Aug

2

The question on Slabber lips after the smoke clears over daily events is, 'What happened to the body?'

In my case, an explanation is possible if you read about 'Prom Night 2019' where a man in a dress marched into my newlywed neighbor's camp, fired two shots, and the next morning there was one less neighbor, down to three. They could not call the cops having cursed and mooned them the previous night.

So, where is the body?

The following mourning the remaining neighbors built an extraordinary barricade across the entrance to my driveway. It was 30' wide, 4' high, and tiered with a layer of tires on rims across the bottom, a thick seam of their belongings including books, clothes and rubbish, and topped by a tucked-in tarp.

I let them build it out of fascination, as the camp bride broke for the Slab Trade Circle to sell the rest of their possessions for gas money, in anticipation…

A gray Ford Explorer drove up, and the silver Elder through the window told the remaining two, 'Get out!' and drove off. The pair tarried to put the finishing touches on the creation.

I arrived an hour later in a Slab Cab that nosed to the blockade. The Kentucky driver rolled down the window to demand, 'This man hired Slab Cab to take him home, and by god, Clear the drive!' The two males lobbed glass bottles into the air above the van breaking and raining hundreds of shards on the roof that wafted in the windows and made the cab smell like whiskey. The neighbor groom dropped his pants, mooned the Kentuckian, who, drunk in the vapor, pulled a pellet gun the size of a .45. The guy saw it between his legs and scampered with his pants around his ankles behind a bush.

We force drove around the barrier to my container and called 911. 'Yes, I recognize your voice,' droned the dispatcher. After an update, she replied, 'The same three deputies who were mooned there last Prom night are on the way.'

We pulled out to the Library and were intercepted on a hypotenuse by the two jogging men, one with a video camera, and the mooner who stepped in front of the van, dropped his pants again, and hissed, 'F___ me, like in Kentucky.' On not getting what he wanted, he rose and smashed the heel of his hand on the passenger mirror breaking it, as the camera rolled.

We shrugged, stepped out, and I stalked the cameraman, as my driver raised a sawed-off shovel handle to the mooner's head. They back-pedaled to an Ironwood and stood their ground. I still couldn't grab the camera as the holder interviewed us with entrapment questions. Instead, I latched the driver's great bicep to prevent the downswing of his old barroom bouncer move of hitting him on the head and stabbing him with the club as he fell. I dragged him foot by foot back to the Slab Cab, explaining to the camera, 'He wants to collect SSI for the rest of his life and moon you in prison.'

We drove a minute to the Library to wait for the police. Suddenly, the Kentuckian sniffed the air, glanced over his shoulder and yelled, 'I declare. The sky over your camp is full of black smoke.'

I redialed 911 but before I could open my mouth the dispatcher burst, 'Yes, it's been called in. the firetrucks are right behind the sheriffs!'

I walked and arrived as the firemen watered the dying embers. The chief told me, 'This was a planned hot fire. The bottom tier of tires ensured a high temperature. Is there anything else you want to tell me?'

'Nope,' I replied, walking twenty yards to my ash and glass coated camp. I had just completed a fire science class: A normal fire reaches about 1300F; a human body reduces to ashes at 1700F; and tire rims raise the temperature to 2400F.

The next morning, I sifted the ashes for two bullet heads and can't report that I found them. The black scar remains across the drive that visitors call a funeral tyre and toss on change. The newlyweds fled to Arizona where they broadcast Youtube live handcuffed in the holding tank of a jail in a fundraiser for bail.

The rest of the story is up in smoke.


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