(Submitted by Boomer)
PREVIOUSLY (Because we continue with Big A on the same morning): “Probably her pimp,” Big A muttered, “But who knows—it just seems wrong to me. Hey—come to think of it, you live pretty-high of the hog—are you on welfare?”
Boomer laughed, “Sort-of—I’m a part-time deputy US Marshal—I track down fugitives on weekends.”
“Scum-sucking gummit employee!”
“Yep! That sounds about right—you pay my salary!”
“It sucks to be me!” Big A grumbled.
Well—I just bet it does!
Hello folks, Mac here for the introduction.
We pick-up this story shortly after Boomer left and Deputy Eagle Point Band of Ojibwe Marshal Richard Porter arrived at the Cyber Café. It amazes me, that Porter accepted that particular job, considering his attitude towards non-Caucasians. He glared at me as he passed on his way through the door as I bid him a good morning. Getting that glare from him is always a pleasure for me—I’ll just bet he thinks his glare puts me “in my place!”
Let’s slip inside—and listen-in…
“Good morning,” Blanche greeted, “What’ll ya have, Honey?”
“That big buck standing outside to go away,” He snarled.
“You want the usual, Honey?”
“Yeah, yeah—whatever,” He replied, as he turned to Simpson, “Why is that…that…big buck allowed to hang-out outside this place?”
Simpson grinned wickedly, “Because he’s a customer?”
“I’ve seen you at party meetings, Al, how can you defend his being here all the time?” he asked, “We need to send them all back where they came from!”
“How can you be Reservation Deputy?” Simpson asked, “You don’t seem to like minorities. And Mac came from St. Paul.”
“You KNOW that’s not what I mean! All them welfare grabbin’ white woman molestin’, colored people need to get outa our country!”
“ALL people of color?” Simpson taunted.
James Silverthorn III was smiling behind the counter—but he knew better than to make the obvious statement.
“Damn right, Al!”
“Even your boss, Marshal Hiram Silverthorn, Jr.?”
Stricken, Porter looked around—James Silverthorn III was smiling—he quickly got up and stormed out the door—guess who he ran into—physically—and fell back on his butt.
I offered my hand to help him up—he scrambled away and ran to his squad car. Meanwhile, inside the café—James Silverthorn looked quizzically at Simpson.
“Jimmy,” Simpson smiled, “Yes, I believe in the Tea Party’s libertarian principles—none of which include racism.”
“We know, Al,” James replied, “I think Deputy Marshal Porter may soon be leaving the Reservation Marshal’s office, voluntarily—or not. I’ll just be calling my dad now.”
“The local Tea-Party has a meeting in Moosehead City tonight—I expect it will be… interesting.”