After a week Slow Eddie settled into a routine. Waking promptly at six AM to retrieve his breakfast of two soggy pieces of toast, one scoop of powdered scrambled eggs and a small cup of tepid coffee, he quickly covered his plate with toilet paper to keep away the ever present cock roaches who tried to investigate his food. He then climbed back into the rack until right before lunch. Usually it was a bologna and cheese sandwich with a cup of warm Kool-aid which he downed along with his saved breakfast.

About an hour later, after the food was off his stomach he began exercise, an assortment of basic calisthenics consisting of pushups, situps, jumping jacks, side bends, waist twists, mountain climbers, etc. After an hour or so and drenched in sweat he took a shower, glad to have the block and its four cells and one shower to himself.

The afternoon he spent dozing and reading whatever books and magazines his stickman brought him. 'You stick up for me, I'll stick up for you,' Brian's eyes widened earnestly. 'That's a stickman.'

Waiting for Brian's nightly visit, Eddie reflected on his life, wondering how things had come to this. But then he'd give himself a mental shake, telling himself, You're Slow Eddie Holcum! No matter how fast or far you fall, you always land on your feet!

Jake whispered, “This is a robbery. Don't make it a homicide,” holding his index finger ramrod stiff in the middle of the fat biker's back.

“Y-you can have anything you want man. Just don't do anything hasty,” said the nervous biker.

“Does that include that big hairy crack?” deadpanned Jake. “You know I've always had this thing for gray haired old farts.”

“Whaaaaat?” the biker asked slowly as creeping horror dawned into knowledge. “Dammit Jake, is that you?” He turned around. “You red haired sumbitch! Nearly crapped myself!

“Randy, Randy, Randy, how many times have I told you? In your business, never turn your back!” Jake exclaimed with glee, delighted on having gotten one over on the older man.

“If I did that I'd be turning circles forever!” the big man laughed. His expression grew grim before he continued. “Seeing it's three o'clock in the morning and you're the hottest thing in three counties, I take it this ain't no social call.”

“Nope Randy, it ain't. You're the only hard guy I know that isn't lined up one way or another with Doug, Sr. and I need a favor,” began Jake. His long straight red hair was back from his eyes for once.

“Atwell, huh,”

“Yeah. Junior and Senior.”

“Hmmm,” Randy reflected. He had known Jake all his life and his daddy too. There wasn't a more solid and straight shooting man as his daddy and so far the son had run true to form.

Randy Weaver, the son of a third generation sharecropper, sank his roots in this county more than thirty years ago when he discovered that there was more money to be made selling pot to hippies than selling tobacco to R.J. Reynolds, and these Appalachian Hills were as good a spot to grow it as anywhere in the world, if a man knew what he was doing. With trial and error and three generations of tobacco farmers behind him, he did. Randy found success by never planting more than four or five plants in a patch and dealing with only four or five buyers over the past three decades. Being a man of simple tastes, he found contentment in his trailer, his pickup, his three Harleys, and his dear sweet pitbull. Other than those passions, Randy didn't much care about anything else.

“Well boy spit it out. Whatever you need I'll do my best,” Randy said. This was not a time for bargaining nor bullshit.

“Randy, I need cash and wheels. It's that simple.”

“I figured as much,” stated the grizzled old man. “How much you got?”

“About three hundred.”

“Which way you headed?”

“South.”

“I reckon you can have the sporty, and here,” stated Randy reaching into the bib of his overalls and pulling out a wad of bills big enough to choke a horse, “is ten grand.”

Jake's eyebrows drew down in concern. “Now Randy, I-” he began.

“No buts boy,” Randy cut in. “Let's just say me and your old man are settled up now.”

Speechless at the man's generosity, Jake followed the biker to the rusted shack beside his singlewide house trailer. A low menacing growl filled the night as the two men approached.

“Lucille, you just back on down now. You know who Jake is,” Randy said affectionately, reaching down to scratch the wedge shaped head of the mother of the finest fighting dogs in five counties. Her dog house was a ten by twenty foot tin utility building that she shared with Randy's pride and joy, his three Harley Davidson motorcycles. The first was a jet black 1956 pan head rebuilt to original perfection with the blueprints and specifications ordered directly from the mother plant in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Next was a 1976 low rider chopped and raked with a pair of outrageously high ape hanger handlebars and yellow, brown, and black snakeskin paint scheme setting off the polished chrome. Third and looking rather plain against the others was a 2015 XL1200C Sportster with a red peanut gas tank and a black single gunfighter saddle.

Tail wagging triple time, Lucille briefly sniffed at Jake's pantleg before returning to her lair of blankets and pillows piled in a corner.

