A High Country Tale XIV: Three Dog Night

Jeremiah was a most venerable bullfrog. A wily and esteemed Catesbian greenback. The jagged white scar stretching diagonally down his back confirmed the over large specimen for who he was. Voy backed the gig away and after a moment of silent reverence, turned in search of other sources to satisfy Winnie. The shallow marshy bywater had proven a particularly fertile venue for which to hunt the current object of his very pregnant wife’s gastronomic desires. Other Rana legs would have to grace the skillet, Voy decided, because he and the old frog had an understanding.

Two years before, the bullfrog had serendipitously leapt a path of intersection between Voy’s bare leg and a pissed off copperhead. The angry snake launched a strike which would have likely caused irreparable, if not fatal, damage had the venomous fangs connected.

By sheer dumb luck, Jeremiah had somehow absorbed the bite and the venom instead. Voy managed to wield his machete and decapitate the writhing serpent but the huge frog had dropped and lain limp, quivering in certain death throes. The compassionate fisherman and river dweller had scooped the stricken amphibian up and placed him on a flat rock in a protected corner on the off chance that he didn’t die. He had heard the lore about river frogs’ resistance to poisonous excretions so dangerous to warm-blooded animals and thought to offer the critter a chance.

Months later, on a pre-dusk trout line run, the man happened upon the most humongous emerald bullfrog he had ever seen basking in the last tippling sunbeams of an Indian summer day on the exact rock he had left him that fortuitous morning. Though grown significantly larger, a jagged scar adorned his dorsum, proving to Voy that Nature did, indeed, work mysterious wonders. Human and bullfrog had communed together for a while over the shared incident from that time before. They exchanged formal introductions under the new, less volatile circumstances, and the name ‘Jeremiah’ had lived on. Subsequent crossed paths had validated their eccentric oddity and now the two carried on in their private understanding.

Jeremiah’s legs would remain intact for the bullfrog’s continued jumping pleasure…and needs. Who could say when serendipity might strike again?

Voy’s knee-high heavy rubber boots, a hunting accoutrement since meeting the big frog, picked their way through the bog in the hunt for the complementary half of the salt-water taffy duo now preferred by his pretty young wife in the gestational journey to delivery of the couple’s third child. His cut-off jeans rode up on slim hips and crotch as he stalked, putting inadvertent pressure on the baby delivery device that was a presently under-serviced organ.

The thick piece responded of its own volition and Voy accepted the pleasurable feeling of his phattening cohort without either much choice, or effort, at quelling the effect. The gooey pre-cum escaping and dribbling down his bare leg evidenced the man’s unslaked need for attention. Advanced stages of pregnancy did little to spawn amorous exploits, as Voy well knew. He was also aware that the big body part would receive some proper relief in the coming hours after he finished the present labor-of-love in the quest to satisfy his baby-mama’s needs. Winnie’s, as it were…

Torchy Lane, his sancha-in-chief, was returning to Rome today after an extended absence on a quest of her own at the international transgender talent competition in Berlin, Germany. She came victoriously back wearing the crown of first runner-up in the overall competition to show for her own efforts. Voy would be picking up the beauty queen at the Atlanta airport in a welcome home that would service multiple purposes. Not the least of which would be the highly anticipated multi-orgasmic emancipation in that newly crowned, un-impregnable bitch’s Hershey Highway. The savoring of the thought served as succor to his and his nine-inch buddy’s hormonal state of fervor…

A half dozen plump pairs of frog legs later found Voy traipsing the riverbank path toward the home he and Winnie had made almost eight years before. Come to think of it, he reflected, the same year that his big brother, Cal, had first brought Dr. Jake home with him. The two had arrived as a new couple, open and vulnerable, for him and Winifred’s wedding. A ceremony officially denied the two soulmates. The fact that matching sets of external plumbing rooted the reasoning baffled the hunky man.

Voy pondered the irony as he entered the solid old brick house. The hunter now cleaned the catch and cranked on the slow-cooker already prepared with the stew-makings for his adored baby-mama’s discriminating taste buds. Kissing the sleepy wife and children nesting together in the big poster bed, the tall man showered to shed the smelly grime in preparation for a short drive to Hartsfield International.

The boys had magnanimously celebrated the well-planned nuptials, he remembered, carried out in the First AME Church of Rome sanctuary. With nothing but joy in their hearts for Cal’s little brother, the two had avoided asserting the elephant in the room which was their quite unignorable jungle fever gay relationship bursting the seams of small town America’s volatile societal psyche… right there for the whole of Rome, Georgia, to see. And judge.

While the esteemed Broadhearst family had doubled down on their joy at recognizing two additions rather than one into their family, the social fabric of the community had openly wrestled with the divisive scenario. The boys had not purposely embroiled the community in a heated public debate then bubbling the nation’s conscience, yet the arrival of the unusual up-and-coming couple for a marriage celebration denied to themselves had set off a cannon-shot of controversy still lingering to the present time. The patriarchal professor and his wife had opened their arms wide to both new couples; acceptance and consternation bookended their stance in demonstrable fashion.

Voy and Winnie had tied the proverbial knot and jumped the broom just as generations of young lovers had done before them. The Limerence-smitten gay couple had hailed the union in time-honored custom without any inkling of jealousy or chagrin, not wishing to diminish the beauty of the youngest Broadhearst son’s Big Day. Winnie and Voy both got this. Nevertheless, the fact remained of this real-time personification begging the existential question under tumultuous debate throughout the social order. And being argued before judicial America. The ranges of response in Rome crisscrossed the local spectrum in parallel portrayal of the broader nation.

As he reminisced on the shock of the boys’ wedding gift, Voy smiled at the memory of incredulous attendees’ wide-eyed looks when the brand new Lincoln Navigator had pulled to the curb outside the church as the newlyweds exited the chapel. Bedecked in the silver and lavender wedding colors, tailgate open, the sound-system rang out Beyonce’s ‘Put a Ring on it’ while Siri broadcast the South Beach Fontainebleau Hotel wedding suite as its initial destination. The plane tickets to Barbados and secluded wedding bungalow with all the trimmings, added by the doting parents, had fulfilled a dream honeymoon which Winnie still founded her conception of the perfect wedding model upon.

Still, the naysayers had created reasons to denigrate Cal and Jake as blights on proper society. Voy wondered at the sick bitterness abiding in those hearts as he drove toward the planned rendezvous. His mindset could not wrap around the cynical notion hallowed by such people. The very ones who professed and proclaimed their Christian devotion, yet stubbornly clung to a perceived right of denying sanctuary to those not adhering with their own narrow version of a much-translated holy book. The irony of the issue playing out in the world’s citadel of secular freedom, so astutely devised by the Founders, did not elude the country man.

Thinking of his own situation, Voy thanked his lucky stars to have married such a worldly and loving woman as Winnie. A woman who not only accepted Torchy Lane but actually welcomed the benefits of her existence, even blessing the transgendered woman regarding her husband’s libidinous needs. The girls realized they provided and derived different advantages in the relaxed arrangement. And, TL had been instrumental in attending to Winnie’s necessities during this pregnancy in her capacity as a medical professional. The fact of no worries for extramarital side pregnancies merely added to the gravid woman’s ease of mind. Yes, Voy counted himself as doubly blessed for such rare indulgence. As did his middle-leg cohort.

Reaching the international arrival gate, Voy lifted his mouth in a broad smile upon viewing the hubbub surrounding the deplaning corridor doorway. A sexily adorned Atlanta Falcon cheerleader was presently wowing passers-by and flight-greeters by her arrival... The dark-haired beauty waved red and gold pom-poms in time to the musical accompaniment broadcasting from the girl’s speaker-app phone device. Her dance routine brought his dick to attention--- as intended, no doubt. Finishing with a back-flip flourish to a full leg split on the concourse, similarly affected male travelers applauded the foxy vixen, little suspecting that the woman working the crowd was his own Torchy Lane.

Ahhh, yes, ironies abounded, the black stud reflected, as he pulled the woman into his arms. Most present thought he was a Falcon team member by his size and athletic physique, so the scenario satisfied many persons’ fantasies without a single qualm. The levity grasped solely by the reuniting lovers was a private hoot.

Just as they came up for a breath, a hand on Voy’s shoulder pulled him around to the beaming visage of his big brother, Cal. Jake flashed a grin from a few feet away and the four greeted like long-lost war pals in the coincidental encounter. Cal and Jake had come to meet their best friends, Luke and Jeremy, in from the high country of Colorado for a week. The four bosom buddies, best men in each other’s recent SSM highland ceremonies several months past, were consummating a pre-planned get together.

