Shady Ponds
by Clifford K. Watkins, JR.

 

 

Ryan Jackson AKA RJ pulled up to the curb in front of Clinton Vines’ singlewide trailer in the Daniel Boone Trailer Court early Saturday morning just as the morning sun began to illuminate the front deck. Jefferson Hinton was passed out in between two metal lawn chairs with an empty bottle of Bacardi 151 laying beside his head. Clinton ascended the four splintery steps up onto the deck and gently gave Jefferson a nudge with his shiny green combat boots. 

 

“Wake up, bitch!” Shouted Clinton, unzipping his pants and relieving himself into a large ceramic flower pot teeming over with a wide array of multicolored flowers. As Clinton was zipping up, he could hear the rotary wall phone ringing from inside the kitchen. 

“Aren’t you going to answer the phone?” Asked Ryan, packing a can of Skoal Wintergreen, before licking his fingertips and putting a large dip of snuff in between his cheek and gums. 

“Hell No! It’s probably just a damn bill collector. Heck, I owe everyone under the sun money,” replied Clinton, lighting a Marlboro Menthol Light. 

Clinton took a long drag from the cigarette and proceeded to recite the alphabet before he exhaled the carcinogenic smoke from his burning lungs. Ryan kicked open the front door and went to the refrigerator to grab a 32 ounce of Coqui 900 Malt Liquor. He spun off the cap, turned up the bottle, and drank it all down in one fell swoop. He then tossed the empty bottle into the trash can adjacent to the stove and let out a long burp. 

 

“Brother, it’s a little early to be hitting the malt liquor,” said Clinton, flicking a butt into the yard after the cherry fell onto the deck adjacent to his passed out friend. 

“Jefferson, wake your ass up!” Shouted Ryan, turning his head to spit, before wiping his lower lip and shaking his head. 

Clinton grabbed Jefferson under the arms and Ryan grabbed him around the ankles. They took their friend into the bathroom and tossed him into the tub and turned on the cold shower. Jefferson quickly regained consciousness and ran into the kitchen, dripping and shaking like a wet dog.

 

“How did you end up on my porch this morning,” asked Clinton, laughing at his shivering friend. 

“I walked from the beach after Shelia called the cops on me and threatened to tell them that I punched her, after she punched herself in the mouth, drawing blood from a slight split in her lip.”

“Why was she pissed off at you this time?! Asked Ryan, wondering why Jefferson would have anything to do with his ex-girlfriend after he caught her in bed with two pint-size Carnies and a geriatric lesbian. 

“When does a damn woman need a reason to be mad?” Asked Jefferson, shaking his head and letting out a heavy sigh. 

“What’s on the agenda for today?” Asked Ryan, capping off his dip with a small pinch of snuff.

Clinton smiled and said that it was time to settle an old score with the wealthy  Emery boys from the affluent Copper Creek gated community. The four Emery brothers had jumped Ryan out on Highway 91after his motorcycle ran out of gas adjacent to the old mill. Jefferson stood up and smiled and nodded. 

Ryan was beaten so badly by the Emery gang that he spent a week in the hospital with internal injuries. 

The trio of Clinton, Ryan, and Jefferson had contemplated a way to take revenge on the Emery siblings for nearly two years, but knew they were no match for the Herculean brothers, so revenge more than likely wasn’t going to involve a physical attack resulting in grave bodily harm. Clinton wanted to target the brothers’ most prized possession: They’re pickup trucks. 

Jefferson and Ryan didn’t think trashing their vehicles would be adequate enough payback to even the score. 

 

“I want those roid-raging trust fund babies to experience the pain and mental anguish that I had to deal with, after they kicked me to sleep and fractured my ribs and sternum,” said Ryan, envisioning their heads on a spit.

“I say we cut their brake lines and hope they crash and burn,” said Jefferson, imagining himself roasting marshmallows over their burning corpses. 

“I’m not too keen on spending the rest of my life behind bars,” said Clinton, remembering the prison horror stories he’d heard from his convict uncle Winston. 

“If you had been savagely beaten by those animals, you’d probably have a different take on things,” said Ryan, who had been fantasizing about taking revenge on his tormentors since being released from the hospital. 

On an overcast night in late December of 1991, Ryan Jackson donning a Madonna mask and wearing Army fatigues descended down from the roof of the Emery Mansion fully intent on robbing the house of all its riches. When Ryan stealthily entered through a sliding-glass door he found the family patriarch Jameson Emery’s throat had been cut with a hawk-billed tobacco knife that was left beside his body in the kitchen adjacent to the island. The head of the family had just arrived home when he was attacked by several men in dark clothing concealing their faces with zipper masks. The highly organized attack lasted less than two minutes and left the entire family dead. 

Unbeknownst to Ryan Jackson, a silent alarm had been triggered and the expansive home was soon surrounded by police. Ryan momentarily stood in disbelief and froze like a deer in the headlights. He ran upstairs and lowered the small ladder from the ceiling, and then ascended into the attic. He closed his eyes and wished he had never got the harebrained idea to break into the Emery Mansion. As the sound of footsteps echoed upward from the second floor, Ryan kicked out the gable vent and climbed down the roof and slid to the edge and was left hanging from a metal gutter. He hung on as long as he could, but his hands soon went numb and he fell two stories and was impaled by a spiked metal fence that enclosed the homes’ auxiliary generator. As his mortality started to wane, Ryan Jackson wished he had told his mother how much he loved her. Before taking his last mortal breath, a K-9 dog bit into Ryan’s calf and violently shook its head. 

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