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Radio Verté presents A Hooga by Corey Zimmerman.

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Misery Guts Act 1.

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R.C. Saunders, inmate number 9320, parole, steps out upon a stone that reads,

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It's never too late to mend.

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Above, a barking tree squirrel flutters its tail, a startled starling abandons its perch to see

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which way the wind is blowing, and a guard in the tower, not one to cut things fine,

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sticks to his guns. Below, great American jackrabbit scurry dandelions three little

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white puffs of cloud to the breeze, and pink and yellow tulips line a meandering path in full swing

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of late July. Behind, claustrophobic sounds of imprisonment go in one ear only to be locked

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behind the other as a towering wall of limestone block casts its dark shadow upon the ground,

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swallowing up the innocence of the prairie. Ahead, opportunity in unknown quantity awaits.

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Saunders, lips pursed, weary lines furrowed across a forehead lathered in sienna skin.

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It hand me down from a Cherokee grandmother. Threadbare chore coat swung over the shoulder

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with a hooked finger. Kroger cap slapped on the back of his skull like a cockeyed crown.

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Beady eyes, tiny as a mustard seed, focused firmly on the horizon.

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Holding the key to the grievous institution, Boss, a short squat man, locked kneeed, rocking

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on his heels like a boy about to piss himself. Adjusting his officer's cap on his balding head

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with one hand, baton in the other, Boss has become the law unto itself. With relentless shifty eyes,

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unable to find a thing worth settling upon, ticks a nostril to voice the lingering deep inside,

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a voice scratching at the inside of the skull, a rat trapped inside of the skull.

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Rat trapped inside a maze. Inside, a father's resentment simmers. Ain't never gonna account for nothing.

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Glaring daggers at his lesser. Sad you're leaving so soon, Saunders?

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Took a mighty fine shine to you, boy. In a gravelly tone, eyes unmoved, Saunders.

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Can't say the same, Boss. Well, we'll be seeing you. With a hack, a spit, and a swivel on the ball

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of the foot, the loggerhead having grown rather stale, Boss makes his way for the donnaker.

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Don't wait sup on me, says Saunders, stepping for us. Taking the bait, a smack of the baton to one

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hand, and a clench of the bladder. Keep a plate warm in the oven for you. Wouldn't hold your breath, Boss.

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Iron on iron, the gate screeches shut, and the startled starling circles around once more.

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It's early days yet. Whistling Rufus, Saunders feels on top of the world. The country road,

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rough and dusty, rutted from the spring rains, 19.2 inches so far this year, rolls on endlessly.

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About sunflowers and daisies, a hovering bumblebee keeping the old crook on his toes,

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digging in his heels, determined under the blistering sun. Uncertain of his chosen direction,

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Saunders carries forth nonetheless, fate mapped out on the palm of his hand. Cloudless sky,

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a breeze a-blowing, with a putt-putter and swoosh, and in a hoo-ga, a toffee-nosed driver

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glaring back at the rough diamond he's just left in the dust.

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Paying no mind, Saunders jumps the fence of a humble farm and slips into a cow barn. He considers

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making himself right at home under an udder, until a wayward chicken clucking about makes his mouth

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water. He decides to make a go of it as a chicken thief. But that poultry dish has got one hell of

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a chip on its shoulder, scratching at his arms, sounding the air raid siren letting the cat out of

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the bag, so to speak. And what follows is the creaking slap of a screen door, and with a curse,

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Saunders throws the bird to the ground, the flustered fowl scurrying off, leaving old Saunders in a lurch.

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And in a sudden gruff bark, one familiar to the land, a cold fish of an old man, hard-wearing for the barn, hollers.

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Alright, come out now! Know you're in there! Making himself loud and clear with the cock of a shotgun,

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Saunders makes like a banana and splits, the blast of the 12-gauge taking the paint off the rail,

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and nearly the hide off his ass. The old crook getting away by the skin of his teeth.

