp

"I think we play damsel in distress. I'll cover you from the levee. You knock-knock, please meester, can you help lil ole me and my dumb boyfriend? If it's a houseful of nuns, you make a call and you tell them you flipped a jet ski on a tree and something stuck you. If it's some old geezer, you bend him to your will and wave me up. I don't wanna shoot nobody else today but we getting outta this here cop-trap of a boat, right damn now."

"Why don't you just go up there? Baby, my leg hurts again. It's stiff as hell." A rooster crowed behind the trailer.

"Because if some drunk off-duty sheriff and me get into it and he gets the drop on me somehow, you can't drive a boat for shit and you can't run for shit."

"Dammit. It's hurtin' again."

"We get in there. I'll repack it and retape it." The Bayliner bumped against the crumbling dock. Moses kept on eye for wasps as he helped push her by the ass up a wood ladder. She swayed as she breathed through pain and cinched up the drawstring on her shorts. She jammed the Luger into her waistband and covered it with the long t-shirt. Moses put his own t-shirt on. It was an old UTEP shirt he found somewhere. Curio smirked at it.

"They even got a team at that sorry school? Geaux Tigers, bitches. Sorry cow-tippin ass football team."

"Make me proud. I'm beaching the boat and I'm on you with Cletus."

"I love you."

"Love you, babe. Take your time, you might be being watched now. Oscar time, right?"

"Fuckin' Meryl Streep ain't got shit on me when I get up there." She winked at him. "They're gonna like me. Really, really like me."

"Be discreet. Thorough, but discreet. We got enough shit up here goin' on already."

"I'm gonna be me, baby. When have I ever been discreet?"

She began hobbling down the dock toward the trailer. Moses pushed away from the dock and puttered around in a circle to line up on the bank. Then he gunned it forward, raising the prop up as he cut the motor and beached the boat. The levee, obviously not mowed for decades it looked like, hid the boat from the vantage of the porch. He put the AR-15 back together and put his Army Colt .45 in his cargo pocket. As he leapt from the boat and crawled up the levee, Moses sincerely hoped no one was home.

Curio limped up the long sidewalk, her shaded eyes never leaving the windows of the trailer as she searched for movement. An unseen rooster crowed again.

Please, no dogs. She had a healthy respect for the danger of a dog.

She meandered past trash piles, scrap metal mostly. Dragged up to take to the can man whenever a whiskey bottle got low, she reckoned. The yard was shaded by many cottonwoods and pin oaks. One was split by a lightning strike and quite dead. Its base was surrounded by its limbs, as they broke free over time. No one picked them up. No one did much of anything around the place. That was apparent.

The trailer was the color of a faded pistachio filtered through a teal mold coating. The skirt around it was ripped away in many places; exposing tires so sick of being flat, they would never hold air again out of sheer spite. Leaves were piled high along the gutters. A giant garden spider sat on its great web stretching between the south end of the trailer and the raised hood of a rusted-up old Volvo station wagon that she bet had not been touched in twenty years if a day. All four windows were either rolled down or broken out. The car sat out in the open on a pad that maybe served as a parking area, but was now strewn with tufts of wild St. Augustine and junk layered with spider webs and old beer cans.

Halfway up the walkway, Curio began to hear bass drums thumping inside the trailer. Assuming someone had not left a radio cranked up wide open, she knew for sure the house was not empty. She cursed to herself at the bad luck. The place gave her the creeps.

Spiders were everywhere. Wolf spiders scurried around, diving into piles of junk or beneath the planks of the ramp as she limped along ever closer to the porch. Funnel spiders sat at the maw of their dens, patiently waiting for an ant or ladybug to tickle a leg. Water spiders, orb weavers so common near watering holes, skittered all over the place. She smelled something dead. Gnats fluttered around her.

Behind the station wagon, a neon purple Toyota Camry was parked in a garish slant. It had a pair of silver racing striped offset to the left of the body. The stripes slashed from the front bumper, over the hood and cab and even followed a high spoiler mounted to the trunk. It looked outlandishly out of place in the decrepit yard. The car was clean, immaculate almost except a few fresh splatters of dust from a drive on a dirt road.

She tried to get a read of its owner, factor who would drive such a gaudy automobile. For a moment, she thought maybe a Latino or a black guy. As she closed on the porch, her eyes beheld an Elvis air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror and decided it was neither.

