Radio Verté presents A Hooga by Corey Zimmerman.
Misery Guts Act 4
Mr. Wilson Turns to Edward
Mr. Wilson turns to Edward.
Not sure who he's calling an arf-arf-arf.
Sure Mr. Wilson likes his brandy, hell, so do I.
But the mayor is snookered by 10am.
What a job that man has carved out for himself, Edward.
Edward stands stiff with his revolver on his hip.
The board coming in today?
With broad bulging eyes,
chin tucked back into his neck like a bullfrog choking down a fly.
No, no, I just couldn't take any more of his nonsense.
For goodness sake, man thinks I'm his personal checkbook.
At his beck and call, hell,
he wants to deputize the townspeople
instead of adding more officers to the payroll.
Yet he's raising taxes.
For what?
Surely not the roads, I tell ya.
He's got all the markings of a man with an agenda.
The nerve to ask me to pay for two dozen Craig Carbine rifles.
Trying to twist my arm until it breaks, I tell ya.
Man spends money like water.
So what you telling, Mr. Olsen?
Oh, we went rounds, but in the end, I told him no thanks.
That's why we have Edward.
Edward takes a hard swallower of the Adam's apple and shifts nervously.
Hell, I didn't tell him that, Edward.
I'm just joshing ya.
And with a slap to Edward's shoulder.
But as it turns out,
Illinois did account for 40% of the nation's bank robberies last year.
Can you believe that?
Edward eyeballs a buzzing fly,
fingers twitching behind his back.
Mayor suggests to be on the safe side.
Initiate a $6 premium to cover any losses.
It's a bit over the top, I do believe.
And I'm mighty certain he's got his eye on that premium anyhow.
Man makes a killing off me, I tell ya.
Mr. Olsen rubs his tired eyes.
As old R.C. Saunders,
inmate number 9320,
paroled with narrow, beady eyes,
focused firmly on Rose,
strolls right into the bank,
largely unnoticed.
Rose, at just 22 years old,
is the first female bank teller in the state of Illinois.
In just two months on the job,
as the man in the Kroger cap arrives at her window,
she greets him warmly.
Good afternoon, sir.
And Saunders places a carpet bag on the counter.
Failure up, he says under his breath.
Surely this cannot be real,
questions Rose.
But when a.30 caliber Luger appears,
adrenaline surges straight for the artery in her lengthy,
sexful neck.
And the man cannot look away,
even in the heat of a bank job.
Oh my, this is real.
Honest to God.
Life is real.
Death is actual.
Her young mind spiraling out of control.
Rose's biggest regret in life?
Saying yes to John Jamison behind the barn when she was 16.
What a horrible mistake.
Being pretty is a double edged sword, she believes.
Everyone wants to give you something
until they want to take it away,
she warns her sister, Jen.
To cut things fine.
Everyone is nice until they ain't.
Until you don't give them what they came for.
Because then hell, they'll take it anyway.
So upon seeing the shine in the crook's eye,
she's done figured out what he's come for.
And opts to give him what he wants
before he takes it anyhow.
The way Frank Dithers did behind the school when she was 14.
Coolie stuffing the bag with bills,
Rose quickly catches the eye of the teller to her right, Henry.
Henry is caught up in a banking transaction of his own
with Miss Smith, Rose's eighth grade school teacher.
Miss Smith rolls a glare of shame down her long Roman nose
toward Rose's perky breasts.
The very breasts Tim Simmons slipped away upon
outside her own classroom window.
Peach fuzz and flaming young Rose's skin.
A case of contact dermatitis.
Dr. Gustin prescribed a miracle drug he called cocaine.
Cocaine can cure anything, he said.
From moral weakness, but not in the case of Jim Holden, he added.
Hell, headaches too.
And in your case, inflammation of skin.
Cocaine now speeds up Rose's thoughts
and blushes her cheeks as the crook grins her way,
raising an eyebrow.
Henry, an uptight pale young man with an empirical mustache,
a self-imposed master of accurately handling
and processing routine transactions at the customer's request,
can hardly contain his disgust for the frayed edges of the man behind the trigger
that eyeballs Rose's breasts.
Get on, Nancy, says Saunders, getting back to business,
cocking the hammer towards Henry's twitching dome,
his collection of finely tuned facial tics madly out of control.
Henry smirks a brow and opens his drawer,
and in a gravely tone, Saunders turns and shouts,
Hands up!
Now nothing sets alarm bells ringing like an iron barrel to the ribs,
all but these words spoken in a bank.
Mr. Olsen jumps in his shoes and turns to stare down the barrel of the man
who has arrived to rob his bank.
Edward raises his lanky arms, but with a whack to the head,
Edward collapses to the floor like a dead hound,
counting fingers twitching momentarily,
and suddenly, still for the first time and as long as anyone can count.
This is a robbery, goddammit! shouts Saunders.
Wake the hell up!
Miss Smith lets out a nasal breath as deep creases form around her mouth,
the long feather protruding from her dark hat, a bird long extinct,
quivering back to life in utter disbelief.
She puckers and huffs in contempt.
