fiction
Leucippides - An Avery Story
As with all the best epics, we begin our tale in medias res….
William ‘Bill’ Guttere poured the remaining contents of his flask into his own glass and the one he’d offered Clarke. The bourbon was welcome even at eleven thirty on a boiling Friday morning. The AC unit whirred with a knowing resignation, its Sisyphean futility an audible lament sung in breathless refrains. Warden Guttere presided over Ely State Prison like a coyote guarding fresh road kill from the buzzards circling above. All the inmates were his meat and he liked to keep his larder nice and quiet. If a convict broke ‘Old Man Gut Ya’s‘ rules, ‘The Hole’ corrected their behaviour and the guards always left visitors with savage mementos to dwell upon. It was all part of the service.
Clarke drained the coffee and levelled his gaze on his brother-in-law’s telephone. “Make the call Bill. Preston’s yours for six months a year, mine for the other six. Same with Cody. One in, one out. Got a kinda symmetry to it. Layla would have liked that, but I don’t need to tell you what Layla liked, do I Bill?” Guttere farted loudly and reached for the handset. He did not go in for witty repartee. The two titans spoke a conciliatory language when not conversing with their victims. Being circumspect had kept both on their respective thrones and neither wanted to abandon the joys of privilege.
A little bit of history preceded the meeting. Determinative events better known as fate. Scholars find cause and effect a serviceable argument when interpreting mankind’s caustic affairs. Pouring over ancient texts, their hermeneutic endeavours disculpate some, condemn others. Casuistry a self-serving nepenthe, often the sullied product of automorphic folly. Apophenia might be deleterious to true understanding in some instances, but ancient history seldom generates random patterns. In Avery, “join the dots and shoot” was a sadistic mantra explaining all.
Clarke’s boys were all he cared about beyond the lethal bullet he hoped to meet someday soon. He and Layla had been almost happy once. Preston and Cody had inherited their father’s muscular frame and Layla’s blonde locks. Well over six feet, both resembled marble statues made flesh, like Greek demi-gods with stetsons. By their late teens, the twins had no reason to fear anyone in Avery, but everyone in Avery had good cause to fear them.
Clarke and Bill had both been seeing Layla the year before the boys were born. Layla had married Clarke but kept a torch for Bill. Right up to her death four years ago, Clarke had known Bill ate a table that was not his. Clarke did nothing. If he’d rearranged Bill’s meat and potatoes, serving them up on his own table, Cody and Preston would be doing time, not supervising those already stuck to Bill’s flypaper. History kept Clarke’s gun holstered and his venom sack bloated.
Killing their cousin Logan, had come with a price. Bill would pull strings and keep both boys out of prison. In return he got Layla and had wanted both boys. Clarke had surrendered what he did not value and cut his losses with the deal. He’d killed the other cousin …Izaiah had levelled his shaking revolver at Preston, but before he could squeeze the trigger Preston’s vicious upper cut had broken his scrawny neck.
Clarke peppered both dead men’s bodies with his own rounds, unaware that Bill’s sister had seen the whole thing. It was time for the kind of diplomacy that made Avery the civilised place he could control. First a quiet word with Louise, the syllables enunciated with his fists. She’d live, but her faith in justice would not. Then Clarke would go see Bill. Without principles, or any respect for the law, Bill could be reasoned with. Rules were for those too weak to make their own.
Logan and Izaiah had signed their own death warrants, their decision to get some payback on a loan the bank of commonsense should have declined. Three years earlier, Preston and Cody had acted on their priapic urges. They’d rounded up Pam and Hannah like wild mares and taken them to the old mine site. Manacled, emaciated and bloody, both women had spent a week begging for their lives, before getting all romantic and agreeing to marry their suitors. Logan and Izaiah had spent that week fruitlessly hunting down their girlfriends.
The Sherriff’s department had been exhaustive in their efforts to ensure the perps remained at liberty, whilst their victims did not. As Sherriff’s Deputies, Cody and Preston had the law on their side and Clarke had not wanted to get personal. Justice was best left out of things when the facts got in the way. Their cousins had spent three summers scraping up the nerve to balance the ledger. Turning up at Preston’s place three years ago had been their last bad idea.
Each summer, Cody would join Avery’s Sherriff’s Department and then return to duty at St Ely. His brother would replace him during the winter months. When serving the good folk of Avery, each Deputy made happy families with their local lady. When patrolling the wings of St Ely, they each lived in Denby spreading their brand of romance like buckshot on a boar hunt. Denby’s female fraternity seldom objected to the unwanted affection…most of their husbands were in St Ely and had their own hole to worry about. Denby’s Sherriff’s office was Warden Guttere’s favourite takeaway. Symmetry, proof of divine design.
Clarke lit a cigarette and offered the pack to Preston. The sun roared in the sky scorching the ground and sending its heat into the soles of Clarke’s boots. “God damn it son, sometimes I think they built Avery on Hell itself”. Preston took a long, languid drag and began to piss on the perps crumpled corpse. “Let me see if I can cool things down a bit”. Clarke’s mouth slid into the cruel semblance of a smile. Avery might be a shit-riddled dust bowl heaving with human filth, but he was proud of his boys and even ancient history could not diminish a father’s pride.