Season 2- "Episode 3"

   And I heard the voice of the Lord saying, "Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? Then I said, 'Here am I, send me'." Isaiah 6:8

   In the darkest moments of our lives, we have the least to lose. When everything has been emptied, and all has been stripped away, even hope. Those can be the times when a person can be used by God to a maximum capacity. When a person can be set on fire and keep walking. And sometimes that's exactly what God needs.

   When no one else will stand up. When everyone around that person has too much to risk. An unlikely hero can be found in the most unlikely person. When God says, who shall I send? That person says send me.

   And in that moment, all that emptiness, all of that hollowed out part of that person is filled. Not with money, not with love, not with hope or joy, but with a mission. And there is nothing more dangerous than a person with nothing to lose.

********

   The man in the cowboy hat stepped closer to C.D. His boots continued to click against the pavement with every step. He stopped just in front of C.D. and spit a thick brown stream of juice onto the asphalt.

"What you doin' out here?"

"I'm a free man, Sheriff. Didn't you hear? Your side lost, I can go wherever I please."

"Don't give me that civil rights horse shit. What's in your pocket? I seen you foolin' around back there when I was pullin' up."

   The sheriff reached forward, pulling C.D.'s arm and spinning him around. The top of the flask shaped bottle protruded from his back pocket. He pulled it out and held it up against the light from his cruiser. The golden liquid splashed around inside. He lowered his eyes to C.D.

"You still on the clock?"

"No sir, headed home."

"You know it's against the law to have an open container? Hell, I can smell it on you. If I lit a match, I bet you'd catch fire."

  The sheriff turned, reared back his arm, and threw the bottle as far as he could. It spun head over end through the air. In the distance, it smashed across the railroad tracks separating the gas station and the wood mill.

"Last thing we need is another death. After what this town's been through. We've had enough tragedy. Now what say I pretend I never seen that bottle, and you ain't about to drive this car. You were just about to walk home for all I know. And when I drive away, for all I know that's what you'll do. See, I ain't such a bad guy now am I?"

   The sheriff tipped his hat to C.D. and turned to walk back to his car. C.D. spit loudly on the ground where he had stood. The spotlight dimmed and the headlights turned away from him as the car pulled out of the parking lot. The taillights left a trail of red off into the darkness.

   The door of C.D.'s cab creaked open as he slumped down behind the wheel. His hands gripped it tightly as he wrung them around it angrily. Then, his right arm stretched out and his fist slammed down loudly against the dashboard, in front of the passenger seat.

   A small orange light broke through the darkness as the glove compartment fell open. There, laying inside, was a new unopened bottle of whiskey. He pulled it out and shut the compartment again. The cap made a small snapping noise as he twisted it off for the first time. He turned it up and took a long, hard swig.

   The burning sensation flowed through his throat and up into his eyes until they burned. C.D. rested the bottle between his legs and turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared awake. A mixture of twanging guitar and bass bled through the speakers. Blues music filled the car.

   As he pulled out onto the road, he began to drunkenly sing along. The lights of the gas station disappeared behind him, and the hiss of the mill grew quiet.

*****

   Redman's keys jingled in his hand as he shut the door to the car he was driving. The night air was damp and warm. Frogs croaked along the edges of the water and crickets chirped in the distance. Hot Wells was located on the edge of the swamp, miles outside of town. Cypress trees sprouted out of the dark waters and let their limbs droop back down to touch its surface.

   Redman placed both hands on the roof of the car, and hung his head in despair. The thought of what he knew he had to do, alone in the darkness, was weighing on him heavily. A quiver ran through his throat, but he choked the emotion back down. The roar of the nocturnal insects grew louder in his ears as he delayed the task for as long as he could.

   He looked at the keys in his hand and thumbed through them until he came to the one that unlocked the trunk. He made his way to the back of the car, put one hand down on the top of the trunk and inserted the key with his other hand. A deep sigh escaped his lungs as it turned inside the lock. A click echoed out across the water.

   As the lid lifted, a dim light illuminated the area in front of him. Three black trash bags lay inside an otherwise empty trunk. Redman pressed his finger into the one that lay nearest to him and the contents gave way like mush.

   His lip began to shake. With a finger from each hand, he tore at the bag slowly, stretching the plastic to it's breaking point until a hole broke free. Through that hole, a blood stained human nose and mouth looked back at him. The mouth hanging open as if it were about to speak.