A quick glance over her shoulder reassured her Moses was watching. She could see the grass parting subtly on the levee as he pushed Cletus ahead of him. She limped up the two short steps to the porch.

A screen door hung loosely on hinges whose screws were more out than in. A faded straw floor mat lay at her feet as she shuffled inside. A well-worn image of Yosemite Sam brandishing two six-guns with the caption: "Yer Darn Tootin You Ain't Welcome" gave her pause. Curio surveyed the long porch.

The porch reflected the yard. At the far end an assortment of old smokers and butane bottles sat on a ping-pong table whose green surface was long ago yellowed with pollen. A few old fish fryers with pots sitting on them surrounded it. Old Christmas lights were stapled around the inside. Curio figured it was a long time since they worked. A long hand built shelving section stretched along the riverside of the porch, festooned with old clay pots of earth and the final desiccated corpses of whatever flora had once lived in them lay draped over the sides. A lone cactus remained green and alive.

Fishing rods of all description were lying against the screen surrounding the porch. Carpenter tools sat on the floor along the length of the wall adjacent to the trailer. An old dog bowl, chewed and not used for a long while if the crud in it was any judge, sat next to the sliding glass door that led into the trailer. Everything was covered in cobwebs and fresh orb weaver webs. A few flies and bumblebees buzzed around inside with her. Daddy long-legs by the dozens crawled along the walls.

The techno beat kept bumping at the rear of the trailer. She tried to reconcile the music with the location and it did not compute. The locale reeked of "old decrepit man's fish shack." The music and the car was at odds with that. She reckoned there was no way some old fart would tolerate a kid blaring away with that brand of music for long in his trailer and there was no fucking way some good ole boy would be caught dead in a neon purple Camry in BFE, Arkansas.

Again she knocked, pressing her ear to the door. Someone hung heavy burnt orange drapes across the doorway inside. They hung to floor. Curio kept listening to the beats coming from the rear of the trailer. Closer to the glass door now, she could almost make out a familiar song but it was still muffled. Looking over her shoulder one last time, she gulped when she realized the sun was setting on the opposite side of the trailer. Not only was she in a room with a bug screen that was so completely filthy she had a hard time seeing outside from four feet away, the sun was probably in Moses' eyes and he could not see her through the glare.

She knew her man. She knew her man would not sit idly by not being able to see her and her situation for long. Knowing that, she knocked on the door and waited.

No one came. She knocked again, looking around for a doorbell button and making a note that the door had no obvious alarm or locking bar in the slide-rail. It would help sell her as a damsel in distress if she really banged on the glass so she rapped hard for about five seconds, certain someone had to hear it over the din in the rear of the place.

Nothing. Not even a fuck off yell. Just the pounding bass beat, subtle in the rear of the trailer.

What the fuck?

Moses watched her stagger up the sidewalk, her gait forced but normal. His eyes watched the curtains of every window for the slightest twitch and saw none. With the absence of boat noise, he heard music, faint at the distance but obviously cranked up for him to hear it at all through the trailer's walls.

When she entered the porch, it became apparent he could not see well enough through the screen. Immediately, apprehension caught his throat. He tried to breathe, anxiously raising Cletus to his shoulder and peering through the scope in an effort to better see her. He made out her knocking on the door a few times and looking back at him.

"I'm here, baby. Go ahead. I'm here." He muttered.

She pounded on the glass door. He was certain someone would open it after that.

No one came. He saw her slide it open, reach behind her back for the Lugar and disappear inside.

Exhaling slowly, Moses Holliday slid down the bank on his belly and began creeping toward the walkway, hunched over, his eyes still watching for motion and his ears waiting to hear whatever Curio decided was discretion...

Fuck it, I gots to know...

Remembering the thug staring at Dirty Harry with the question of how many bullets were fired in his apprehension in the air, Curio Phelonie pulled out the Luger.

Enough of this shit. My ass has a scar and my leg fuckin hurts...

Curio slid the door open, pistol in hand and parted the heavy drapes smartly. Immediately, she was looking at a large wooden kitchen table. The door opened into a dining area; the kitchen doorway immediately in view beyond the table. No one in sight.

She turned to her left, sweeping the room with her pistol outstretched. The living room was in sight, an open area, sectional couch and the obvious "command chair" empty. A hallway emptied the room between the end of the couch and the chair.