The friends of Cal’s stood to the side, marveling at the impromptu dance show just experienced. After the six introduced to each other, all made their way to baggage claim for collection of the travelers’ things. The small entourage created a kerfuffle amongst many on the way through the airport complex, deeming the three hunky men-of-color to be professional athletes whose names they couldn’t quite assign.

Convoying to Rome, the three couples stopped for afternoon dinner at La Scala Bistro. Jeremy and Luke had enjoyed the unexpected spontaneous welcome, Voy and Torchy providing a big city vibe to the small municipality by their bohemian style. The stories of the Berlin beauty contest supplied side-splitting anecdotal fodder. Multitudes of transgendered beauty contestants from around the world made for an hilarious range of entanglements. On top of a Telluride Hallowe’en Bash story mixed together with the Austin antics of the four men, the restaurant flavor became imbued by ribaldry uncommon for the regular clientele. The atmosphere loosened into a Chaucerian merriment and table-to-table communications opened up. The typically quiet bistro filled with the tourist-laden post-holiday crowds strolling outside as the atmosphere infected the streets. The establishment’s wine stocks were stretched.

Following the fifth shared bottle of vintage pinot noir, Torchy Lane was practically performing on the tables for the eatery patrons and by the time Jeremy was divulging the raucous ending to an Austin Juneteenth celebration, the entire restaurant populace, from management to staff to patrons, were leaning in for the next re-enactment of the comical stories like an E.F. Hutton commercial…

One elder gentleman fell out of his seat trying to hear Luke tell one episode from Telluride involving an English Lady and her chauffeur, while a young long-tressed woman leaned a smidgeon too far over her table’s candle, inciting a minor disturbance while squelching the hair-on-fire consequence.

Two hours later, the manager approached them as the six were settling with their wait staff. He informed Cal, the host of the dinner, that there would be no charge for their dinner party. It seemed that the owner had been eating a couple of tables over and seen the camaraderie plus the boosted business brought by the enlivening group. Upon his instruction, the manager let the six know that the eatery couldn’t have hired better entertainment or PR so the early evening was on the house if Cal’s guests were OK with that... Torchy’s streak continued.

“Well, Jake, you do remember that the third week in February is the annual ‘Telluride Gay Ski Week Festival’, right?” Luke was remonstrating with his friend about joining him and Jeremy soon on the mountain. “And you two need to meet Ambergai and Bryce,” he continued. Luke’s friends Gai, as well as Adolpho and Bryce, were holding down the log home during JK’s and his visit downland. Luke was excited to introduce them all. The Ski Week Festival would be perfect if Cal and he could pull away.

“Cal is inaugurating a new location in Seattle around then,” Jake replied, “so if you and I can extend our sabbaticals, then it may be golden.” He could talk just about anyone into anything, so I knew Cal and the Brack Admin office would be pushovers.

We were lounging on the veranda sharing a joint after saying ‘so long’ to TL and Voy a bit earlier. Jeremy was picking Cal’s brain on something business-oriented upstairs and the cute kids, Viv and Boy, had departed with Sophie back to their riverside home to spend the night in a slumber party with their mom, Winnie. I planned on getting a feel for country living from my homeboys’ perspective for the week here in Georgia and so far we had been pleasantly surprised. Who would’ve thought that Rome, Georgia, home-based someone the likes of the transgendered lady, I thought.

The evening was misty but mild, a tropical system pushing warmth from the Gulf over us in contrast to the major winter weather hitting the northeast. We had discarded coats and heavy clothes upon unpacking. Jeremy and I were happy to get comfortable in next to nothing here the middle of January. Following Cal and Jake’s example, basic baggie shorts were the norm by our observations. What a difference from the constant heavy clothing we wore outside in the upland reaches.

As we traded tokes, I heard a screen door slam close by and noted Jake turn toward the neighboring farmhouse a hundred yards to the east. As I followed his gaze, there appeared an ebony Chippendale-of-a-man from around the corner. He was easily assessed for the well-built feature as the man wore only cross-trainers. His huge uncut dick was lolling back and forth with each step and he had slung a piece of clothing over one shoulder. He grinned upon spotting us and headed over.

“That is Doy Al, one of Cal’s little brothers,” informed Jake, “and he looks like he’s just been talkin’ with old Farmer Brown.” Curious observation, I thought.

Six foot and at least five inches in height, the term ‘little’ was not an adjective first in my mind for describing the approaching nudist, especially in light of the piece wobbling in front of him. The thing looked ‘just-used’ and seemed to be still saying so by the pearl presently budding from the tip. I was now beginning to put ideas to pictures as Jake’s descriptions of the Broadhearst brotherhood came a ‘little’ more into focus. Voy had proven every bit as drop-dead gorgeous as Cal, and I felt a familiar warming in my groin in passing the blunt over while assessing this member.

“Doy can be kind of aloof when you first meet him, but he and I got past that pretty well after a bit. You’ll like him, Luke.” Jake’s descriptive terms were befuddling. Aloof? The ripped Doy reached us and inadvertently--- I think--- flicked his handsome dick upon stopping within a foot of our seated faces. At that, the goo dribbled from the partially cowled tip and I almost lurched forward to tongue it in mid-air. The thought seemed to be read by the young man.

“Jake dude, I see you done multiplied, now, white boy,” he eyed me while voicing the idea so regularly noted when we were together. While the Broadhearst brood were cloned in their looks, Jake and I were similarly brown haired with ringlet curls, mine darker than his auburn ones. The two of us both sported leanly tanned frames, kept in shape by regular exercise.

Our hungness was recognized readily amongst other Anglo males, but in the company of our black husbands, we were smaller by inches in both length and girth. ‘Hung for a white boy’ was the typical adage we heard from them… and definitely OK by us both. Tan lines were kept intact most of the year, so tight white buns provided the easy targets known to turn our mens’ eyes. We played the fact to the fullest. Doy went on, “So’s, wassup, Doc?” As he motioned for the blunt.

Bending a few inches closer to reach for it, the boy stood back up straight and sucked in a toke as he made sure the thickness sidled close enough for a Tallulah Bankhead inspection. “Doy, this is my best friend, Luke Cevennes; Luke, meet Doy Broadhearst,” Jake grinned knowingly at the proximity-baiting by the horndog brother, “He and his husband are in town from Colorado for some Georgia hospitality this week.”

It was all I could do to keep from kneeing the deck and swallowing the thing whole. “It’s nice to meet you, Doy. Anyone tell you that you’re the spittin’ image of your big Bro?” I smiled in attempted distraction by wit.

Doy smirked through the in-taken breath and reached up to the wet piece of clothing over his shoulder. It looked to be an undershirt and it crossed my mind to wonder where might be the plainly missing shorts surely going with it…or the drawers. He used the cloth to deliberately wipe over the now thickening piece within inches of my face and Jake wisecracked, “Luke, this is the shy brother, so don’t worry if he seems that way at first.”

To which Doy grinned over at him, dropping the cloth to the ground. He exhaled the toke directly into my face and handed Jake the roach. The dick waggled and rose some more. Pointing at me. “Don’t seems like I be the shy one right at the moment, Dr. J, not with this here big’un trying--- real hard--- to say ‘hello’, and yo’ boy just ignorin’ him like this.” With that, the boy rotated his slim black hips and the schlong smacked my cheek.

That was plenty enough of a hint, so I overcame my wariness by forced reaction. Opening my lips, I glanced at Jake and mouthed the turgid beast so visibly attempting familiarization. Jake rose, now, and passed the young stud a power hit. Purposely sucking face very slowly in the passing, he used his fingers to check out Doy’s and my connection. He fondled the filling shaft as it slid in and out of my mouth and Doy reached down to free my own straining dick. Within just a moment, we were all comfortably as nude as Doy, only shoes obscuring any anatomy. For now, I wasn’t worrying about feet.

My hands came up and cupped the hardness of the round sable cakes backing the crotch I was nuzzling and I fed off the suckling sounds from above me as I acquainted with Jake’s bro-in-law. The two seemed already at ease with each other, their hands wandering freely. I concentrated on the blooming cobra, comparing it favorably with my Jeremy’s package. It was more upwardly curved, I noted. The thing strained mightily all of a sudden, letting loose a fast creamy load right down my ready throat as Jake tried catching the overflow. He no doubt was aware of the prolific nature of Broadhearst men and also knew how sharing I could be.

Sure enough, the excess was split between Jake and Doy’s lip connection and his asshole, so I pretty much guessed what might be coming next. The moment of speculation didn’t last long. Doy turned Jake around and bent him over the deck chair. He spat on the proffered hole for added slipperiness, then glanced my way as he was plugging the chute and let me know what he thought of my introduction.

