volume one IN THE D U D L E Y C L A R K - Ohio Vine Tours

ights, or their liberation, or their body parts or whatever
it was they’re always so angry about. In point of fact, Roy
cares nothing for political movements. It’s just that he lives
in a massively Politically Correct city and, even though he
does not share directly in that culture’s mainstream bounty,
certain prejudices have managed to percolate through and
find comfortable lodging in his constitution. Among these is a
disapproval of the aforementioned C-word, not to mention use of
the dreaded word that begins with N.)
Roy wishes he could steal. It would be so easy, is so tempting,
just to slip the black-and-gold Memorex tape into his pocket.
Who would see him? The skinny, long-haired man behind
the counter has his back to him. The store, except for them, is
empty. It always is during the day. At night you don’t want to be
here.
At least, Roy doesn’t.
Roy only looks like a freak.
The man behind the counter jabs one finger, stiffened, into
the air.
“I’ll stick my .45 up your ass and blow your fuckin’ brains out
you don’t give me my shit back!”
Thoughts of shoplifting haze.
The back of the man’s tee-shirt reads: IN THE ASS.
Roy approaches the counter.
Speakers that hang from chains pound out a bone marrow
massage while Roy’s headphones spew forth really loud droogy
shit.
Thus stands Roy, laved by raucous tympani, assailed by an
incantatory din; stands thus Roy, watching the man behind the
counter gesticulate and shout, vaguely aware of the foul language
he must be using, blissfully unable to hear it.
After a spell, the skinny man in black turns and notices Roy.
He glares hatefully at the single tape Roy holds. Still shouting
into the little holes of his telephone’s mouthpiece, he pounds the
register, then slides the two coins across the counter and throws
them at the cash register’s open drawer. One settles into the well
reserved for pennies, the other bounces out to land somewhere on
the floor in music-induced silence.
0 ROY ROGERS IN THE 21ST CENTURY