Remembering Moses' constant admonition to "feel her surroundings," Curio stood silent, her eyes washing over the scene.

The overpowering smell of old tobacco smoke and broken sewer pipe hit her nostrils, along with just a tiny hint of...weed! She cocked her head around the room, curiosity immediately peaked. The table had two plates and two wine glasses on it. One glass had a sliver of white wine still in it. She noticed the caked-red remnants of some blackened catfish skin on a plate, with some kind of veggie hodgepodge leftovers on one of plates.

Last night's dinner, she figured. White wine with fish? How erudite!

She crept into the kitchen, covering the hallway as she moved. The music was still blaring. It was some industrial metal headfucker riff blaring. She did not know the tune but it was not foreign, either. A quick look into a doorway next to the fridge yielded a laundry room. Lint-sprinkled spider webs caked the corners of the ceiling totally. There were no clothes lying around. She ignored the room.

Carefully, she looked in the fridge, careful to use her t-shirt as a glove. The contents were sparse. Old packages of dry food, grits, oatmeal, pancake mixes and such, all looking too old to cook sat in the door. A box of Franzia chardonnay sat front and center on the top shelf, flanked by a half-drank two-liter of Big Red on one side and a full jug of milk to the other. The other shelves had a variety of take-out boxes and old condiments. The inside smelled old, the food tired of just sitting there. She closed the door.

A large dolphin with crystals dangling from it hung over the large windowpane in the kitchen next to the stove. She admired it for a moment. The sun was on the wrong side for it to work but she imagined that at sunrise it would throw off dozens of little rainbows in the kitchen.

Such a nice thought! She pursed her lips and nodded in admiration. I need something like that for my house! She loved dolphins and she really loved her some rainbows.

Must be nice frying up an egg with rainbows dancing all over you. How sweet! Damn, that's cute!

Aside from the skillet and a few pots and utensils in the sink, the kitchen was surprisingly clean. She moved out of it and cautiously looked down the hallway. Four doors, all closed. At least one with the music blaring. Her eyes cut to her right. Next to the command chair and console TV, a long buffet table with trio of hip-looking alley cats playing jazz atop it stood. Between it and the TV was the front door. It had a key hanging from the deadbolt. She rushed quietly to the door, made sure it was locked and pulled the key out. Her eyes looked around and she decided to stash it under one of the cats, the one sitting behind a three-piece drum kit.

Moses' words were in her head. "Control the scene. Minimize the ability of help to arrive from different vantages. Lock yourself in with the enemy where it has to be you or them. Of course after making sure you've taken precautions to be damned sure it's you!"

Front door secure, baby. So far, it's us, not them. She scanned the counters and tables for keys. Not one goddamned set...

Covering the hallway with the pistol as she crossed the entrance, she eased over to the other side of the living room.

Well, well, well! She looked at the wall behind the couch. A giant, framed promotional poster from the movie Cabaret was mounted on it. Liza Manelli...! Clue number three for a thousand, Alex.

There was a giant glass coffee table in front of the sectional. Immediately her eyes told her whoever was no prude. White wine was one thing. A hookah sitting on a coffee table was quite another.

More importantly, the hookah's bowl sat atop a ceramic air chamber that was sculpted to look like a man rapturously embracing another man from behind. The hookah had two hoses. Both ran from the cock of the sculpted two men.

"Oh my. Oh my." Curio chuckled and shook her head incredulously. The mystery of the Camry was solved, at least.

She walked up to the table, noticing also a record album was lying open with a dusting of white powder coating it. Elvis in Hawaii...it fits actually. And lookee-lookee!

Two real glass straws, a visa card, and a cheap gas station grinder sat of to the side with a fresh pack of razor blades. And not one, but two lil twist-tied baggies just sittin' there! Tsk, tsk!

She nodded her head in approval, dragging a licked finger across the dust and tasting it. Fuck! Curio winced and wiped her tongue hurriedly. Cheap ass crank. Blah! Upgrade those party favors, boys!

A heavy clay ashtray shaped like a catfish sat on the corner of the table, heaping with butts. Curio noticed two brands.

Pall Malls and Camels? And lookee, lookee, lookee! A fat, roached joint sat atop the pile of stubbed cigarettes. She pulled it from the pile and sparked it with a lighter on the couch. It was acrid. Stifling a cough with a balled fist, she exhaled slowly.