“Boy--- Luke, is it?--- you done right good for a starter-off. I’m a gonna hafta get into a little bit o’ my brolaw’s asspussy now, should you wanna get that roach lit up again. Bet you and me might have something to talk over while I’s busy.”

So, we switched gears and I sucked face between hits while Jake enjoyed some fatness hardening right inside of him. Doy told me about how much a whore Jake had proven himself over the last three months. “We can NOT seem t’be able to keep this bitch happy ‘nuf, dude. Ever time one of us turn around, he be backin’ up on one o’us just like this here.” Slapping the pretty white globes, he set a rhythm, and sank his muscly tongue all into my mouth to make plain I needn’t reply…just think on it.

His hand kept busy sizing up my hard piece and his mumbles into my mouth confused me as to whether he was complimenting Jake’s ass or my ‘big-for-a-whiteboy’ cock. Either way, within minutes, the trio of endowments produced more loads of sperm to slime the deck and the boinked orifice. Jake stroked himself in time to the top boy dicking, spewing stuff all over my leg, too. The two of us knew each other that well, so it was all good.

Temporarily sated, we stayed still for a few moments. Doy promised us both of the coming feast the other brothers were going to be having on the twosome of white asses now populating the homestead. “Luke, boi, you gonna be a damn good rival ho’ for Jake Man.” I was reminded by Jake of the double set of twins in the family and actually took compliment by the ‘ho’ comparison.

While we pulled it together, Cal called from an upper window, “Damn, you boys done goin’ for broke already—we’ll be right down. Bitches.“ Two upstairs Cheshire cat grins bounded down the stairway.

“Don’t the amenities in our city parks just keep improving with each passing year, now, young man?” The slim white-haired elderly woman oozed cougar sultriness as she approached the delectably clothed buns so handsomely depicted through the walking shorts attempting to disguise the hard roundness Luke awakened beside each and every morning of his adult life. The errant fly ball had tagged him in the ass just moments before as he tied a bouquet of Happy Birthday helium balloons to the picnic table. Surprising the Austinite, Jeremy had jumped and twirled in surprise at the goosing, landing like a lynx, on the balls of his feet, facing the direction of the intrusion.

Luke watched, amused, as the interaction played out across the outdoor pavilion, aware of the effect his husband engendered in so many of the people he encountered. The muscle shirt covering the torso above the hard butt complemented the figure by its form-fitting style. Cat-like agility inherent to his kinesics frosted the cake in a way that fed the fancy of any person remotely in touch with their sensual side. Indeed, the unpretentious acrobatics displayed in this meeting presented JKell’s erogeneity to its fullest.

The elegant older woman did not miss the litheness and obviously wasn’t shy in expressing her round-about regard for it. “Why, thank you, young Sir, for saving this damsel-in-distress in her hour of need,” she flirted. Sounds of excited chagrin erupted behind her on the softball field from where she had come. Frenzied appeals hounded the woman who had slowed down from the chase-mode to ogle the studly features. Her retrieval of the long fly ball off the bat of the rapidly advancing hitter now rounding first base was thwarting the ballgame’s continuity. The crowd of retiree players and spectators contrastingly encouraged and discouraged the sidetracked left fielder. ‘What game?’ seemed to be her dreamy perspective by Jeremy’s unintended involvement.

My man jogged the ball to the woman, junk noticeably bouncing underneath the drawerless shorts he sported. The focus of the woman further deviated from the ballgame. He underhanded the errant missile to her when he was within a few feet but the lady allowed the toss to hit and drop from her glove in further mock distress, obviously hoping for more athleticism by the beguiling beefcake. Not disappointing her, he leaned down and retrieved it once again. Raising up with a knowing grin, he placed the ball into the awkwardly extended glove.

“It appears your game has been saved by my backstop, ma’am,” Jeremy jested, referring to the interference afforded by his hard butt, “I hope the deflection isn’t graded a natural hazard by the ump, or else you may just be allowing an inside-the-park homer over there.” He pointed toward the fast advancing base-runner. The crowd was vociferous in its divided insistence for action.

Seeing the woman’s hesitation, Jeremy abruptly grabbed the ball back from the glove and in a roundhouse wind-up, he hoisted it toward home plate. As everyone followed its course, the heave line-drived in a perfectly targeted strike, smacking into the waiting catcher’s mitt just as the runner entered a slide into the final base. A pause in the noise expressed the crowd’s disbelief in the precise throw, then, a collective cry arose as the ump signaled, “He’s OUT!”

“Why, you truly are just the very embodiment of chivalry, young Sir,” the lady emphasized the second syllable of the four-course word as she scrutinized the man-of-color in more detail. She exuded flawless southern charm by her inflection and deportment. Jeremy, always impressed by good manners, fairly bowed to the woman. Toward the distant applauding crowd, he evinced just the right mix of charisma and hand-tipping cockiness to maintain his reputation.

As he did this, another sock to the derriere impacted him. An unseen projectile launched from the approaching form that was Calumet. The taller and slightly darker stud had seen enough of the previous encounter to conclude the need for some neutralizing of his closest friend’s bravado. The basketball piñata had been readily available. It was as precise as the home plate strike. Jeremy jumped once again and turned to address yet another butt striker.

Acknowledging his best man with a smirk brought the two into the aristocratic woman’s view together. She double-took at the doppelganger appearing out of nowhere. “My, my, this must be a Doublemint commercial.” Back and forth went her eyes in absorbing the two men. She was clearly a discriminating woman in her taste for tall, dark and handsome, by her expression.

Luke snickered again as he drew closer. “Honey, you have just got to stop interrupting people like this. Just look at how the game and the party are being derailed by your big ole’ self?” Approaching the fascinated woman, he extended a hand, “Good afternoon, ma’am, I am Luke, and this is my better half, Jeremy. And, over there is our best friend, Cal.”

She remastered her patrician wits and accepted the proffered hand, “Very nice to meet you, Luke. I must say, you certainly have exquisite taste in men.“ She shook both of their hands. “I am Evelyn and seem to be in the middle of mixing up several different circumstances all at once.” She looked over her shoulder at the deserted game, finally apprehending her need to get back. “I would love to stay and chat but really must get over to my game before I am ejected, or whatever penalty one accrues under such instances.” She retracted her hand gracefully, smiled all around and begged to redeem herself after the game ended, if we would allow her the chance.

With that, she turned and trotted away. Cal ribbed Jeremy about his recurring theme of drawing attention as we continued our preparations for the birthday celebration in the hours ahead. Several trips of delivered goods and decorations sat haphazardly around the open pavilion, evidencing the progress unfolding for the eighth birthday party of Cal’s mercurial nephew, Boy. Others were pulling in to the adjacent parking area as we laughed at the antics just witnessed and several more of the Broadhearst family contingent added to the cacophony of efforts for the upcoming fun.

Sophie arrived, trunk and backseat filled with freshly prepared hors d’oeuvres, hot dishes, iced sides, more balloons and accessories. Additional brothers drove up, all carrying something for the shindig. Over the ensuing hour, the pavilion transformed into a spectacle of birthday revelry with forty or so family members and friends aiding in the groundworks. The plan was for Winnie and Voy to arrive with Viv, and the Birthday Boy, once all was readied, in a ploy to surprise the youngster at the park where the kids commonly played throughout the year.

Situated along the Etowah River, not too distant from the Broadhearst home, Etowah Park provided playgrounds, hiking trails, sports fields and greenspaces, besides outdoor cooking and activities facilities perfect for such events. He would little suspect what was unfolding as mom, dad and sis brought him to an outing recurrent for them. The big get-together allowed not only an opportunity for the birthday, but also for the family to gather, and a welcoming venue for Luke and Jeremy to their hometown. The sunny January afternoon promised to augment the festivities.

Festooning crepe streamers, gobs of bunched helium balloons, a big draping banner proclaiming the eighth birthday, a horseshoe pit and volleyball net readied, as well as several other game set-ups with musical accoutrements in the background finally found everyone prepped and in wait for the little guest of honor. Sure enough, the minivan showed up in response to Sophie’s text and the party was on.

Viv led her big brother out of the car, basketball under his arm. Wide eyes demonstrated success at catching the youngster unawares. The exuberant kid raced from one spot and group to the next in excitement as he deduced his center-of-attention status. Ending up viewing all from the height of Uncle Cal’s shoulders, the celebration was officially kicked off by Loy and Roy’s appearance with a colorful three layer, candle-blazing cake and totally off-key rendition of the generations-old salute recently freed from copyright constraint, ‘Happy Birthday to him’. The Boy basked.

