“Uncle Icky’s still got his phone set to ‘do not disturb,’ I’m guessing.” Earl shuffled across the cell and took his bench again as the deputy locked the door behind him.
Terrence shook his head. “Stop calling him that, bro.”
“Who you think taught me that, okay?” Earl eyed what was left of his dried-out green bologna sandwich and the bruised apple, still left over from dinner. Deputy dumbass could leave it there as long as he wanted. Even half-starved, Earl didn’t plan on finishing it. “Like, literally.” Earl chuckled. “He signed all his Christmas cards that way.”
“Bro,” Terrence sat up, his baby face pale and severe. “I don’t like thinking that we’re stuck in this place until George makes port, alright?”
“You don’t like thinking that’s all he and Nguyen are doin’ out there, but what the fuck you think they got going, just floating around the fuckin’ pacific on a gay cruise?” He took the tray off his bunk and slid it underneath, hoping there might be rats in there somewhere to finish it off. “Like, eat some warm shrimp buffet, watch a beautiful sunset, go fuck like teenagers, and maybe do some karaoke or some shit afterwards, right?”
Terrence slouched again. “We’re in some real shit this time, Earl. I’m going back to fucking prison for a long time.” He rest his head in his hands, looking as if he might start sobbing. “She’s fucking freaking out, bro. I’m scared she might start using again, you know?”
Earl nodded gravely. “Sometimes bad shit happens to good people, alright?” He stood up and paced over to the toilet, wondering how long until they would have to set up a shitting schedule of some sort. He never liked shitting with other people in the room. “We were like, karmic agents or something, like, literally. Victor had some shit coming to him, and you just had to be that fucking guy, alright?” He glanced down at the single ply roll, not looking forward to sanding his asshole smooth.
“Fuck.” Terrence said, collapsing back against the wall.
“Talk to the fuckin’ warden about getting some quilted two ply up in this bitch,” he mumbled. “I ain’t even supposed to be here, ya know?” He banged on the cell door. “Yo, how’s about you find us some decent fuckin’ toilet paper!” he called out into the hall, figuring he ought to find a way to get more comfortable.
Deputy dumbass thumped back like he was sitting out there, listening to everything. “Finish your dinner, Earl, or you get to eat that shit for breakfast.”
“Alright,” the sheriff called from farther the hall, “knock it off, Nutsy.”
“He didn’t eat his sandwich, Sheriff,” the deputy complained, sounding less like a real boot, and more like a toddler.
“No,” Etherton said, unlocking the door, “but he did eat your lunch, deputy.” Etherton pushed the deputy out of the doorway and slid past him into the cell carrying a couple of grease-stained brown bags that smelled of fried food. “These guys just cleared a known meth dealer out of town while you and trigger were busy writing parking tickets. You ought to be thanking him.” The sheriff passed a brown bag to Earl and another to Terrence. “Sorry boys, it ain’t chicken fried steak, but it ain’t old bologna either.”
Earl opened his bag like an early Christmas gift. “You stop at the Shell station?”
Etherton shrugged. “It’s about all I could find at this hour.”
“Fuck yeah!” Earl pulled a couple plastic bags out of his greasy sack, digging for hot sauce.
“Sheriff—” the deputy protested.
“Go shuffle some paperwork or something, Nutsy.” He pushed Terrence over on his bench to take a seat beside him.
Terrence sat up straight, holding the lipid-translucent bag in his lap. “Sir, Sheriff—"
“Relax, kid. Eat something. It ain’t one of Nutsy’s culinary treasures.” He peered over the lip of the bag, considering stealing a lukewarm jo-jo potato. “I doubt it gets better with age.”
“Sheriff—” the deputy started again.
“And grab these guys’ their smokes, would you?”
“But sir—”
“Just do it before I make you and Trigger write an essay on the Geneva convention.” When he was confident that the deputy was out of earshot, the sheriff took a deep breath and sighed. “You fucked up pretty hard this time, Terrence.”
Terrence was crestfallen, his baby face gone pale. “He came looking for us,” he pleaded.
“Ayup,” Etherton nodded, “and he was so high on methamphetamines that they can’t pull him in for reconstructive surgery for another day or two, probably.” He shook his head.
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“Reconstructive surgery?” Terrence sunk farther back on his bunk, his crumpled sack lunch in his lap.
“You mind? I missed lunch, running down to Bakersfield.” Etherton took the sack from his lap and dug through for the plastic baggie of potato wedges. He pulled one out and took a bite, obviously unimpressed. He shrugged. “Not a Sancho’s steak fry, but it’s not bad, kid. Eat something, would you?”
Earl had a mouthful and was barely chewing as he plowed through his own meal. “Yeah, Teaspoon. It’s like, the first meal you’ve had in a week.” He dug deeper for another salsa packet. “Fuck, this is like, the first fuckin’ weekend off we’ve had since we got hired, alright?”
Terrence groaned, his brow crumpling as he considered the very real probability that he would be stuck there through the weekend, at least, and probably off to prison right after that. Under the circumstances, he wasn’t thrilled to be taking some time off.
“Now, I have a few questions; off the record, of course. There weren’t a lot of witnesses to the incident, and even if you’re a good cook, public opinion of an ex-con is going to be stacked against you.”
“He fucking attacked us!” Terrence protested.