   Redman stumbled back on his heels and spun around just in time for the vomit to spill out onto the ground. His stomach rolled, and a sense of anxiety engulfed his body in a sweat. Again, the contents of his stomach released into the dirt. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

   The face in the bag was a familiar one. The brother of the man who had stabbed him with a screwdriver the week before. But Redman had already gotten the sense of what to expect after the conversation with Preacher. Still, seeing his lifeless face detached from his body and lying in a bag was unsettling to say the least.

   He spit the remaining taste of bile that lingered in his mouth and made the dreaded steps back to the car. He quickly closed the hole back up and pulled the bag from the trunk. The contents sloshed around inside. He held the bag steady to ensure no droplets of blood spilled out onto the ground.

   Jutting out into the dank swamp stood a weathered, wooden pier. It ran just above the water's surface. Old wooden planks ran along the floor, accompanied by rusty nails sticking out in random spots like infected teeth forced out by a swollen gum. His footsteps clapped against the pier, sending the noise out into the night.

   Redman rested the bag on the ledge and gave a look into the greenish, brown water below, only visible by the reflection of the moon above. The water was as still as glass. He picked the bag up again.

"In another life, my friend."

   The black bag hit the water with a splash, and its weight engulfed itself. A few bubbles were its last dying breath of reality. Then, it was gone. What wasn't eaten by a gator would surely be picked apart by turtles, leaving nothing but bones at the bottom of the swamp.

   Two bags remained in the car. What he assumed were the torso, arms and legs. He slung one over his shoulder and the second one he lugged along at his waist. Both bags met an identical fate as the first. Through moss and peat they sank.

   After it was done, Redman collapsed onto the ground and leaned against a post at the entrance of the pier. He pulled a soft pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of his tattered military jacket. He tapped the pack against the back side of his hand until one popped out.

   He held the stick of tobacco between his lips and sucked as the flame of his lighter reached the tip.  It lit his face up in the darkness, as it burned brightly, red and then orange. He exhaled a plume of smoke into the air.

   Just as his thoughts began to drift, his entire body tensed as his attention was drawn. A little ways down the highway, a pair of headlights lit, breaking through the night. The car sat on the shoulder of the road and the sound of the engine cranking caused Redman's breaths to quicken.

   The car pulled onto the road slowly and headed right in his direction. The sweating anxiety returned, crawling up his back. The headlights pointed directly at him and washed over his whole body. The lights blinded him.

   As the lights faded from his eyes and he adjusted, the car pulled up until it sat with its side facing Redman. It was an old square bodied car with an unusual paint job. A deep purple with yellow lettering along the side. "C.D.'s Cab Service".

Season 2- "Episode 2"

 

   Small towns can be like science experiments. Closed off from the rest of the world. Miles away from any major city. We are just a group of bacteria swimming around in the little dish waiting to see what grows. If you live here, the rest of the world will never know you exist. If you die here, no one will notice. Not outside the dish.

   We are confined to our small space. Surrounded by an all encompassing wall of trees, we are forced to live, react and grow. Our roots stretch out wide and across years. And within our space.......we exist.

   But make no mistake, within those streets, inside those homes, in our small town a small fire rages. One that threatens our way of life, and everyone in it. Whether we acknowledge it or not, it's coming.
   Matthew 10:16 says, "I am sending you out as sheep among wolves. Therefore, be as wise as serpents, yet innocent as doves." We appear to fight this battle unarmed and outmatched by the viciousness of the wolves. By the cunning of the serpent. Yet, the deception of looks can often ensnare those who oppose us.

   Because what is not seen by the wolf, is that the fire not only rages around us, but within us. And as the flames move in to destroy us both, only one will perish. As the howls of the wolf echo from inside the flames, the smoke will break against the wings of the dove as it rises above.

**********

   Asher Lejune, simply known as "Preacher" to everyone that knew him, had taken over the ministry at his father's church. Five years prior, his father had fallen too far into dementia to carry on his duties. Upon stepping into his stead, Preacher quickly renamed the old building, New Zion Baptist Church. Almost overnight there were new faces in the congregation. Not strangers, but strangers to the church.

   A new set of deacons were appointed and slowly the old crowd who had been faithful for years, and loyal to his father, stopped showing up to pray. It didn't seem to affect attendance. The building was always full, every Sunday and Wednesday.