Three hours later, Boyden Alfrederic sat at a picnic table stuffing his bare little belly with a third piece of cake. Gifts, games and indulgence had swamped him during that time. The boy quietly contemplated some new expectations now facing him by attainment of the eight-year mark in Life, as described by his daddy, Voy. Uncommon thoughtful behavior arose from the man-to-man talk of the previous evening. He had been counseled of the need to look out for his little sis, Vivian. By the new baby’s appearance, more responsibility would necessarily fall upon him, the older brother. Importance of a new mission had been driven home by comparison of his position to favorite uncle Cal’s at the same age. Overnight, Boy’s imagination had dreamt of chivalric daring-do in fending off imagined threats and dangers. Momentarily left alone at the big party, the little big man now conjured some very mature notions.

Just then, a cold gust of air blustered through the tree-studded park. His tiny nipples stood up at the stimulus and he shivered. Winnie came up behind him, thrusting a warm sweatshirt over his torso. The bemusement was interrupted. “Boyden,” intoning his formal name and pulling sleeves into place, “the cold spell is settin’ in and we need to batten down everything—can you look around for me and gather up things that might blow away, honey child?” The tyke swallowed the last bite of scrumptious sweetness and responded by doing just that. His first assignment. As everyone scurried about, Boy scanned to the edge of the pavilion for carrying out the grownup task.

As the little guy busied himself, focus was disturbed when he heard, then saw, the first of a procession of trucks curving through the distant entranceway. A pole protruding up from the lead truck’s bed boasted a huge red flag crossed by a large blue ‘X’ emblazoned with small white stars. The boy was perplexed and registered a bad feeling about it.

A man and woman stood in the bed with hands on the pole; the man zeroed in and pointed toward the pavilion crowd. Behind the vanguard vehicle came a couple dozen more similarly swathed ones. The line entered, announcing themselves with a dissonance of horn-blaring. One specially-equipped vehicle played a tinny rendition of “Way Down South in Dixie”. The many people enjoying the park looked up to visualize the noisy entourage. In the distant reaches, from the sports parks and trails, alarm bells were registering this uglier edge of the 21st century. A rejuvenated throw-back mentality had arisen over the American South as the political climate skirted further away from the robust middle America known over the previous progressive decades.

The Broadhearst family quickly grasped the potential danger. They began a virtual wagon-circling effort, as did other groups using the park. Cold northerly winds heralded the change in aura. Roiling thunderheads appeared from nowhere, harsh new sounds replacing the previous friendly atmosphere. A chill enveloped the area and people bundled on warmer clothing, staring toward the parade of acrimonious honkers. Others battened down multiple different levels of ‘hatches’ deemed suddenly prudent. All six Broadhearst brothers, other cousins, several of the women and Jeremy plus Luke and Jake, all protectively cordoned the on-comers from the partiers.

Little Boyden Alfrederic was overlooked in the clamor. On the fringe and around a corner from the party area, the boy was closest to the raucous truckers. He stood open-mouthed as the troupe drew up to his position. “Hey, boys, look here at the little monkey,” the front man of the group hearkened back at his cronies. “Looks like he be stragglin’ through our park here and needin’ some discipline for bein’ where he ain’t wanted, huh?” His piercing voice cut through the wind now whisking debris all around. A collective grumble arose as the following trucks pulled up to the curb where Boy stood, hypnotized by the ascendant hate-filled tone.

A bare-chested Calumet broke from his shock at the bluster, recognizing the youngster’s vulnerable position. He galloped to the spot in a flash, scooped up the nephew and backed away toward the pavilion as more rancorous rhetoric cut through him.

“Well, now, lookee here, a big ole’ man-monkey done swooped in to save the french-fry, ain’t it so?” The man chortled in condescension as he sized up his perceived advantage in the encounter. Several other discordant voices cackled adjuncts to their leader’s insults and the horns all blew again, in unison, as the multiple Dixie flags whipped spitefully in the blitzing wind. “Ain’t he just a sight, naked and showing ever-thin’ to anyone who’s fool ‘nuf to be a-lookin’ at his big ape self?” Cal was taken aback by the deluge of vituperation. He and Boy retreated wordlessly backward, confounded in the face of such unexpected hatefulness.

The line of brothers and others hastened forward now. To a man, still in shorts and shirtless from the volleyball game. The women-folk, to a person, all thinly fit and toned, wore fashionable sports gear. They projected a collective glow of good health and were unafraid to show it. This sight set the flag wavers into a further tizzy. An epithet-ridden maelstrom cold-cocked the family and friends in a bewildering verbal assault.

Calumet was, again, the first to regain his senses. Putting the boy into his pregnant mother’s arms, he then turned to address the ‘murder of crows’. “Etowah is a public park, sir, and this is a private, peaceful family gathering. I am unsure as to what we might all owe such insulting behavior, but we would appreciate it greatly if you would exhibit your antagonism elsewhere. We want no problems here.” The eldest son of the late Professor Broadhearst projected an articulate intellectualism toward the group that couldn’t be missed. His self-control held the family in check.

“So’s, we Sons-of-Liberty just gonna hafta pack up an’ leave cuz’ you bunch o’ pic-a-ninnies tellin’ us to?” The reply was backed up by continued catcalling. Jeremy and Luke noted the ominous appearance of several uncovered long guns and pistols. The ante was raised in the confrontation. “All’s we’s doin’ is an exhibition of our first--- and second--- amendment rights rightchere in a public venue, now, mandingo-man, and I don’ reckon we gonna be kowtowed by the likes o’ you and your kind, ya’ thinkin?” The level of baseness was as callous as the display. The entire party group drew closer in a protective ring at the sight of the firearm effrontery. One jack-ass hoisted a shotgun up and under his arm, pointing it loosely in the family’s direction. Hackles arose throughout the alarmed group. Insinuations and invectives were now quickly ratcheting up to physical threat level. They recognized that all bets were off in the face of such an escalation.

Shoulder-to-broad-shoulder now, the bravery of the harassed group was plain. The scraggly bleach-blond woman in the first truck now shrieked her own thoughts at the tall protective wall of ripped brothers. “So, you bunch a’ naked heathens and sharia-law lovers think you’s bein’ all high an’ mighty, protectin’ all the offsprings an’ wenches from the God-fearin’ folk o’ Rome, do ya?” Her shrillness sent further chills through the crowd. More park-goers were now gathering up to the rear of the surrounded family. Unsure now whether they were being assailed from multiple flanks, an entire ring of adults joined arms around the children and older members. The skies darkened.

“Looks like ya’ll hooters are jus’ about to be taught a overdue lesson by the good folk of this here community,” growled the front man in the truck. He smugly surmised that a race-based clash was shaping up, per palpable intent, and was going to maximize his perceived supremacy. Several more of the truckers now raised their own weapons toward the unarmed park-goers.

Suddenly, a white-haired woman of aristocratic bearing slipped around the edge of the Broadhearst brothers, patting Cal’s arm as she passed. “Well, I never thought I would see the day when the likes of you, Odell Rush, or you, Theresa Buckner, would exhibit the absolute idiocy to incite a riot right here in your own hometown, but it is apparent that this woman couldn’t be more mistaken, now, could I?” She hiked up her resolute shoulders, cocked her lightning-bolting eyes at the ragged ruffians in Dixie outfits and planted her feet in a stance evincing immense gravitas. “You two miscreants need to turn your cowardly tails right around and head back under the rocks from which you have sprung.”

The lady was enraged, but her resolutely mannered delivery cut quietly through the listeners over even the shrieks of the wind. When the several pointing gun-toters didn’t lower their weapons post-haste, multiple more elderly white ball-players and exercise addicts emerged to amass in front of the beleaguered family-of-color. “Odell, you and Theresa and you, back there, Hiram Belchnor, all of your crowd need to be thinking of what this imbecilic commotion may be provoking here and now. There are police officers and a SWAT team alerted and approaching Etowah Park as I speak. Your options are already slim, young man, and all of you are readily identifiable to law enforcement. Are you actually considering the scenario you seem to be doing? Menacing unarmed, upstanding, innocent citizenry, of all hues and ethnicities, in some misguided Klan-like foray sure to end badly for all of you?”

She wasn’t yet peaked in her anger. The ex-lady mayor of Rome, Evelyn Leigh, was ready to smack the smugness from the faces of the vile rabble threatening all before them. Stepping back to stand beside Sophie Broadhearst and Cal, she wedged between the two and locked arms with them. One by one, the elders from the softball game and the crowd of spectators all moved in synchrony. Within seconds, a united front of the strong-willed persons represented an awakened and infuriated portion of Rome, Georgia.