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End of days. Fizzling and popping, the tangerine sun caught red-handed,

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hot in the act of cooling off in an ocean of prairie grass. Cool, calm, and collected,

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Saunders veers off the country road for a goat trail, a slight disturbance in the rows of corn.

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Beyond the knee-high tassels, a dark mound looms in a distant tree line, a mask covered in brush,

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a Ford Model T, the car of the century, long lost and forgotten. Old rusty cans,

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lids hacked off by wayward tramps, heap about, and Saunders kicks a tire with a dull thud,

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trying to remove the stubborn midwestern mud from his boot.

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Though the top is dry rot, Saunders figures the tin lizzie will make as good a place as any to

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hunker down for the night. So he plops down on the squeaky seat, kicks up his legs,

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fashions a pillow out of his chore coat, shades his eyes with his cap, and lets his mind wander about.

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Ain't nothing but a good-for-nothing crook, eight years since she last spoke those words.

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Ain't you ever think of the kids? Sure she'd like to give her old man hell for everything,

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from drinking too much to not taking out the trash, and it was right by her offering up a

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piece of her mind, just as her ma had given her pa. Though ma had put an eight-inch rail spike

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in pa's eye socket one night after a gallon of moonbeam, pa stuffed it with a wad of cotton

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and went to work the next day, never saying a word about it, and she admired him for taking his fair

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shake. But with the knock on the door, Saunders panics and grabs a bundle of cash his old lady

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found under the mattress, money she had hollered over, greenback she'd already spent on that silver

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bracelet sitting behind glass down at Beringer's department store, figuring there'd be plenty

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left over for a new pair of silk shoes, a dress, hell, maybe even a new ribbon. When the coppers

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kick in the door, the kids cry, and Johnny Law takes the money, and he's left with the kids.

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Kids cry, and Johnny Law takes their pa away, and that silver bracelet, well hell, it remains

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behind glass, as old Saunders spends an eight-year stint behind bars, up at Joliet Penn, a grievous

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institution where it's never too late to mend. If I hadn't been hounded by bad luck, I'd have

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made sergeant by God, Saunders believes. After all, it wasn't my fault that bastard Corporal

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stepped on my toes, and the lieutenant, well, he didn't have to cut my buttons off after all,

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hell, he deserved that knuckle sandwich, if you ask me, but I suppose I didn't have to bash his

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head into the door frame like that, but hell, what was I to do? Couldn't see any other way about it,

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and holding up them trains, now why can't she see I was just looking out for the kids is all,

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hell, I'll show her, lay some pavers, save up some brass, and open my own store,

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running his fingers proudly across his name painted high on a sign above the bustling street,

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Saunders Merchantile.

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A blanket of mist envelops the thicket, and a lingering blue hue on the horizon fades to black.

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Ahead, limbs moan like old arthritic bones, all is up in the air, and Saunders knows it.

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Squirming about on the cracked leather, flipping and flopping, seeking the sweet spot upon sprung

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coils, the steering wheel stabs him in the back, but his eyelids grow heavy nonetheless,

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and he arrives at the gates of Dreamland, just as a devilish cry catches his napping,

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and takes his breath away with a godawful yelp, a real eye-opener, jolting Saunders awake and

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spraying him to his knees. The city slicker takes a good look-see into the night,

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it's just looking for something to eat, he thinks, hopefully not me, he hopes. Go on and get, he prays.

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As cans clank, Saunders is all ears, the growls sinister, more yelping in the distance,

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demonic children, chitter-chatter, Lizzie shakes with a sudden, violent nudge, and an ear-piercing

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cry sends an ice-cold shiver up Saunders' spine. He covers his ears to block out the horrific shrill,

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and lets out a blood-curdling scream of his own that erupts from his throat.

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Echo, silence, echo, echo.

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Curled up in a ball on the floor, he hugs his knees, eyes clenched tight, heart pounding

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against the inside of his sternum, and a quick spat of spasms leaves him in a whining whimper.