A murmured voice came to her ears from down the hall. The music abruptly stopped. Curio crouched into a kneeling shooting stance, the joint smoldering between her lips, her leg afire from the weight she pressed down on it. It was almost enough to make her scream out as she crouched without thinking. Breathing the smoke in and out as she pointed the Luger at the entrance to the hall, she hoped Moses was closer than he was.

The voices laughed through the walls and then she heard the unmistakable sound of a bed's squeaking as someone flopped on it. The sound of the title track from Blood Sugar Sex Magik by the Red Hot Chili Peppers started playing. Another body jumped on an unseen bed. Slow, slinky, and flippant, the guitar intro made her head bob instinctively as she heard it. Again, she could hear laughing in the room.

"Get over here!" She heard a man say distinctively. He said it in a way imitative of the Scorpion character in the Mortal Combat video game.

"Nice." She staggered to her feet timidly, biting her lip to stifle a cry as she snuffed the smoking roach back in the tray. The taste of chemicals was on her tongue. She smacked a bit, trying to discern the taste.

"Fuckin primo." She shook her head in dismay. It was laced with some kind of dope other than weed. "Fuckin cranked-up joint. Tastes like shit." Curio muttered and began walking down the hall slowly.

Moses moved up the path slowly, rifle at ready. When he hit the corner of the trailer, he looked at the Camry. It appeared to have been driven there recently. He saw tracks in the dust behind it and assumed there had been no rain. Something caught his eye and he walked around the trailer.

Immediately, he froze, his eyes beholding a newer model Lincoln Continental parked on the far side of the trailer, out of sight of the water.

And it was unnoticed by Curio as she walked up the trail straight to the back door of the trailer, he knew immediately.

Shit! Moses heard the music stop abruptly and began to panic. As he crept around to the back porch, a new song began playing. He eased off the mental alarm a smidge but still walked with a methodical purpose toward the glass door.

Curio cleared the first door on the left as the Chili Peppers covered her noise for her. It was a spare bedroom, crammed with endless stacks of old magazines and newspapers. No furniture, no clothes. Just six-foot stacks of periodicals. She looked at one closely for an instant.

Saturday Evening Post? They even make them anymore?

The room was just junk from ceiling to floor, written off as dead space decades before. The door to her right was not latched completely. With a bare toe, she nudged the door open, Luger at the ready.

It was a restroom. Old lime-green tile was laid halfway up the walls, yielding its dull grip to recently painted eggshell white drywall that rose to the ceiling. The fixtures were old, made for functionality in some bygone decade. The room was surprisingly clean. The sink's porcelain was bleached white, the brass tap handles immaculate. The rugs around the base of the commode and the larger floor rug laid in front of the old claw-tub were both fairly new looking, the same drab lime-green and plush. A wadded towel was lying across the lip of the tub.

The tub was huge. She smirked at its simple opulence. Ever-appreciative of a good soak in a large tub, she was suddenly enamored of the big kettle. Mentally, she made a note to ask Moses to find her one just like that one for her cottage.

The toilet lid was down, a likeness of a giant catfish with its mouth open to receive its dinner carved into the wood. Knowing what a mud cat was most likely to smell and eat in the Mississippi, Curio thought the carving was a hoot.

Suddenly her chuckle yielded to a swoon. Eyes suddenly feeling thick behind her orbs, she reached and clenched the towels hanging from the ring bolted into the wall.

What in the hell? Curio shook her head a few times, trying to clear a fog that seemed to come from nowhere and rolled in fast. I'm fuckin' tits up! She had always heard Moses and Grizzly use that term between them. It was some military way of saying fubar that she did not quite understand. Somehow, her state of mind could only be tits up. The inane clarity of the phrase occurred to her.

Getting her bearings, she released the towels, noticing the cotton clothes were embroidered with a trio of giant crawfish, playing jazz obviously. Raucous musical notes floated from the linen. She giggled silently. One of the crawfish, the guitarist, winked at her, then nodded at her and doffed his derby hat.

Do what? Her eyes widened as it seemed to turn and look over its shoulder and motion with an antenna at her. Then suddenly, the trio started playing the Chili Peppers song blaring from the next door on the left, swaying to the tune as she released the fabric abruptly.