“There she is Jake. I just got her last month. Haven't even drained the juice out of her so she should crank right up,” smiled the old biker.

Jake straddle the saddle, checked then turned on the gas, toed up the gear to neutral, gave one short twist of the gas grip and hit the start button. Immediately the little Harley roared to life. Jake grinned as he dropped the lever down to first and eased the bike out into the yard. He killed the engine and climbed off the red Harley.

Jake grabbed Randy's hand, looked him dead in the eye and said, “I'll never forget this Randy.”

“See that you don't, boy, and make me proud by not letting that slick bastard Atwell get the best of you,” whispered the old biker vehemently.

“I won't, Randy. I promise.” With that, the boy climbed aboard the Harley one more time. He fired her up and twisted the wick leaving a deep gouge in the gravel driveway and a rebel yell in the air. Jake flew down the mountain and was last seen headed South.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here? Making yourself at home I see,” stated Commonwealth Attorney Willy Moore.

Slow Eddie studiously ignored him. He presented his back by rolling over to his other side in his bunk, showing how insignificant he felt the CA was.

“Don't you turn your back on him boy!” yelled Sheriff Lovelace easing up beside the CA, behind the gray bars, in the hallway that ran along the cell block.

Slow Eddie's only response was to explosively break wind.

The Sheriff started up a slow burn rant, “Boy you better pay attention to us or I'll have five of my deputies come into that cell and -”

Slow Eddie leapt from his bunk to the bars and reached through the bars with the speed of a striking rattler to grasp the soft fat turkey like waddles under the aging Sheriff's chin. He pulled him nose to nose and whispered, “What are you waiting for, shitbucket?” Eddie's chest and shoulders twitched uncontrollably as he fought his heart's desire to close the Sheriff's windpipe forever.

“Just remember one thing, shitbird. They can only get through that door one at a time and when they see what happens to the first three, you'll never get a fourth to try.”

The Sheriff gasped and grunted until Eddie thrust him away hard enough for him to stagger across the hall and slam against the far wall. Eddie snapped his own arm back in the cell and glared at Moore, “The fuck you want?”

Regaining control of his uselessly flapping arms the CA snarled, “Enough of this bullshit! Here's the deal! You remember the papers you signed the other day with your high school buddy, Dan Buckner? They make everything real clear. You take the plea bargain we offer in the morning or you face my Daddy while looking at a life sentence.”

Eddie swore bitterly, “So this is what it all comes down to huh?”

“You don't know the half of it and you probably never will,” Moore stated smugly. “So when I put that pen in your hand tomorrow morning you be a good little boy and sign on the dotted line.” With that the CA strutted himself importantly down the hallway with the Sheriff staggering after, gingerly holding his throat.

The next morning dawned with a gray overcoat sky which suited Slow Eddie's attitude perfectly. He was in between the proverbial rock and a hard place and he knew it. When no less than six officers showed up outside his cell he offered no resistance as they cuffed him, shackled him, and then chained him. Eddie did allow himself a small wry smile of amusement when he noticed the elaborate neck brace worn by the Sheriff. He'd only bruised the fat of his turkey neck after all.

There was only one real surprise that morning. Upon entering the courtroom chained, shackled, and surrounded by deputies Slow Eddie saw his mother. Many emotions surfaced at once, guilt and shame ducked his head for a brief moment till the slow boiling rage at those who set him up and continued to manipulate him resurfaced.

A Clerk of Court read the charges against him. The Commonwealth Attorney read the plea bargain of twenty years with recommended time off for good behavior. Eddie had to smile at this because if he had any good behavior in him, he wouldn't be in this mess. When Judge Moore asked him how he pleaded, Slow Eddie took a deep breath and said, “Guilty.” He had walked into the house intended to rob it after all... after midnight... sure as hell after midnight.

The Commonwealth Attorney shoved a solid gold pen into his hand and pointed to a dotted line below where the Judge and CA had already signed. Eddie signed his full name with a flourish and, looking deep into the CA's eyes snapped the designer pen like a twig.

Turning to the bench he said, “Your Honor is this now a done deal?”

“Yes son, is something on your mind?”the judge asked charitably. He'd gotten what he wanted.

“Two things, your Honor. Number one, I'd like to visit my mom before I'm sent up the road.”

“No problem,” replied the judge.

“Secondly, if you and your little group of playmates get popped before I get out, be sure to come on up to wherever I'm at you no good sonuvabitch and I'll show you what Southern hospitality is all about!” Eddie gritted out.

“Get him out of here!” bellowed the Judge.

And that ended Slow Eddie's first and last court appearance with his mother's cries of “Eddie! Eddie!” ringing in his ears.