King of the Horseflies by V.A. Joshua

King of the Horse Flies
    By V.A. Joshua
     
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    Copyright 2014
    V.A. Joshua
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    From one thing comes another. Some are good, but some are very bad.
    -King of the Horse Flies
     
     
     
    Under a cloudy, dimly lit sky, a dark haired fellow walks down a wet Northern California road. His clothes are scraggly and brown with dirt and grime. From a distance, it would appear as if it were his own flesh that lay rotting against his broad torso. He carries a backpack made of black canvas that is worn and used just as badly as the leatherette boots he wears. He stops and removes his long, tattered brown hair from his face and sniffs the damp air as he surveys the area.
    He walks to the other side of the road that is still wet from the fifteen minutes of rain that he was so fortunate to miss. He looks down both sides of the highway to see if anyone may be watching. Not a soul. He stretches out his arm towards the brush on the side of the road and makes a lifting motion with his wrist as if to say, “ Up, up, up .” Slowly, a mangled possum carcass rises from the weeds. Its head and limbs dangle and drip water and blood from its rotting flesh. He winces and slightly moves his face away from the stench that surrounds the animal’s body.
    “Aww,” he sighs.
    He rotates the animal as it dangles mid-air, examining it.
    “If you taste as bad as you look and smell, I think I’ll starve a couple more days.”
    As soon as he drops his hand, the lifeless creature plops back onto the soggy grass and rain drenched ground. The stranger continues his travel for a half of a mile before reaching a road sign. “ Safe, 2 miles ,” the sign reads. “ Hmm, right ,” he says to himself, and he continues his walk towards the town.
    The stranger makes his way into the city limits and sees another sign that should read “ Safe, population 236 .” Instead, the local bandits and mischiefs have added two words in front of the town name: “ Not so .” The first building that stands out is the local church, mainly because at dusk a light fixture that sits at the base of the cross illuminates it around this time of the evening. Just as the stranger examines the worn red and white sanctum, a priest walks out of the squeaky double doors, closing them behind him.
    “Father,” the stranger mutters in a deep bass voice reminiscent of Barry White.
    The priest nods and stares at him as if Darth Vader was walking down the street holding up a peace sign. He says to himself, “ So far, so good .” Continuing his walk, he notices a woman around thirty-four years old dressed in a purple flower-patterned dress walking with her eight-year-old daughter in a similar dress, except hers is decorated with mini Dora the Explorer patterns. The mother shifts her daughter from the right outside shoulder closest to the street to her left side, not making eye contact as they walk by the stranger. He walks on, readjusting his backpack in frustration.
    He notices a small diner just before getting into the main part of the town. He makes his way to the rundown wooden diner to possibly clean up, eat, and not stick out as much as he has so far. The stranger opens the front door that chimes as he walks into the eatery. The aroma smells of bacon and coffee as he makes his way to the counter to sit.
    After placing his bag in the seat, he looks around the room and notices three other people, all of whom are seated separately and scattered throughout the shop. One is a long–haired, redhead male dressed in dingy blue coveralls, more than likely a mechanic. He faces the front door, but is half turned around, looking back at the stranger as if to say, “ What in the world are you doing in this place? ” From the looks of his jagged and discolored teeth, the stranger could argue the same point. The stranger then turns and looks the other way and sees a local sheriff sip on what is surely coffee.
    “We don’t do handouts here,” the waitress says.
    The stranger