A slight disturbance to her morning routine,
tea for two is on the tray, and Miss Elliot awaits.
Miss Elliot, insignificant to this story.
Ah, ah, ah! utters Saunders as Mr. Olsen attempts to tend to Edward.
Saunders removes the.45 from Edward's holster,
pressing the barrel of the tin shot on Mr. Olsen's lapel, saying,
Judging by the suit boss, I'd say you the president of this here bank.
Now wouldn't you be a gentleman and escort me to the safe?
How about it?
Just as Gail Tout, the manager of the lumberyard,
enters with $95 cash to be deposited.
Now it takes Gail Tout, a twinkling or two,
to notice the drawn pistol pointed directly in his face.
But in due time, the old timer raises his hands over his head,
cashing one of them fluttering about.
Morning! Saunders greets him.
Now as you can see, this here is a robbery,
as Tout looks to see Edward snoring on the floor.
Meanwhile, Miss Smith glares at the crook with hate.
And Saunders, shaking off her glare, shouts,
Now nudging Tout to the floor.
On the floor!
And then turning back to Mr. Olsen,
Go on boss, give that dial a good spin for me, won't you?
And turning back to Miss Smith,
Don't you move an inch, lady,
or I'll take that fine hat of yours and shove it right up your ass.
She glares right back down the barrel into his eyes.
He flinches as a ruler strikes his swollen bosom.
What the hell is going on, he wonders.
Small towns, for heaven's sake.
The slicker runs Edward's barrel across the brim of his Kroger cap,
beating eyes twitching into the past in the particular moment of humiliation.
Ain't nothing but a good-for-nothing crook.
I don't know who you think you are, says Mr. Olsen,
finally breaking his silence.
Well, well, mind my manners, says Saunders.
Seems I've forgotten proper introductions and all the excitement.
Smooshing the barrel of his tin shot into Mr. Olsen's cheek.
Now this here is Godspell.
Godspell gets a little riled up from time to time, I might warn you.
But you know what keeps him calm?
Poetry of all things.
Now I can try and calm him before he gets too flustered,
but I might add one tiny detail about our schedule.
If we ain't out of here in two minutes flat,
ol' Godspell here, well, he might gonna lose his patience.
And hell, he might just go on and sing a gospel real loud,
bringing y'all closer to God.
Miss Smith grabs her cross,
the barrel swiveling into Mr. Olsen's cheek.
Mr. Olsen doesn't budge an inch.
Miss Smith, rather unimpressed by the path this young man has chosen in life.
If she only had her trusted ruler,
she'd set him on the straight and narrow by God as her witness.
He does not wear the app—
He does not wear the apple.
He does not wear the appal—
Saunders stops to clear his throat.
Ahem.
He does not wear the appal—
Oh, for heaven's sake, scoffs Miss Smith.
E-pollets.
He does not wear the e-pollets.
Saunders continues.
He does not wear the e-pollets,
nor the corporal's coat of gray,
yet sickly gray on the flesh of this monster man of prey,
who like some misshapen Martian toad,
unfurled the flag of fray.
He sits upon the latest throne,
imperially commands our fighting lads to maim and kill the brave of other lands.
His fat heart knows one craven wish.
The greed of Mr. Hands.
The two lock eyes,
failing to see eye to eye.
It's in your hands, boss.
Grabbing the watch out of Mr. Olsen's vest,
Saunders yanks on his golden chain with a snap,
and a click of his cheek.
Now give up the ghost.
The lights buzz as Mr. Olsen glares back at him in silence.
He takes a deep audible breath,
grasps the handle,
and opens the unlocked vault.
Golly, says Saunders,
shaking his head in astonishment.
Didn't take me as that type.
Now get on in there and fill it to the brim.
Mr. Olsen clenches his teeth and snatches the carpet bag from the crook's hand.
Now I know what you're thinking.
I'm just some low, life, good for nothing crook,
says Saunders.
Matter of fact, I was,
says Mr. Olsen,
as he carefully places each bundle of cash into the bag.
But you know,
the only difference between you and me,
says Saunders,
is you ain't honest.
In fact,
you're a victim of your own success,
stealing from the common man.
You can't even see it when you look in the mirror in the morning.
K-R-O-K written right across your forehead.
He runs the barrel of the tin shot across his own brow.
There's on him,
and a man knowing what color his blood runs.
Hell if it ain't a downright virtue.
See, boss?
My blood runs green.
Green as a Martian toke.
Casting an eye over at Rose,
trembling in her ankle boots,
Saunders loses train of thought.
Come to think of it, boss,
you get that sweet little thing out of this predicament alive.
Well, hell,
truth is,
ladies tend to get a little loose after the excitement of a bank job.
You know what I mean.
He stops to scratch his temple with the barrel.
More proflu-
More prof-
More proflu-ly.
Profligate,
says Mr. Olsen,
shutting his eyes and dropping his head in nausea.
Don't be getting all squeamish on me now, boss.
Come on out of there.
Mr. Olsen lugs the stuffed carpet bag overflowing with cash out of the vault.
