"I never block executions or grant clemency," the governor impatiently replied as his lens strayed over the printed essay and another shockwave rolled through him. "In fact, I want you to send out a press release and announce that anyone who engages in cannibalism will pay the supreme price, assuming those other crimes are included. I don't believe we've ever addressed cannibalism, and it's high time we did. Indeed, let's draft a bill and put it before this next General Assembly."
Trader was making notes with a pencil, which was his habit because he often found the need to erase whatever he had written.
"Maybe we should say that J.R. was caught in the act of cannibalism and was executed by a firing squad. How about that?" The governor peered up and gave Trader a magnified rheumy eye that was cloudy and bloodshot and getting glassy.
"It's not my understanding that shooting someone in the leg was a preferred form of execution," Trader pointed out. "I don't think the citizens would buy it."
"Of course they would. Everybody knows that guns back then were very unreliable. Now, let's talk about something else."
"Yes, on to other matters," Trader said, flipping a page in his notepad. "What do you want to do about this dentist who's being held hostage on Tangier Island? I'm sure you saw the newspaper this morning or heard the news, or did you?"
"Not yet." The governor groaned and clutched his bloated gut.
"Well, apparently the Reedville police talked to a reporter, and unfortunately, the word is out that this dentist's life could be in danger because the Tangierians are upset about VASCAR. I recommend we suspend our VASCAR initiatives immediately until the matter is peacefully resolved. I can tell you that I, for one, warned Superintendent Hammer about the consequences should the state police start painting speed traps. But of course, she didn't listen, as usual."
"It was her idea?" The governor was confused and lightheaded.
"Of course it was her idea, Governor. Don't you remember when you and I discussed it the other day, I told you this was her latest act of poor judgment and you said, 'Well, good. Then if it causes a stink, make sure she gets the blame and not me.' So I said, 'Good enough, that's what will happen.' "
"Did she ever find her dog?" the governor inquired as he cleaned his magnifying glass with a special cloth and prayed his latest submarine attack would subside.
"It's theorized that one of her political enemies stole it," Trader gravely replied.
"What a shame she has so many people who strongly dislike her," Crimm said as he sat very still and the color drained from his face. "I had no idea when I appointed her that she would become such a hot potato. Why don't you ring her up and she and I will have a little chat? But not right now."
"I strongly recommend against that, Governor-not now or later," Trader was quick to suggest. "You don't want to be tarred with the same brush. She's a political embarrassment, and the more you distance yourself from her, the better."
"Well, I do feel bad about her little dog. I hope she got my sympathy note."
"I made sure she did," Trader lied as he thought of that note and numerous other communications to her that he had intercepted or blocked.
"You know, if something happened to Frisky," the governor wistfully went on with a gasp, "I'd never be the same, nor would Maude or the girls. What a dear, loyal friend Frisky is, and thank the good Lord I have EPU to make sure nobody nabs him for ransom money or to get back at me for some decision that is unpopular."
"Your decisions are never unpopular," Trader said emphatically. "At least not the ones that are your fault."
"Well, I'm sure I'll be blamed for the recent hate crime," Crimm supposed as his submarine plunged into foul waters.
"I strongly advise that we indicate that the Thrash murder is connected to Moses Custer's case, and therefore it's Hammer's fault that neither of the cases has been solved," Trader suggested with confidence and delight. "Maybe we can figure out a tie-in with J.R. being murdered by a pirate, while we're at it, and plant the notion in the public's mind that Hammer is to blame for that case being unsolved, as well."
The governor shot up from his chair and almost fell over as his submarine slammed precariously into submerged objects.
"Leave!" he ordered Trader, lurching and gasping. "I can't think about pirates right now!"
Possum could and was. He had been thinking about pirates ever since reading Trooper Truth early this morning. Possum was watching TV and pondering a very obvious failing on the road dogs' part that he excitedly believed he could use to manipulate Smoke and hopefully save Popeye.
Every self-respecting pirate from centuries past understood the necessity of flying flags from their masts to communicate with those they preyed upon. Raising the skull and crossbones, popularly known as the Jolly Roger, informed the soon-to-be-plundered ship that it had better surrender or else. If the ship ignored the fluttering black-and-white grinning death's head, this was followed by a red flag indicating the or else was imminent. If the ship continued to sail about its business, then cannon fire and other violence followed.
Modern pirates seemed to have forgotten the courtesy of flags. These days, when a crew of pirates roar up in a speedboat to overtake a ship or yacht, there is no warning whatsoever before mortars and machine guns open fire. Pirates have become a very cruel, bloody, shameful species of seafaring outlaws who don't believe in giving anyone a chance and are mostly interested in canned goods, electronics, carpets, designer clothes, tobacco, and more to the point, the drugs that hopefully are being smuggled aboard the hijacked vessel. If drugs are part of the booty, the victimized sailors who survive do not report the incident to the authorities.
Highway pirates should return to the courtesy of flags, Possum thought as he perched on his bed with the lamp off inside his tiny RV room that would have looked out over scraggly pine trees in back of the vacant lot if he didn't keep the curtains tightly taped shut. He never missed a rerun of Bonanza and constantly fantasized that he had a father like Ben Cartwright and brothers like Little Joe and Hoss. He imagined riding a fine horse through the burning map of the Ponderosa while that stirring theme of strumming guitars and drums galloped through his head.
"Dun daw daw dun daw daw dun daw daw dun daw daw DAW…!"
Just yesterday afternoon he had watched his favorite rerun-the one in which Little Joe's girl gets kidnapped by a carnival and is tied up in the fat lady's closet, several dressing rooms down from the Beautiful Girls of Egypt and the bearded lady. Little Joe convinces Hercules to help him, and they beat up the bad guys, knock the knife out of one bad guy's hand before he stabs the fat lady, and then Little Joe's girl kisses him at the end. Oh, how Possum loved to watch Little Joe swaggering off with his cowboy hat pulled low and that big gunbelt with its ivory-handled six-shooter slung from his hips.
Oh, what Possum wouldn't give to walk out of his cheap, sour-smelling room and find Ben, Little Joe, and Hoss waiting for him instead of Smoke, the other road dogs, and that bizarre girl Unique, when she happened by the RV, which was increasingly less often. Sometimes a tear slid down Possum's face, and he had to glaze himself over when it was time to turn off the TV and emerge from the kinder world he lived in during the day while the other dogs slept off hangovers and late nights of meanness. Possum had never hurt anybody before Smoke stole him away from the ATM machine, and now look at the mess Possum was in.
He had shot that poor truck driver who was minding his own business in his truck, waiting to sell a load of pumpkins when the Farmers' Market opened in the morning. Possum was afraid to sleep ever again, so sure he was that he would have nightmares about what he had done to Moses Custer and all those pumpkins they hauled over to the Deep Water Terminal and dumped into the James River.