   On this particular Sunday evening, Preacher stood behind the podium, in front of the large group. A mixture of people, some dressed in their best and others in torn jeans and dirty shirts. The yellow light from the ceiling shown down on his shaved bald head, as tiny bugs fluttered around the bulb. The night air was hot. He loosened the top button of his shirt, letting hang the white priests collar he had worn.

   He gripped the sides of the podium and leaned down against it. Both arms were riddled with tattoos that went all the way up his neck. He finished out the service by reciting a line of scripture.

"Then I will tell you to call upon the name of your god, and I will call upon the name of mine. And the God who answers by fire..... he is the true God."

   Preacher lifted his hand in gesture to the pianist to his right. Immediately, a song began to play and the congregation rose to their feet and began to sing.

   He stepped down from the stage and exited the room via a door behind him. The light from inside the sanctuary lit the dark hallway where a man leaned against the wall, a long rifle propped up beside him.

"Pick that up and follow me."

   Redman picked up the rifle by the barrel and let it swing by his side as they walked. The hallway was wood paneled on both sides and a tile floor that scratched with grit was beneath his shoes. The sound of keys jingling from Preacher's pockets as he selected one to put into the door. It clicked loudly, followed by the creak of the hinges as it swung open.

"Shut that behind you."

   There were no windows in the room. Redman had visited Preacher's private office many times and every time it was the same. The room was dark, save for a neon blue cross that hummed on the wall and a small desk lamp.

   He leaned the rifle against the desk and slid into one of the two chairs in front of it. His feet ached from a long days use. They were his only means of travel, other than his bicycle. He stunk of sweat. Preacher sat down across from him, peeled his white priest collar and tossed it on the table between them.

"They come, they hear, they leave. They go right back home and drink Jack, Fuck Jill, and the world keeps on spinning. And I ask myself, 'Asher....how do you go on doing this'....and do you know the answer to that?"

"No Sir"

"Two words, brother. Collection plate. I tell ya, the man that came up with that little racket was a hell of a man. Now that's a man that knows business.

Sure, we could go out there, break their legs and take every dollar they got, but then that well is dry. We never see them again. You see, you gotta get a little bit every week. Just bleed them a little at a time, and they'll keep coming back. That's the difference between a thug and an entrepreneur."

   Preacher threw his hands up with a big smile as if he had just revealed the secret to life. Redman answered quietly.

"Easy money."

   Preacher leaned forward, the desk lamp illuminated a swirl of dust in the air around him. He pointed one finger at Redman.

"Easy Money! That's the way I like it. We washed money from the sell of 100 pounds of cocaine through those donations last week. Not to mention, the sell of Ketamine. As far as the government is concerned, or the local homers, we are as clean as a whistle. And with what we have coming from down south, our numbers are only going to grow. Easy money.

But I don't have you here to talk shop, do you remember those Blanchard boys, the brother you left a phillips head screwdriver in? That's a problem for me. That's not easy money. See, the people that work for me need to pay up freely.

Now, the one with the hole in his neck, he won't be giving us a problem anymore I don't reckon. Hell, he might even start paying early."

   Preacher removed a toothpick from his desk drawer and placed it in his mouth.

"Now the brother....the brother is a dog that ain't been whipped. And worse yet, he's vengeful. He's full of anger, and that anger will do nothin' but grow like a weed. You let one weed grow and it will spread. That's bad for business."

"You want me to take care of it?"

"The thing about weeds is, you can't wait, you gotta pluck em as soon as they pop up. That weed's been plucked. There's a bag in the trunk of a silver car out back. I want you to take it out to the Hot Wells and dump it."

   Without a thought Redman stood from his chair, leaving the rifle behind. As he made his way toward the door, a quiet knock echoed through the room. He turned the knob to open it. A young girl stood wide eyed as she noticed the ragged man and the gun leaning against the table.

   Her hair was dark, straight down to her shoulders. Brown, tanned legs stuck out from beneath a floral patterned sundress. Her eyes moved to the preacher.

"Don't worry about the gun, hunny. We been getting some not so nice phone calls. Our friend is here just to make sure we're safe. Security. The devil has just as many vessels as the Lord out there."

"Yessir, you're right."

  She turned back to Redman.

"Thank you for your help."

   Redman looked down and began to exit the room. Preacher's voice faded behind him.

"It's a big bag, brother. Take help if you need it."

