209. Refuge

It was too late. I tried to hide but they—he—saw me. It was C.W. in his classic form of Lucky and Lefty, the conjoined twins. Oh dear.

“Get in step, asshole,” I heard Lefty say.

“Walk straight, you dink,” the other said.

“Hey look, dumbnuts, it’s Big Dope,” Lefty said. They immediately started toward me.

I waited with trepidation.

They stopped in front of where I sat in the shade of an oak tree and then simulated a sort of “come to attention” move.

“Your Royal Cluelessness,” Lefty said, with a mock salute.

“Boys,” I said, acknowledging their presence. It was then that I noticed a large leather strap across Lefty’s shoulder and leading around his torso. Just as I did, he turned inward suddenly.

“Goddammit,” Lucky said, “how many times have I told you not to do that?”

“Just exercising my rights,” Lefty said revealing a nasty-looking assault rifle held across his back.

It startled me. “What the hell?”

“Would you just look,” Lucky said. “He has gone totally psycho.”

“Get that thing away from here,” I said.

“When you pry it from my cold dead hands,” Lefty said. “But we’ll be gone soon.”

“Damned if we will,” Lucky said.

“My little friend here says it's true,” Lefty said, patting the muzzle of the rifle.

Lucky looked at me with a horribly pained expression. “Know where he intends to go?”

I said, “Texas, maybe?”

“How did you guess?” Lefty said, eying me suspiciously.

“Uh, isn’t that where nuts like you feel most at home?”

“No,” Lefty said. “That’s where the good targets are.”

I said, “What good targets?”

“Them kids.”

Before I could respond, Lucky said, “He wants to go to Texas and shoot those refugee children as they come across the border.

I was aghast. “You can’t do that.”

“Sure I can,” Lefty said. “I’m a damn good shot … except when ‘shit for brains’ here flinches.” He motioned toward Lucky.

“Can’t you do something?” Lucky said.

“I’d like to see him try,” Lefty said as he pulled the strap away from his chest and let it pop. “The one person you don’t want to mess with is a motivated American with a gun.”

“First,” I said, “you’re not an American. You’re an alien yourself. Second, America hasn’t settled an issue with guns since World War Two. Third, you can’t shoot children, not even in Texas.”

Lefty said. “Sure you can. They’re just quicker, that’s all. You have to lead them a little more.”

Lucky said, “Please, Big Dope.”

I said, “Want to tell me what has you so exercised, Lefty?”

“Them kids need to go back home,” he said. “They come from South America and they need to go back to South America, or be shot.”

“Want to know the weird part?” Lucky said.

“Sure,” I said.

“You didn’t know us then, but remember when that young boy, Elián González washed up in Florida after escaping from Cuba?”

“Yes.”

“Guess who wanted to shoot some feds for sending him back to his father.”

I looked at Lefty. He said, “Well that was different.”

I said, “How?”

“Just was. That’s all.” He looked away.

“And,” Lucky said, “he claims to be this big Christian.”

“Don’t you say nothing about my Jesus,” Lefty said.

“I won’t,” I said, “except that he was once a refugee whose family fled into Egypt to escape persecution from Herod.

“That was different,” Lefty said.

“And how, exactly?”

Big Dope says that this photo may have created
an eight-year nightmare for America. - C.W.

“Well everybody knows that Jesus was an … uh … an American.”

“Tell me,” I said. “Do you have any bullets for that gun?”

“No,” Lefty said. “We’re broke. That’s why we come to see you.”

“Boys,” I said, “pull yourselves up a chair. You ain’t going nowhere.”

 

 

Be sure and click on an ad. I need ammo. - C.W. (Just kidding. I need a computer)

And also check out Big Dope's book at www.wattensawpress.com