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But suddenly, there is calm, and a long-held breath is released, blood rushes back into his

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knuckles, and in no time, the leaves come around, gentle rustling within a sleepy breeze,

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the mist snuggles up about the cottonwood. Lizzie settles upon her airless tires,

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and a disarming crescendo of cicadas lures the old crook back to slumber.

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Early rising, Saunders lumbers to his feet in the damp grass. Birds sing,

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eyeballs afloat, he's whistling Dixie, wetting the lettuce, and his vicky kid welts.

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Son of a bitch, he curses, checking the tires. Hungry as a horse, he circles about the empty cans,

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empty belly grumbling, he throws up his hands in disbelief. Hail, some hobo is eating better than

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me. Looking about for a stone to throw, seeing he's got a hankering for a quail, he blows a raspberry,

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huffs and hollers, but hearing a sharp snap, he ducks behind Lizzie, unable to shake the knife's

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edge, knowing liberty is ever fleeting for a man like him. A man like him, having a reasonable

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belief that good criminals make even better soldiers, Uncle Sam ordered Saunders to rank

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and file, behest time served. But old Saunders, while he's got one hell of a temper, a devil

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inherited from his paw. A devil paw had switched into him, one in which Saunders was never able to

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switch out. His rage takes on a persona of its own, calling itself Godspell. In uniform, Saunders

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carries along on the train to Fort Sheridan. Godspell, tucked up tight in a carpet bag, slung

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over his shoulder. And of course, it's not long before Saunders is caught stealing 20 pounds of

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beef shank from the slop. And when Godspell cracks the lieutenant's skull on a doorframe,

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he finds himself in court once more, only this time before a federal magistrate.

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After a good stint in the brig, Leavenworth spits him right out on the sidewalk like a soggy

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sunflower seed. And a man like him, well, he resorts to holding up not one, but two Southern

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tree-lined partsed, finding only a ditch as dry as a bong. Son of a gun, Leavenworth Sauce

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Illinois trains, with the help of his cousin Hank, getting himself all tangled up with the law once

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again. And after eight long years in Joliet, the old crook tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as

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With the help of his cousin Hank, getting himself all tangled up with the law once again.

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And after eight long years in Joliet, the old crook Tung stuck to the roof of his mouth

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as he wanders about the treeline parched, finding only a ditch as dry as a bomb.

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Son of a gun, biscuit eater!

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Resorts to searching the old ford for a loose cigarette, finding only a red scrap of paper

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under the seat that reads,

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$1,000 will be paid for the capture or taking of any robber, dead or alive.

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He plops down, gives the steering wheel a good shake, surrendering in a miserable slouch.

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But out of the corner of the eye, something peculiar on that poster asks for another look-see.

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He snags it, and a grin spreads from ear to ear, seeing green.

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Well, I'll be doggone, the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.

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Seeing as against all odds.

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A sketch of a small town on the back of that poster, its business district, two gets, and

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the ins and outs of a bank, so to speak.

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The number of guards on duty?

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One.

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The possible sum to be stolen?

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$85,000 cash.

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One heck of a money spender, if he does say so himself.

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Now, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

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But old Saunders has got himself a case of itchy palm, so the seasoned crook does what

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any bird his feather might.

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He gets his act together, straightens his spine, tucks in his round collared shirt,

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lifts his suspenders, throws his chore coat over his shoulder, situates his cap like a

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cock-eyed crown, and puts himself back on the map, with a skip in his step, Saunders

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is back in action, strolling down the country lane in high form, eyes on the horizon, making

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his way for greener pastures, well healed and oiled, foregone conclusion on his mind,

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divine intervention, a bet worth chancing the arm.

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But truth be told, old Saunders need not touch that old scout map with a 20 foot barge pole,

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senior needs that one way ticket about as much as a hole in the head.

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The bottom line, when you're on this path, you've hit rock bottom, and yachts soon enough

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see the shape of things to come.