King of the Horseflies by V.A. Joshua Page A

looks over at the dirty blonde standing behind the counter smoking a cigarette.
    “I’m not looking for any,” he says as he grabs a wad of balled up one dollar bills from out of his back pack and puts it on the counter.
    He glances over to see if the sheriff is looking. The sheriff has his head still pointed down at the paper, but his eyes are pointed up, looking in the stranger’s direction.
    “Well, what do you want?” the waitress asks.
    “Chicken fried steak, if you got it, and some coffee,” he replies.
    “Lucky you,” she says as she walks away, “cause that’s all we got.”
    The stranger looks over and sees the mechanic sliding from out of his booth and starting to walk over
    in his direction.
    “ Here we go ,” the stranger says to himself.
    “I think it’s time for you ta get going, bud,” the mechanic says.
    “Listen, I don’t know what your problem is, and personally I don’t care. I’m just gonna have a meal then I'll be out of your wonderful town,” the stranger replies.
    “Quit being a turd, Jerry,” the waitress spouts.
    “Shut up, Lucy. I’m just trying ta get some thangs straight with our new friend here.”
    The mechanic grabs the stranger by the shoulder and turns him around on the bar’s swivel chair.
    “What part of get going don’t YOU under—?!”
    Before he can finish his response, the stranger grabs the mechanic’s hand off of his shoulder, slams it on the counter, then stabs through it with a butter knife from the setting in front of him.
    “ Ahhh!” the mechanic screams in agonizing pain.
    Just as the stranger turns to see where the sheriff is, he gets smacked right in the face and is knocked unconscious.
    Chapter 2
    MY NAME’S CARVER
    The stranger lies on a bed in a dark jail cell with rusty bars and a bad-smelling toilet.
    “What’s your name, sir?” a young, pale skinned, red-haired deputy sheriff asks.
    He pokes the stranger with a night stick through the jail cell’s bars.
    “Hey, wake up!” He turns to the Sheriff. “I think you killed him, sir.”
    “Naw, he ain’t dead. If he was dead, he’d know it.”
    The sheriff gets up from his desk and picks up his coffee cup half-filled with seven-hour-old cold coffee.
    “Get up, boy!” He throws the cup of coffee on the stranger. Immediately he pops up, not knowing where he is.
    “See, he ain't dead. My deputy asked you a question. I think it’s rude of you not to answer him.”
    “The answers yes if he asked if I think you’re an idiot,” the stranger replies, wiping the coffee off of his face.
    The sheriff exhales.
    “You’re not in the position to have humor right now, boy. You’re under arrest for assaulting a public citizen. Which I just so happened to witness first hand. So let’s quit the Andy Griffithing and tell me what your name is before things get tense.”
    The stranger looks at them both then rolls his eyes.
    “Carver…my name’s Carver,” he replies.
    “Carver? Carver what? Is that your first or last name?”
    The stranger takes a deep breath. “I don’t know.”
    “You don’t know? Ha, ha,” the sheriff chuckles.
    “Listen here. I’m trying to be polite by not stepping in that cell and stomping the dust out of you that the good Lord put in, okay? So quit your games and tell me what your full name is.”
    “I said I don’t know. I woke up in the desert four months ago without knowing who or where I was. I wasn’t even sure what I looked like till a week after that.”
    “Ricky, open the cell.”
    The sheriff stands six foot six, two hundred and sixty-six pounds without an ounce of hair on his head. He has a graying Fu Manchu mustache and dark circled eyes that would break any ordinary man just by looking at him. The deputy sheriff hits the lever that opens the cell entrance to Carver. The Sheriff walks in followed by the deputy with their batons out and begins to attack Carver. With every swing the sheriff takes, he asks a question.
    “What!? Is!? Your!? Damn!?