Now be a darling and carry it to the door for me, would you?
Says Saunders as he stuffs his shirt with leftover banknotes from Henry's feet.
He stands pigeon-toed,
tweaking his left eyebrow as he turns his head away and repulsion,
as Gail Tout hands forth his $95 cash from his position on the floor.
But preoccupied with Rose's silhouette,
Saunders' menacing eyes soften,
and with an honoree grin he says,
Aw, hail,
let the poor devil keep his money.
It ain't insured.
And with a whisper,
he lies into Rose.
So what's your name, darling?
Rose,
she says, lip quivering.
The queen of all flowers,
the loathsome canker lives in the sweetest bud.
I thought you in Godspell had somewhere to be,
says Mr. Olsen.
All right, move it,
says Saunders,
leading Mr. Olsen, Rose,
Henry, Miss Smith,
and Gail Tout in his $95 cash for the vault.
He gives the dial a good spin,
steps over Edward,
and dashes out the door,
joining his cousin Hank,
who is awaiting in the old dusty rambler out front.
Hank,
a greasy-haired man in overalls,
grinding the gears,
and they flee as fast as a one-cylinder might.
The newsboy looking on in wonderment,
the headline having arrived at his curb.
Puttering east down to Elm,
Hank makes a sharp right and jumps the curb on fourth,
passing P&O Plow Factory.
The rambler tops out at 14 miles per hour,
a pack of yelping strays keeping pace,
racing south for the railyard
in the low part of town.
The lacquer barely dry,
the Japan Black Patrol car,
souped up to 20 horsepower,
speeds east past the newsboy
in quick pursuit.
At the wheel,
chomping at the bit,
a grain Chief Roy,
waiting all his days to see action like this.
Thin-lipped,
brow crinkled with rage,
not in my town,
stomping the pedal to the metal,
engine roaring to 42 flat.
The passenger,
Officer O'Brien,
a sturdy man,
tough as game and gristle,
first-generation redhead,
spinning the cylinder of his six-shooter
like an All-American.
The officer spot the getaway car
at the corner of Oak and Fourth,
parallel to the railyard.
Chief Roy cranks the wheel
and flies around the corner,
catching the eight-horsepower Jeffrey in a snap.
With escape suddenly narrowed,
Saunders takes a defensive position,
shooting from the back of the Rambler.
As bills trickle from his collar,
a gun battle ensues,
and the strays flee.
Roy speeds up alongside the getaway car,
and O'Brien leans out the window
and fires across the hood,
shooting out a front tire.
Swerving to the right,
Hank nearly crashes into a tree
before overcorrecting to the left,
jumping the tracks,
and jarring the Rambler's rim
into a scissor crossover.
The axle snaps,
and the crooks come to a rough halt
to top the sleepers.
Steam rising from the engine,
Chief Roy stomps on the brakes,
leaving 20-foot skid marks,
and jumps out and proceeds to fire
at the intersection of Cherry Lane.
Out of ammo,
Saunders takes cover on the floorboard,
and Hank pulls out a Winchester lever action
from behind his seat,
firing non-shots in return.
crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack.
Punching two holes in Chief Roy's chest, his rage-filled face descending into agony
as he slides down the side of the patrol car. Blood pooling around him as the final crack
throws lead right into O'Brien's chest. He collapses to his knees with a gasp as
he bleeds out into the palm of his hand. His vision fades, but something inside him
gathers. He clenches his eyes tight, nurturing a lump of hot coal, a man at the dawn of time,
nursing the light, nursing the will, staying off the darkness with the spring of the eyelids.
He raises his sidearm, peers down the quivering iron, and with the tiniest of possible breaths,
steadies. He squeezes the trigger with a single
sound. The round flashes out of the barrel, peeling back with mad velocity as it screams
through the air and whacks into Hank's chest, landing him squarely on his back with a thud,
blood projecting from his mouth and splattering on the brick.
Saunders rolls out of the car, cash fluttering as he flees on foot unscathed,
carpet bag in hand, scurrying between two ramshackle houses, or he takes a panicked
position against the corner of a south-facing wall. Somewhere beyond, a mutt howls, as above,
a startled starling circles about, a wind a-blowing through the trees,
and an unsettling calmness fills the air. Wide-eyed Saunders takes a deep breath,
counts to five, one, two, three, four, and lunges away from the wall, floundering,
knocking me for the backyard of the house, where a canine on a chain barking furiously comes into
view, and with one step of a shiny shoe out from behind the trunk of a dead sugar maple,
an officer wielding a sweaty mustache and a long, chromed barrel stops Saunders dead in his tracks.
With a sudden bang that spooks the sparrows from the eaves, there's a chunk of lead between the
eyes of the filthy crook's look of surprise. He drops the loot and then into his knees,
loot gathered by the breeze, and with a plop, Saunders goes face down in the weeds as smoke curls away.
With a quick pat down, a shiny gold watch is discovered in a breast pocket, and the loot
is retrieved, and blood spurts out impulses from the hole in the back of the head.
The bottom line, when you're left holding the bag, it's only a matter of time. Misery guts.
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