Though a bit nonplussed, Odell Rush still unashamedly waved his arm in an arc behind him, egging the truckers to double-down on their antics. “Ma’am, we ain’t but exercisin’ our God-given rights by organizin’ agin’ all the corruption and anti-American activities goin’ on at this here public park. We ain’t gonna be reduced to second-class citizens by the underminin’ o’ our history an’ legacy which we fully intend ta’ uphold to the fullest. We ain’t breakin’ laws but these here darkies sho’nuf be pullin’ our great country apart at the seams. So, none o’ your nasty insults are gonna be makin’ this group of patriots do anything but continue in our mission to save God and America.” The guns raised a bit higher after having temporarily wilted under her honor’s tongue-lashing.

As the stand-off continued, unarmed people stood solid in the face of armed and unruly, nasty-mouthed malcontents. Ms. Leigh once again demanded the hooligans disperse. Only upon the sound of approaching sirens did any disintegration occur. One by one, the guns sank, shoulders drooped and against the nasal railing by both Odell and the woman with him to stand their ground, the group fractured and turned tails, slinking away before the law contingent arrived. Even Mr. Rush finally left the scene, maliciously promising the episode hadn’t seen its end yet.

Multiple videos taken during the ordeal spelled out the methods employed in the bullying assault. Police and SWAT team members promised to examine all evidence. Proper action would be forthcoming, they vowed.

With everyone milling around after the brouhaha, the former mayor apologized publicly to the Broadhearst brotherhood and family in her earnest attempt to impress the party of the goodwill throughout the city for every resident and guest. The conviviality, however, had been broken. In the light of the weather change, all decided it best to pack up, clean the sites and head to home.

Voy reassured the trepidated birthday boy of the overall good nature of people. The worthy father counseled his son not to take away the negative from the scene, rather to focus on the way so many came together in their defense and for the common good. The man was privately incensed by the insults heaped upon his little boy and family. Three generations of Broadhearsts had established deep roots of respectable members.

His heart was hurt by the sordid spectacle.

“Well, Doc Jake, you shoulda seen the door,” TL’s voice had raised to an octave above its norm. My questioning look seemed likely to push it higher still.

“What does that mean…the door?” I queried, now truly confused. “You just said that the windshield was cracked and the glass hit your eyebrow. Now, excuse my density, TL, but which was it…the door window or the windshield that shattered?” My perplexed bearing was nothing really new when it came to the orderly, what with the serpentine life the young man lived. Or young woman. Depending on the time and day.

“No, the door window wasn’t broken. It was rolled down. At least I think it was---the gross-outs yelled at us when we hit, so, yeah, it had to have been down. Had to have been the windshield shard that hit me,” he seemed certain of the fact, lying back on the exam table as he was.

“Let me get this straight, TL,” as I took another stitch in the freshly debrided and curettaged gash following the exact curve of the previously perfect brow line. It wouldn’t be from here on, but if it healed well the scarring should be minimal, I anticipated, “the windshield shattered after you crashed into this truck on Mockingbird and Vine at 3 AM, Sunday morning--- a few hours ago--- and the driver was so drunk he didn’t know what happened? And then you and Samuel drove away?” This all sounded dangerous and unlawful and I wasn’t at all certain I wanted the details. But I did.

“Not exactly,” he winced as I placed another suture, “The drunk was the one who hit us, Doc, and it was on Third and Main. And, it was 2:45 AM, right after leaving ‘Jugs’. We only got a block when the idioto came outta nowhere and bashed in the driver’s door. But it hit so hard that it dragged the door all the way off. It stuck on his truck and he took off without stopping…the thing was caught on his grill and he left with it.”

This was getting interesting. I kept my mouth shut. He wouldn’t be able to hold it in anyway and I would get the whole story quicker. The man was a true talker…and I could easily claim ‘doctor confidentiality privilege’.

Sure enough, he went on, “We were scared the cops would stop us, no door and all. Samuel was drunk, too; we traded places, me driving. I kept to the side streets but we wanted the door back. I knew if the cops stopped him, especially with that door on his grill, we would all be in trouble. So I drove in circles, Doc, gradually bigger, thinking if the coot was that bad off we might come across him and could get it. We figured out he was still downtown, by the river, when we passed him going down Vine Street--- the wrong way. I waved when they passed and he saw us. The dopes made a circle around a block and came at us again. This time they were tryin’ to ram us and when he came around the last corner, he was goin’ so fast that he missed and we got sideswiped and the damn door flew off and hit our windshield. That’s how I got cut,” he smirked smugly in the middle of another wince as the next suture pulled through.

“So what happened to the drunk idiot?” I couldn’t help asking.

"Hell, the last we saw, the two of ‘em went over the riverfront embankment and were sinking in the water with the motor racin’. Shit, I thought it was gonna blow up or somethin’. Both of ‘em were hollerin’ out the windows. We had our door wedged through our car windshield by then, so I called 911 on my burner phone and told ‘em. I’m guessin’ they got pulled out…at least we heard the sirens. I kept away. Took Samuel home and stayed there until an hour ago when I came here,” matter-of-factly, like it happened all the time.

“You put on the steri-strips?” was my next obvious question; the response anything but.

“After I cleaned and flushed the cut, they fit just fine and held the gap closed. I keep some in my clutch. They hold my prick out o’ the way while I’m performing and work better than a truss… I hate those damn trusses, anyway. Y’know how binding those things are, Doc.”

“So, you used an inverted Lembert suture on an unsedated eyebrow, Jake?” Luke was interested in more than just the looney tale about TL’s escapade a few hours before. He had dropped in at the Rome Clinic to see where I pro-bono’d sometimes and we were discussing cases. Cal and Jeremy were over to the police department filing depositions on Saturday’s fiasco which ended the birthday party. Luke had given his already and walked to the clinic since it was only a few blocks. We sat in the break room, laughing over the transgender woman’s story.

“Luke, I was afraid to infiltrate that oculomotor branch of the trigeminal nerve any more than I had. You know how persnickety that thing can react sometimes. I was afraid it might result in a paretic effect. When I told her that, she said go ahead with just a partial block. She is stoic, now, gotta admit.” I was respectful of TL’s decision. The rest of the story…well, not so much. Luke agreed.

“That story is crazy, Jake. Do you think it’ll come back on her and Mr. Hodge?” he was genuinely concerned for the fallout after hearing of the harrowing tale and was fairly astounded, yet again, by the volatile political dynamic being encountered in Smalltown, USA, down here in the lowlands. Then, he reminded himself of the Rasta murders up on the mountain and mentally reassessed: crazy happened everywhere these days, he thought.

Jake was worried, as well, but the latest mess involving the park clash held pre-eminence as the foremost concern. The latest ‘Torchy story’ was more comic relief than serious, he figured. The police chief was a good guy and would listen to Torchy’s side if it came down to that. “I think it will probably all work out OK, Luke. But I am wondering how Samuel is going to get his doorless truck through town to the body shop. Torchy will probably need to stage a decoy drag parade somewhere to distract attention, or something.” I snickered at the mental picture.

Their men walked in the door at that moment and the white-boy doctors smiled together at the two. For a small community, a good portion of Rome had reacted in admirably cosmopolitan fashion toward the duos. The general acceptance of the unusual jungle fever marriages, while jolting to a certain segment, was not causing as much concern as had been feared. With exceptions such as the weekend Dixie flag truck rally, notwithstanding. Crazy did, indeed, happen everywhere. Big cities were experiencing some right wing backlash, as well.

Cal seemed more upbeat, now, as he walked in. The two had been allowed through the nursing station checkpoint by the nursing staff. What with Jeremy’s accompaniment, the nurses were abuzz by the Magic Mike element and we could hear tittering outside the door from the feminine staff members.

“Jake, you are not going to believe the news we just got at the PD just now,” the tall man gushed. “There apparently was a mess of an auto accident early this morning and guess who was fished out of the River at O-dark-thirty today?” His grin expressed a lot, but the mention of river and fishing brought Luke and Jake to attention.

“Seems that less-than-respectable Citizen Rush and his buddy, Citizen Belchnor, of late great low-rent park notoriety, were booked on DUI’s and resisting arrest for involvement in multiple hit-and-run accidents after leaving a well-known drag bar… our plot thickens,” he was ebullient at the weird events indirectly related to Jeremy and him, overheard as they had finished up depositions.

The doctors exchanged knowing glances, which Jeremy picked up on. “OK, you two, what’s up, now?” he demanded, well aware of our conspiratorial penchants. “I’ve seen that look before. Spill it.” He wasn’t fooled a bit by the pair.

Checking out the door for eavesdroppers, the two hesitantly related the cliffnotes version of medical treatment for a certain transgender person just vacating the premises. Her summary of the preceding events, which the husbands now knew from this different perspective, provided fodder for conversation best saved for other environs. The Starbucks down the street found the four comparing more details a half hour later.