*****

   Across town, the plywood mill hissed steam into the night air as it had for years. An older black man leaned against the driver's side door of his car. Parked in the lot of a small gas station known around town as Kwik Trip. The man gazed into the sky as the moon light bounced off of the white smoke puffs billowing through the air.

   His car was a deep purple, with yellow lettering along the side. It read "C.D.'s Cab Service". In the small parish of Sabine, he was the one and only car service, and business was scarce. He would not hesitate to tell you that most of his business were drunk kids and women carrying trash bags of clothes, fleeing an abusive husband.

   Known to everyone in town as Crawdaddy, he was a transplant from Southern Louisiana. The way he tells it, "When my momma died, I wasn't left with nothin' but this here car. So I started it up, and drove until the gas run out. And I ain't left here since."

   As he sat in thought, a car's headlights approached from the street. Then, a spotlight washed over him until he couldn't see a thing. He held one hand up in front of his eyes. The other hand shoved a small whiskey bottle into the back pocket of his pants. He heard the car door open, then shut.

   The click of the heels on the man's cowboy boots mixed with the scratch of the gravel beneath them. As he stepped in front of the light, the silhouette of a tall man wearing a cowboy hat appeared. C.D. looked down and acknowledged him.

"Sheriff."

Season 2 - "Episode 1"

   There is a theory in ancient Egyptian philosophy known as the "Eternal Return". It says that the universe and all of its existence has occurred, will occur, and continue to reoccur an infinite amount of times. That is to say, our lives as we know them, have already happened an unknown amount of times on a repeat cycle. And we are destined to live them over and over throughout eternity.

   Now, one could say, "Well, I'm not Egyptian and I really don't believe that." Well, you would be right and wrong. Ecclesiastes 1:9 states "What has been, will be again. What has been done, will be done again. There is nothing new under the sun." It is then repeated in Chapter 3, verse 15.

   The dilemma this leaves us in, should this be true, is are we destined to make the same mistakes, fall victim to the same tragedies, and die repeatedly as we will in this life? Can we influence or effect the past in the same way that we think we can affect our futures. Or are we merely just a hamster on a wheel spinning against time, in a stationary position?

   If we are, what could change that? What could be the stick in the spoke that jolts us to a stop, hurtling us into space? The answer....an element of chaos.

  We are all affected by the past, and then in turn affect our future. And on it rolls like an unstoppable boulder. In 1993, where our story left off, the town of Zwolle was left reeling from a string of murders.

   Beyond the thick layer of pine trees, separating the town from the rest of the world, Sabine Parish lives on quietly. Continuing to piece together its past.......and its future.

********

Sabine Parish Sheriff's Department

6:53 pm

1998

   A small styrofoam cup filled a third of the way with thick, brown tobacco juice, sat on a metal table. On one side of it were seated two uniformed deputies. They were dressed down in their matching khaki. On the other side, a dark green military jacket riddled with holes and tears had the long, dark unkempt hair of a Native American man resting on its shoulders. The man stared expressionless under a bandana that covered his disfigured scalp. 

   The deputy with the thick black mustache leaned forward to pick up the small cup centered between them. The coarse hairs on his lip scratched against the styrofoam as he let the brown spit slide into its receiver. He shifted the tobacco leaves in his mouth and returned the cup to its spot on the table. He sniffed loudly, then cleared his throat.

"You've lived somewhat of a storied life."

   A blank stare was the only return. The second deputy looked down slightly, a bit uncomfortable, and then up at the other deputy to await his next move.

"You were in the service?"

Redman nodded.

"See any action?"

"Grenada.....'83"

"Hell, that was a vacation wasn't it? Shootin' fish in a barrel."

"Didn't see you there."

   The indian spoke back in a condescending tone and brushed the arm of his coat off with the other hand, never making eye contact.

"I can see you're a hard man.", the deputy spat back sarcastically.

"Hard ain't got nothin' to do with it."

"Then what are ya?"

"Tired mostly, tired of this skin. It's worn out, I've overstayed my welcome in it."

   The deputies looked at each other confused. The mustached officer, Richard Wendell, sat and stared at the weathered man for a few moments. Pulling a sheet of paper from inside a manilla folder that had been sitting on his lap, he lay it on the table. On it were pictures of a crime scene from years before. A bedroom covered in blood, and a body. He also clicked his pen open and prepared to take notes.

"You made a phone call five years ago. Reported a disturbance that by our figurin' hadn't even taken place yet. In fact, it didn't appear to start until our units arrived on the scene."