“Like, literally. It was self-defense, Sheriff.”
“Yeah, yeah, I got that. And all three of those boys are on an ICE watchlist. There’s a reason that Victor is handcuffed to his bed down in Bakersfield.” Etherton pulled another Jo-jo from the baggie. “But you boys have all the points on the board, and the judge isn’t going to be making a lot of allowances for moral turpitude here.”
“What the fuck?” Terrence asked, looking to Earl for a translation.
“It’s like, whether you’re a good guy, ya know? Like whether you pay your taxes and help old ladies across the street or shit, ya know?”
The sheriff nodded. He pulled a ketchup packet out of the bag and pinched the corner off, drizzling a little over the mealy potato wedge. Following up on the incident reports he had missed his own lunch, and now he was stuck playing public defender off the clock, just to get the guys back in the kitchen before he had to switch to fried food full-time. “Was there a weapon of some sort, Terrence?”
Earl stopped slathering his fried catfish filet in hot sauce and shook his head. “You ain’t gotta answer that, T.”
“He’s right.” Etherton agreed, “but I’ll be pulling some strings to get you guys out of here if I can, and it would help to get it all out in the open.”
Terrence just shook his head slowly. He lifted his empty left hand to show him the swollen knuckles.
“Well, you shattered his cheekbone and fractured his ocular something or other.” The sheriff finished his jo-jo and passed the rest of the bag to Terrence with the packet of ketchup. “Just eat something, Terrence.”
Earl laughed. “Victor did that shit to himself when he smashed his face against his own fender.”
Etherton smirked. “Let the record show that the plaintiff just fell face first on his car, really hard, your honor.” He chuckled and wiped his greasy fingertips on his khaki uniform pants.
“Right? Like, literally, he fell down, okay?” Earl laughed.
“Fuck off, bro! This ain’t funny!” Terrence frowned. “I’m fuckin’ goin’ to prison, man!”
Sheriff Etherton gently placed his hand on Terrence’s shoulder, startling the young thug with his authoritative sympathy. “Just take it easy, Terrence.” Etherton’s obvious concern seemed out of place in armor and a law enforcement uniform. “I’m doing what I can.” He contemplated stealing another Jo-jo potato but thought better of it. Eating Terrence’s lunch during a casual off-the-record interrogation might send the wrong message. “I let you two go back to prison, and George will never bring back my prime rib dinner.” He stood to go, brushing his palms clean and wiping the last of the fry grease on his uniform pants. “And for fuck’s sake, Terrence, you need to listen to your lawyer.” He nodded at Earl. “Like your buddy Stu said: a cop is a cop.” He shook his head.
“Stu?” Terrence stopped pulling baggies of fried food out of the paper bag.
Etherton took a deep breath and shook his head slowly, reluctant to say the full name aloud. “Stu Pedaso,” he grumbled.
Earl snorted laughter. “Right? That fucker and his fucking gag reflex.”
“How’s he doing?” Terrence asked.
Etherton shrugged. “The Spoon was still serving when I passed by, but I wasn’t about to stop in for a couple of club sandwiches. Let’s just see what we can do about springing you two, and then you can go bail him out, alright?” He took the gallon Ziplock bags of their possessions from the deputy and tossed them onto Earl’s bunk. “Flush your cigarette butts, boys. And try to keep the fancy smoking to a minimum when Nutsy and Trigger are here?” He raised an eyebrow and backed out of the cell smirking.
Terrence nodded solemnly, withdrawing a mangled taquito from a plastic bag.
“Like I said, right? Sometimes lucky is a fucking superpower, okay?” Earl slathered more hot sauce on his fried catfish. “He said he didn’t like snot, ya know?” He finished the fried catfish filet in a mouthful and dug back into his bag for the second course. “Like, we told him they were spitters.”
Terrence smiled for the first time since the incident and shook his head. “I can’t believe he just puked all over that guy.” He laughed.
“Poor boy jumping back in the car all covered in the old guy’s breakfast, ya know? That piece of shit gonna be cleanin’ it out the car for months.” Earl wiped his greasy fingers on his pantleg and grabbed his Ziplock bag of possessions. He tossed the other over to Terrence. Earl pulled out his pipe and nug jar, checking that there was still half a bowl left in it. “Think we oughta?” He grinned at Terrence.
“He pretty much told us to, bro.” With half his meal already digesting, Terrence started to take on a little more color and puffed at his vape, blowing a strawberry scented cloud towards the ventilation fan.
Earl sparked up his bowl, taking a small puff and holding it as long as he could. “Wonder how the old man is going to handle breakfast.” He blew a tiny fragrant cloud towards the fan, waiting to hear alarm bells or the deputy rushing in, but nothing happened. He shrugged and offered it to Terrence.
Terrence shrugged. “My boy Hitch sautéed Michelin stars, bro.” He watched the tiny window in the cell door as he flicked the lighter and sparked the edge of the bowl.
“Allegedly, right?”
“Allegedly.” Terrence chuckled, letting slip a lazy little puff of smoke.
“Ya know, he can handle some eggs and bacon for a while, right?”
“He’s so fucked,” Terrence shook his head, finally relaxing a little. “He has no idea what he’s doing, bro.”
Earl leaned forward to take the pipe, still watching the door. “Well, like, then he can’t fuck it up too bad, alright?”