“At this point, we know that charges have been filed against the reprobates. Odell is apparently in not-so-good shape by the descriptions from Detective Lusk a little while ago. He suffered a few cracked ribs and a dislocated shoulder in the wrecks. Along with that, he was so drunkenly incoherent in front of the night magistrate that he was taken under guard to County General for treatment and observation, instead of lock-up. Hiram Belchnor is screaming civil-rights violations out his ass for police maltreatment and false arrest, even though he wasn’t scratched…. He has lawyered up and is filing charges. Isn’t that rich?” Cal went on, adding that Hiram’s ridiculous actions had prompted him to file his own charges over the Etowah Park incident. So with the ongoing saga, separate cases were presently pending. We debated how to proceed in light of the fleshed-out information.

Finally deciding discretion was the best tack for the time being, we headed toward the house to check on the rest of the family. Curving around a bend a few miles from the homestead, we came upon a truck on the opposite shoulder of the road, listing on three wheels, a fourth clearly flat and non-functional. As we approached, Jeremy slowed the Benz.

The woman leaning on the fender raised expectantly, thumb up, in request for assistance. Cal and Jake put face to name when she came into eye view: Theresa Buckner, the split-end bleach blond wizened shrew from the park episode. A tail-tucked yellow dog shivered off to her side, tethered on a stake in the ground, looking for all the world like a wayward waif. A badly emaciated animal, its sad eyes focused on us dully, evincing a lost look of resignation.

“Cal, we have to stop, baby, if nothing more than to help the dog,” Jake was a soft touch for animals and the two white boys ganged up on their men to pull over. The Buckner woman looked hopeful until we pulled close enough for her to delineate two black men in the front seat. That was enough to change her expression from hopeful to derisive. Nevertheless, Jake emerged onto the opposite shoulder across from the banged-up, broken down vehicle.

Not a word was spoken at first. Jake took in the scene, sizing up the problems. The skinny dog immediately recognized a friend by the man’s aura and whined a greeting, pawing the air from the tethered spot in the wet and muddy roadside. The scrawny, wrinkled woman turned and cursed at the animal. When the whining persisted, she chunked a palm-sized rock at it. The sharp projectile struck the poor thing in the prominent ribs. A yip of pain erupted from a gravelly throat. With her crusty eyes and nose, horribly matted coat and visible skin lesions, it all proved too much for Jake. He approached the beaten beast and crouched before it, holding out a palm. After cowering in expectation of another blow that didn’t materialize, the long nose sniffed the new person in half-hopefulness. A tiny, hesitant tail wag acknowledged the possibly benevolent figure and the dog nosed the hand.

“Get away from ma’ dog, you trash,” the woman issued the ugly, hoarse command at Jake. She snorted like a hyena, clearing a congested throat, “I said, get away from ma’ dog. That there is ma’ property an’ it’ll bite your ass soon as lick it. Damn well, I ain’t gonna pay for nuttin’ if’n the old bitch lights into your ass--- get away!” she ranted.

Jake patted the friendly head of the forlorn beast, then raised up and turned toward the woman. Without a word, he went over to the stake, uprooted it in one motion, returned to the matted dog and removed the constricted collar. He looked purposely at the spiteful hag, then hurled the entire chain contraption into the muddy adjoining field. Still wordless, the young doctor herded the responsive dog toward the Benz, opened the back door and issued a hand signal for the dog to enter. She jumped right up into the plush leather interior, landing on a surprised Luke. The mud-encrusted mutt liked the aura from this potential friend, too. She was still apprehensive but extended a friendly paw again, in a hopeful hello.

“What the fuck---?” squawked the grizzled, badly aging woman. She was slow in arising from the fender she leaned against, reflexes clearly sluggish from alcohol or drugs. Or both. Jake next motioned for Cal to help him. Exiting the driver’s seat, the big man-of-color joined in a short pow-wow by the Benz’ back bumper. The woman strode halfway across the blacktopped road, rambling in both her steps and her speech. Potentially dangerous in her mentally compromised state, the two men kept a peripheral eye on the hag as they removed jack and crowbar from their trunk, then together approached the flat tire on the rear axle of the truck.

The ugly woman continued a nasty tirade at the biracial couple. The men persisted in ignoring the epithet-laced tirade. The two Austinites, still in the car, worriedly watched the scenario but settled the cur on a blanket from the trunk, offered by Jake in passing.

Working efficiently, the boys quickly blocked the other wheels for stability, jacked up the truck’s frame and proceeded to change the bad tire for the spare they found lying in the bed of the truck. Bald though it was, the spare was mostly inflated. After tightening lug bolts, the pair dismantled the jack, removed the rock tire-blocks and replaced the assemblage to the Benz’ trunk space.

The crude-spoken Theresa never diminished in her abusive barrage throughout the effort, still focusing on the now ecstatic dog lost to the sanctity and safety of Luke’s care. Not one of the men ever said a word to the person excoriating their manhood, their persons, their sensibilities or their efforts. As the trunk shut on the upscale auto, Cal and Jake faced the ungrateful Ms. Buckner. She flinched under the severity of the couples’ silent stare like she expected a violent outburst. Surprise flickered across her face when Cal flipped five twenty dollar bills on the ground before the woman, tipped his hand-to-brow, and took leave of the roadside. Back into the quiet of the car.

They left the erstwhile female in their rearview mirror, now profanely flipping off the helpful men, rescuers that they be. The dog had clearly increased in worth to the woman’s thoughts by the fact of the men’s interest and liberation actions. The quad of friends knew they had probably not heard the end of the matter. Like that made any difference.

Trekking a circuitous route in hopes that the nasty malcontent might not figure out their destination, Cal finally pulled into the venerable old estate. Reminiscent of an antebellum plantation with big carved front pillars, it posed a strange irony in light of recent events. Sophie and Winnie exited the front entrance with the two kids, hugging their family and immediately welcoming the happily freed ragamuffin of a dog.

A gentle soapy bath in the mud room sink cleansed the scruffy and pitted body. Big fluffy towels appeared and eight hands proceeded to embrace the cleaner pooch. Now a much more attractive female mixed breed, she followed into the warm kitchen for an inaugural meal of cereal, meat scraps, cottage cheese and a dessert of pre-adolescent love. Shining eyes evoked a totally changed bearing in the canine and, though still a rib-showing waif, the dog now looked and acted like a different animal. A wide canine grin effused her new demeanor.

She knew she had hit the jackpot this day as the kids and she cuddled together on the cushioned, blanketed nest in the corner. Winnie and Sophie watched the bonding among the three and their hearts melted at the sight of the maltreated dog blossoming in her gratification, moist nose now nestling into the childrens’ arms.

“Should we have left more money for the dog?” Jake had taken to second-guessing. Cleaned up and settled before the fireplace with his three closest confidants, the four boys discussed the state of things.

“You two fixed the ingrate’s tire and left her mobile, with money, for gosh sakes, Jake. The dog was obviously held against its will under horrible conditions and that woman was battering the poor thing--- No!” was Luke’s vehement reply.

Tacitly agreeing, Cal and Jeremy lounged comfortably entwined with their husbands while half-dozing before the warmth of the crackling flames. The girls had spoiled them with a platter of cold cut sandwiches, fruit and freshly steamed asparagus shoots. Analyzing altruistic actions over the past hours had pretty much ceased upon the filling of bellies. The men knew that they had done the right things on several levels. The remnants of concern now centered around the future rather than the past.

All of the Broadhearst family had revved up their protective activities in the knowledge that some form of response was more than likely to be expected in light of the past 36 hours’ events. The six brothers and their sisters, several cousins, aunts and uncles, as well as Jeremy and Luke with Jake, too, had agreed upon security measures now in effect. Various family venues were now under guard by discreet armed members, both inside and outside the homes.

Road, river and countryside approaches were being monitored for any antagonistic provocations. It felt like battle modus but in conjunction with local law enforcement, the entire extended family and friend system felt more at ease, albeit on lookout, as a result. The law agencies had liaised with the family, understanding the unilateral nature of the menace presently threatening them and the greater community.

Cal had insisted on Voy’s family joining with them at the family home on the Coosa River. The two children were now safely ensconced with the rescue mutt; the women were chatting amiably together. They anticipated Voy’s return with Torchy from the remote riverside house to the confines of the central site, too. No one even questioned the need for her protection, for though a supremely capable loner, the transgender woman was no doubt a prime target for the coalescing ‘posse comitatus’ entity now organizing. Next door, Farmer and Missus Brown had the temporary addition of Doy to their household. The younger twins, Loy and Roy, were shacking up in their old bedroom of the big home, so along with Coy, all of the brothers were close and accounted for.