Redman stared back blankly. Wendell continued.

"What'doya call that deputy Rivers? Telekenetics?"

"No sir, I believe that's when you can move stuff with your mind, like bending a spoon. I think what you're lookin' for is ESP."

Wendell gave him a stern look.

"Sorry sir. I seen a program on it."

   As the two men conversed, a trickle of bright red blood made it's way from beneath the cuff of Redman's jacket and continued to roll down his hand. The red droplet dangled from the tip of his dirty finger. It trembled in the breeze of the air conditioning, until finally it fell onto the linoleum floor.

   Redman placed the toe of his boot on top of the spot so that it could not be seen. He decided to speak.

"Everything I had to say about that, I said back then. I just as soon let the dead rest."

****

   With the sun slipping below the top of the courthouse, where the sheriff's department's offices were located, a man waited a block down the street. Smoke rolled out of the window on the driver's side, and dissipated into the evening air. A cigarette was held by a steady hand.

   The driver wore a pair of black dress shoes that were shined to perfection. Black slacks that led up to a short sleeve black button down shirt. Resting inside the collar of the shirt was a white band, signifying a priest. Tattooed arms extended out from beneath the shirt.

   The man's eyes stared toward the doors that led to the back of courthouse, until finally they opened. He leaned forward, and with his left hand twisted a knob. His headlights flashed on, and then off again.

   He continued watching as reman hobbled down the street. He held his right arm as he walked, wincing in pain. The driver flicked the half burned cigarette out onto the pavement and rolled the window back up. The passenger door groaned open, and Redman slid down into the bucket seats of the car. The driver glanced over. 

"New cock on the walk. Tryin' to shake loose some dust off old memories."

"He get any?"

"Not a grain."

   The old car drove steadily down a tree lined road that led from one town to the next. Redman stared out of the passenger window as the headlamps whipped along the road. A few minutes later, they began to slow as it had made it's way halfway back to the town of Zwolle.

   A grey building with blacked out windows sat along side the highway. Neon signs flashed through the tint and out into the darkness of the night. Trucks and motorcycles were parked in no particular pattern out front.

   As the car pulled up, the headlights illuminated the bar's name painted on the wall facing the road. "The Silver Bullet" was a local pool hall. One of the many such places peppered across the parish, where people could unwind under the dim lights and loud music after pretending to be upstanding citizens all week.

   With one leg propped up on the side of the building, a man squinted and held his hand in front of his eyes until the preacher turned the car off and the lights shut off. By the time his eyes adjusted to the change, the preacher and his accomplice were already out of the car. The man met them near the trunk and peered from beneath a camouflage hooded hunting jacket.

"I don't want no trouble."

The preacher's eyes narrowed.

"Don't want no trouble? Boy, you started the trouble. My man here took a screwdriver to the ribs. Now you don't want no trouble?"

"It was a mistake. Your feather head over there crossed a line."

   In one solid movement the preacher lifted the man off his feet by his collar and slammed him against the car.

"Let's make one thing perfectly fuckin' clear. I MAKE the lines around here."

   Slowly, he lowered the man back to the ground. The preacher adjusted his collar and cracked his neck.

"Now, we have a business to operate. An exchange was agreed to. It seems when my man came to follow up on that exchange, you boys gave him a bit of a problem. Problems are no good for me...."

   The preacher reached deep into his pocket and pulled the keys to the car out. A slight grin crawled across his face as he put them into the trunk's lock and turned them. As he lifted the lid open, the neon lights from the bar revealed a man laying inside.

  Around the man's wrists and legs was packaging tape, and another strip around his mouth. He lay still, shallowly breathing. His eyes looked up at the men begging. Through his neck protruded the handle of a screwdriver. Blood dripped down onto the carpeted bottom of the trunk. A wheezing noise filled the air with each breathe the man took.

"You mother fu......"

   The man leaped forward to grab the screwdriver and attempt to pull it from his brother's neck. Before he could, the preachers hand grabbed hold of him.

"Compassion is man's greatest weakness. Today I have revealed a weakness to you, brother. The next time you don't have my money, you will not see it again.

Your brother is not dead yet, but you pull that screwdriver from his neck and he'll bleed out before you make it out of Zwolle. 

Put him in your car and take him to the hospital in the next town. It appears he has had an accident."

Season 2 begins June 11th!

"Big Woods" returns with Season 2!