Local news teams had picked up the story about the Etowah Park fiasco and set up communication points around Rome for relevant news stories and alerts. One group was camped out at the county road entrance to the family compound. So much reconnaissance and goings-on pretty much precluded any clandestine activities. Cal was content for the time being.

The four runners padded lightly over the packed dirt trail in the cold pre-dawn hour. Sweatpants and sweatshirts covered them from neck to ankles, with knit head covers topping the cold weather outfits necessary since the onset of the wintery mix now burying the area. With running shoes reinforced by double sweat socks, the boys were well-equipped for the sleet now pitting lightly against the heavy material. Colder precipitation had followed the cold air brought by the onslaught three afternoons previous.

Jake and Luke had sprayed the outfits with water-proofing the night before so the cold was mitigated somewhat now as the group followed the 10K river loop Jake had mapped out months before upon arrival in Rome. Of the four, he was the most acquainted with the twists, turns, dips, ruts and such, but Cal was equally adept at the trail, having accompanied his husband multiple times on the familiar route. All had agreed that solo runs were off the table for the present time.

Hal, the great horned owl, had answered Jake’s call upon reaching the river trail portion of the run. Having been taught a succinct lesson of razor-sharp talons scraping his head on the one morning he had failed to do so, he made sure both he and Luke hailed the big bird with a greeting. The four listened as the majestic nocturnal hunter had winged by above them, much to Luke’s delight.

Luke had a rapport with his own resident owl in the high country and felt gladdened by the sounds of the big bird, missing his morning routine on the mountain. The two men’s calls were returned in inquisitive fashion, what with the added hoots from the new guest. Hal was curious, yet apparently mollified, by the heads up to the new running partners. No claw attacks ensued. The boys even felt undefinably reassured by the bird’s presence.

The troupe found the riverbank stretch somewhat treacherous for their footing by the frozen precipitation coating it. The pace dropped off to a six-minute-mile pace through the leg of the loop. At one point, after two of them had slipped dangerously, just barely avoiding a fall, they decided to slow to a walk for a quarter mile stretch. Breaking the pace was not desired but when they turned a curve toward a more raised and graveled surface, resumption of the brisk pace to which they were all more accustomed was achieved. They could see the porchlight from Torchy’s cabin in the woods across the river off in the distance, the red glow surreal through the sleety mist.

Jeremy was the first to notice the faint blippings of light around the perimeter of the cottage. “Are those electric eels or swamp ghosts?” Half-jesting, he pointed the direction of his sighting. Sure enough, the next moments attested the presence of very blurry, intermittent flickering. It lit the edges of the house in an eerie outline. On guard already, the four slowed again and detoured from the path for a closer view of the spectral effect.

Carefully approaching the far riverbank and visualizing the ongoing shimmery flashes, low conversant tones of furtive speech became discernable. Separated by the river from closing the distance any more, the four hunkered down and spied on the scene as vague forms began to take shape. In the coming minutes, several persons were detected around the boundaries of the unoccupied home. They knew intuitively that someone was up to no good.

Luke, always ready with his iPhone in a plastic baggie tucked in a sock, squatted behind a huge cypress tree trunk and pulled it out. He called the detective’s number in charge of the ongoing park case. When it went to voicemail he let Cal leave a message for the man about the suspicious happenings. Afterward, he left the audio recorder on in his pocket as a safeguard. Fortuitously, as it happened.

Wanting a better look, they located a fallen cypress tree trunk transecting a good portion of the river width and climbed across it. Negotiating the roughened but slippery bark, they drew close enough to make out four people now conversing in exasperated tones over an apparent plan being hatched.

“Donnie, damn it, just tie ’er down best as you can and let’s get-er-done, now, asshole. It don’t hafta be perfect,” came the first determinable words over the water rippling beneath the trunk.

“If’n I don’ fasten the damn tie good, it gonna teeter an’ fall over, numbnuts,” came the hissed reply from Donnie.

“Well, once she’s lit, it don’ matter none too much, now do it? Who’s gonna be a’seein’ it much from out here, anyway?” The instructor wasn’t brooking any discussion on the matter and was mightily pissed at the argument. “Now, just get ‘er done! Ya’ pissant.”

“Yessa’ Massa,” came the sarcastic answer.

In the gloom, we were able to make out the shape of a close to eight-foot cross. Probably wooden… By the odor wafting toward us, it would seem to be saturated in gasoline or the like. These things did not bode well, and the situation worsened by the realization that the two silent partners were presently dousing the house itself in something similar. The glint of gun metal off the intermittent flares of light alerted that the men were armed. The effect of this knowledge chilled the watchers.

Jake stood up, whispering the need to call the volunteer fire department and re-call the detective, but as he did so he lost his footing on the slippery surface, partially sliding into the running water beneath. Though he was able to stifle himself from exclaiming, the resultant splash and grunts were picked up by the trespassers. Cal saw one of them, presumably the leader, reach over and grasp the barrel of a shotgun leaning against a tree. His hackles rose, skin prickling in sudden fear for Jake and the rest of them.

“Who da’ Hell be out there?” came a gruff demand through the darkness. Cal grasped his lover’s arm and pulled him back onto the horizontal trunk. None of the four spoke a word, but this did little to allay the alerted interloper’s nervousness. “I done heared ya, ya’ rascal, and if’n yer don’t be answerin’ me here an’ now, I’s gonna be a-riddlin’ that there water with enough buckshot to down a damn bear, damn it all!”

The indistinct figure could be seen pointing the muzzle of the gun in the runners’ direction and Jake was forced to speak up. “Hey, mister, we’re trying to check our trout lines here and I just fell in the water. No need to get yourself in an uproar,” he attempted placation.

A sudden stream of harsh light cut through the darkness. All four of the morning exercisers were caught in various positions of vulnerability from atop the wide tree trunk. Nowhere to hide, they slowly raised up off their haunches and shielded their eyes in facing the unknown individuals.

“Well, ain’t this just a sweet surprise,” it was the nasally leader, now staring the boys down at the muzzle of his double-barrel shotgun. “Done catched me some coons and a couple dandy-boys, now, looks like,” his tone was dripping evil and Cal feared suddenly for their lives. The men were carrying out a sneak attack by destructive force towards which the local authorities would take a dim view should the perpetrators be caught. Cal was rightly apprehensive of the choice to be made by these persons since it was coming down to a case of ‘us vs them’. He felt they would have little compunction for saving their own sorry skin at the cost of those they deemed inferior, let alone capable of testifying against them. The awareness that dumping dead bodies, especially those of dark-skinned persuasion, was an age-old pastime in the deep South, did not escape him.

Strange Fruit. Cal flashed on the morbid poem from the tree on which they were presently busted…too much mawkish irony.

“Go on ahead an’ git yo’ shifty black ass selves on down from that tree and let’s see’s just what we got.” The invitation came across anything but welcoming. Under the circumstances there appeared little choice. Clambering down, the runners felt foolish for the mistakes leading to this state of affairs. They began wondering if they would end up maimed, or worse, at the hands of the rough talker corralling them.

The scoundrels gathered the couples together at the barrels of their long guns. One produced a roll of heavy twine with which they were tied up against the gasoline drenched cabin. It was reckoned that when the coming conflagration burned out, so would be the bindings, thereby leaving no evidence. In the arsonists simple minds, the group would be held responsible as guilty parties, caught by happenstance at their own malfeasance...

“Can you reach down to my sock, baby?” Luke hadn’t had his iPhone discovered. If it could be retrieved, then there was hope to get help. Time now of true essence, the reprobate band had almost finished with their preparations. They knew the match-flicking set-off would soon occur. Tied so tightly as to be unable to get to the possible saving device, the boys tried feverishly to loosen the binding knots. To no avail.

“Gee, boys, it’s a right shame you fairies gonna be up in smoke in ‘bout a minute…sayin’ those prayers a’fore ya’ meet yo’ Maker?” The leer and nasty reasoning said everything about the character holding himself above his prisoners. Never once seeing the contradiction of his evil actions. The man’s offensive reference affirmed they had been recognized, also. Not good.

Things looked more and more grim with each passing moment. Desperation was creeping into the four bound psyches now caught in a proverbial Chinese finger trap: the harder they strained, the tighter their ties pulled. Too proud to beg, the boys deduced that any words would prove moot anyway. The arsonists were noticeably chagrined by the exhibition of stoicism.

Well-placed kicks and punches sought to assuage desires to draw a response. The added cruelty clearly satisfied some deep-held conviction that their group was remedying an imagined slight by the biracial couples’ existence. No reasoning would break down the overriding hatred they exploited in justification for their actions. Jake slumped at a brutal gun butt to the side of his head, shivering uncontrollably in his wet clothes. The other three wore various bloody noses, ears and wounds. Cal’s silent tears were for the sight of his loved ones being treated so inhumanely. Unrepentant and consumed by despising contempt, the cruel torture continued unabated. Only exhaustion brought cessation to the viciousness.

A long extendo-lighter was ultimately produced and the coming heat was already sensed. But then, just as the leader of the pack flicked to light it, several things occurred.

From the corner of the boys’ eyes, a yellow streak bolted through the clearing, bowling into them in the awkward attempt to stop. The stray dog was on a mission. Somehow, she had sensed the danger to her saviors from the house miles away. Whining, scratching the door until let out, the dog had streaked away into the darkness, yowling as she ran. Following her instincts to the house by the river, the yellow cur rushed to the restrained boys and went straight for the tight twine bindings cutting off the blood flow to deadened hands. The miscreant, Donnie, saw the dog and exclaimed about her appearance. She was rabid in attacking the knots with her teeth, ignoring the outcry amongst the four villains. “That old mangy bitch be bitin’ those boys’ cuffs, Billy, we gotta shoot her ’fore they get loose!” he screamed.

Two rifles raised to stop her but as they rose, two additional streaks broke the periphery of the glade. Black and brown snarling balls of fur launched simultaneously at the aiming guns, like a copperhead at an exposed leg. Before they could even reach their triggers, the gunmen were hit by the airborne canine missiles and both were attacked by teeth full of savage need. Retribution was, indeed, in the air. The yellow dog’s similarly abused escaped siblings had answered her yowling calls. The two tore into the malefactors harming their sister’s patrons. Screams of surprise and pain ricocheted through the sleet-suffused surrounds and blood pumped from savage bite wounds.

Billy and the other reprobate watched in disbelief, then went for their own rifles. A sudden shriek arose from Billy’s accomplice as the man backed toward the edge of the dell near the marshy bog side. Without warning he shot skyward, grabbing a butt cheek in abject agony as Jeremy saw a copperhead pit viper attach itself by airborne strike. It sank its fangs and latched on, embedding deeply into the flabby buttocks. Jeremy next beheld a writhing in the bog grass surrounding the bitten man. With horror, the bound runner watched literally dozens of other snakes strike, threatened by the unwitting arsonist.

Copperheads: the most aggressive of all vipers in the Western Hemisphere and also the most social. They commune together in clans. This den had been prodded into attack when the gunman stepped one foot too close. Within seconds, a horde of the serpents overwhelmed the man. He sank under the onslaught. His cries awakened fauna within a mile radius by his squeals of dread at the mindboggling assault. It would prove fatal by the toxic venom delivered en masse.

Billy, stunned by the vehemence of the violent barrage, pulled himself together. Leveling his shotgun at the boys and the gnawing dog helping them, he curled his finger around the trigger. Before he could pull it, a whooshing flurry of wings and talons struck his eye and trigger hand. One set hit each. The razor-edged talons of the great horned owl sank in just ahead of the weapon’s discharge, wresting it away from its intended target.

Hand and eye were both punctured to bone in fractions of a second. Silent screams howled in his brain, yet no word passed his lips. Only copious, viscous drool. The bursting vessels of his hand spewed blood over the gun while the gelatinous goop filling his ruined eyeball gushed over his face. The forgotten lighter and shotgun clattered to the gravel ground cover. The now piteous man followed their descent, all three hitting the ground together.

Yellow Dog chomped through the final cords, thus allowing the prisoners to loosen hobbling ankle restraints. Three of them rose as one, lifting Jake with them who was woozy from the cold and beating. Free now, but dazed by the manifold levels of catastrophe just aimed at the cruel offenders.

No matter the just comeuppance so efficiently dealt as if in their behalf, the spared runners cringed at the ferocity leading to the gruesome scene. The soft pitting by tiny points of ice both swarmed and muffled the atmosphere like a macabre snow globe.

Distant whines of undulating sirens roused them. The four burst into reflexive attempts at triage for the badly injured scalawags. The two men neutralized by the dogs lay moaning in pools of blood and terribly ripped flesh. The snake-bitten man was motionless, copperhead fangs still embedded in the dead, steaming flesh. Billy lay over his shotgun, quietly sobbing from a single eye, shredded hand balled in permanent disfigurement.

It was an incredibly ugly scene. Hopefully not entirely unbelievable, it crossed the two men-of-colors’ minds. The scene would no doubt demand multiple EMS units. The plausibility element would also soon play out. Cal prayed for common sense to prevail when the first responders arrived.

Jake thankfully regained significant lucidity after being stripped, rubbed and dressed in Cal’s sweats at Luke’s insistence. Remaining on alert for concussive symptoms, Luke and he texted the Rome EMT corps who were at dawn shift change, stressing the need for both the oncoming and out-going team members. He and Luke purposely down-played the bloodbath with only perfunctory detail to substantiate the requirements, aware that media members were surely listening in to the police radio channels.

Police cruisers arrived and two police officers, both veterans, pulled to the side to vomit their coffee and donuts. The detective set up a perimeter for security, cautiously skirting the boggy side of the clearing at the boys’ snake warnings. The old veteran stared at the scene for long minutes, absorbing the details and the wounded as the young doctors worked feverishly to stabilize the three survivors with zero equipment, supplies or medications. Their husbands lent hands with what could be done by untrained persons. Luke handed over the cellphone audio of the entire scenario to the detective, thanking the gods that be for his foresight to leave the device in record mode. It proved integrally important.

The two siblings of Yellow Dog now sat placidly at the edge of the clearing, grooming one another, while the rescue herself hung close to the men receiving her returned favor. At the opposite corner, two remaining copperhead pit vipers lay limp, morbidly attached to their victim…dead after expending their totality defending the den. Multiple other oozing fang wounds bore out the collective offensive.

Looking up from tending Billie’s ruined eye and hand to see the detective’s deeply disconcerted countenance probing him, Luke gestured upwards into the canopy of overhanging cypress branches. A magnificent specimen of great horned owl preened its sleek feathers, aloof to the carnage below. The wise law officer absorbed more and more with the passing minutes. The trained eyes missed nothing.

EMT units descended on the site, taking control of the multiple medical emergencies. The wounded were further stabilized, gurneyed and strapped, then loaded for transport. Amazed EMT’s looked gratefully to Jake and Luke, along with their husbands, for saving surely terminal shock patients by their astute work. One woman EMT neuro-tested Jake for concussive effects. Satisfied of no serious damage, she extracted a promise for a full work-up within the hour.

After their departure, Detective Lusk thoughtfully approached the young doctors. He stared at the two with their men as the four commiserated together on a large flat boulder. “If I hadn’t seen this with my own eyes, there would be no way I would have believed it,” he began. “I have been appalled at the tactics and manners these people have employed in their misguided path.” Sweeping his hand backward around the open glade setting Torchy’s woodland home, he added, “Not only here but over the past days.

“Your family,” and here, he nodded at the blanket-wrapped Cal, “has exhibited the integrity and character bred by the America in which I have always believed.” The detective held up Luke’s iPhone and went on, “I have listened to the audio recording Dr. Cevennes so shrewdly thought to capture. The responses in the face of what just went down here, at the Etowah Park incident, and over subsequent times up to now have secured my respect for you two couples, men.”

“A lot of people have seen the powerful example set by your family through attacks that couldn’t or wouldn’t have been weathered by most. Yet not a crack or fissure has surfaced in your principled forthrightness. You men reacted remarkably this morning. I watched as you administered aid, and even tenderness, to people bent on killing all of you out of blind hatred. Standing here now, my hat is off to you four, along with all of your family. It would be my honor to escort you gentlemen home safely. We will sort this mess out together and put things right.”

As he finished, a contingent of firefighters arrived, augmenting the police presence. The crew entered with portable hosing and equipment in preparation for siphoning river water to dilute and flush the effect of the flammable coating still jeopardizing the house and forest. The adrenalin-driven duos now experienced a consuming exhaustion after the morning’s events and succumbed to the detective’s offer. They piled into the detective’s Crown Vic.

Driving slowly past the large flat boulder just shared by the two couples during Detective Lusk’s touching homily, nobody noticed the smaller boulder to the side of it. Had anyone looked, they would have espied an extremely large, emerald green Catesbian bullfrog there, in seeming repose. His large silver dorsal scar tingled in the sleet. Huge eyes soundlessly winked as he sagely pondered the setting for such serendipitous events short moments before on the waning three dog night.