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Thread: Snowed In

  1. #1
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    Dec 2009
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    Default Snowed In

    Driving through town, he couldn't help but think how much he loved this time of year. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson had decorated the front of their little bakery. Icicle lights out front, a small tree in the window, and a wreath adorned the front door. Next door to them, Floyd's Barber shop also glowed with Christmas joy. It wasn't actually owned by Floyd. The man's name was Paul Jenkins, but he figured long ago a good, respectable barber shop had to be named Floyd's.

    Up the street, the small hardware store still had a customer or two, probably a visitor to town picking up some extra firewood or a last minute Christmas tree to take to a cabins located up the mountainside. One of the ways the small hardware store managed to survive the big box store boom was to provide things like firewood, Christmas trees, pumpkins in the Fall, and the like to the locals, who still appreciated the small town way of doing things.

    Tomorrow, being Sunday, all the stores would be closed. And with Christmas on Monday, it would be a couple of days before anyone would be visiting the small downtown area again. As he patrolled the main road in town, he was making sure to peak down the alley ways, using the spotlight of the patrol car as his beacon of light, just making sure there were no vagrants hiding in the shadows.

    Just as he made his way past the alley way between the local "outfitter" store and Neal Williams' furniture shop, he thought he noticed something moving down behind the dumpsters. Parking his patrol car, he grabbed his Maglite, and unsnapped the button to the holster that held his S&W .357 pistol. Walking down the alley way, he could hear the slight crunching of the snow beneath his feet. It was quite cold out this evening, 25 degrees had been reported on the bank sign earlier. And 10" of fresh powder was likely to arrive over night.

    Making his way past the dumpster, he was nearing the end of the alley when he heard the clang of what he thought was an aluminum can. Peaking around the back of the building to the left, he found nothing. Slowly looking to the right, he was startled by the sound. "MEEEOW".

    "Dag nabbit, you dang cat! 'Bout gave me a heart attack. Shew! Get out of here." he muttered as he kicked some snow in the direction of the feral cat. Turning to head back to his vehicle, he suddenly felt a painful jolt, followed by a sensory overload. His legs and arms stiffened as his body hit the snow covered concrete in the back of the alleyway.
    Those who do evil to others - the killers, the rapists, psychos, sadists - you will come to know me well. Call me... The Punisher.

  2. #2
    Join Date
    Sep 2009
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    Eastern Kentucky
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    37

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    OK, You got my interest !
    Hermits of the world unite !

  3. #3
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    Oct 2010
    Location
    North Carolina
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    13

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    It sucks when werecats have tazers

  4. #4
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    Dec 2009
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    Dirty South
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    "Sir, can you hear me?" He vaguely heard a voice say. "I think he's coming around."

    "Hey Bill, can you hear me? Are you alright?" another voice said.

    In a groggy state of semi-consciousness, the officer tried to open his eyes to see who was speaking to him. It was Joe Benson, the owner of the hardware store. Bill slowly came to, and realized he had amassed quite an audience. He could see Tim Reynolds, the EMT from down at the local Fire Department, who was checking him over, and a couple of other locals.

    "What happened?" Bill asked.

    "You got quite a bump on your head here, Bill" Tim mused. "I'm guessing you got hit by this." Tim was holding a small, baseball bat sized tree branch in his hands. "Not sure where it came from. You're lucky Joe called this in. Any longer out here, and you might have froze to death before you were found."

    "Joe?" Bill asked, still a bit confused. "Joe called it in?"

    "Yeah, Bill. I had noticed you parked your car over here earlier when I was out helping a cabin renter tie a tree on his car. I didn't think much of it, since I didn't see your lights on or nothing. But when I had locked up and started to head home, and your car was still over here, I thought something wasn't right. It had been 45 minutes. I barely noticed your footprints leading down the alley here, it's snowing so fast and all. I went back to you patrol car and used the CB. Dispatch probably thought I was pranking 'em or something." Joe filled Bill in as he was sitting up with a cold compress on his head. He rather enjoyed this type of stuff, as he had retired from NYPD and moved south to run the long running hardware store that his family had established nearly 6 decades ago.

    "Rob has gone looking for any evidence. Pretty hard though with the snowfall. Most tracks you made were covered up, and whoever did this to you knew well enough to cover their tracks with something," he continued as he pointed to the ground where snow had been obviously moved back and forth in a sweeping motion.

    "I gotta get up. It's cold." Bill slowly got up off the ground, dusting a good layer of snow off his pants legs, shoes, and coat collar. "Tim, thank you. I'll be fine. I gotta go help Rob."

    "No need for that Cap. There's nothing to find," came Rob's voice. "Whoever it was had a vehicle around the corner. He swept his tracks over to the road. From there, his tracks and everyone else's tracks just blend into one another. Not gonna find him. I've already called your gun in. If it shows up anywhere in the near future, we'll catch a break that way."

    "MY GUN!" Bill yelled, as he reached down to his waist and realized his revolver was gone. He had carried that revolver for years. It was a gift from his late wife. He carried it, rather than the new S&W Sigma handguns the department had been using for the last few years. Granted he only had 6 rounds, but he always felt like he had his wife right there with him whenever he had it on his waist.

    "Now don't worry Bill. We'll find your gun. I know Martha gave that to you. We'll find it. It'll show up," the young officer said, trying in vain to calm his superior. "Come on. Let's get you home. I'll take over your patrols for the night."

    As Rob helped Bill over to his patrol car, Joe asked the EMT if the Captain was going to be alright. "Yeah, he'll have a nasty headache for the rest of the night, but he'll be fine. I just hope this was some sort of a random incident. This town hasn't had any sort of crime since 1987, and it took us years to recover from that."

    "What happened in 1987?" Joe asked. "I've only been running my store for 10 years. No one's ever told me about anything like that."

    "I'll tell you later Joe," came the reply, "over a beer or something. It's a long story, and it's cold out here. I gotta get some paperwork done for this report. I'll see you next week." And with that, Tim and Joe left the scene and went on their ways.
    Those who do evil to others - the killers, the rapists, psychos, sadists - you will come to know me well. Call me... The Punisher.

  5. #5
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    Jul 2009
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    Austin Texas
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  6. #6

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    now this is good!

  7. #7
    Join Date
    Sep 2008
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    COLUMBIA SC
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    119

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    so umm you don't write good bathroom material with out finishing wth comeon now

  8. #8
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    The phone rang on Bill's desk. He placed his feet back down on the floor and leaned forward to take the call. He knew who it would be. No one else would be calling the little precinct office on this Sunday before Christmas.

    "Hello! Yeah Steve. I wanted to speak to you. Had a bizarre incident last night with no leads. Need to see if perhaps you can help me. I want to put an article in the paper. Maybe someone in town, or even one of the Christmas tourists might have noticed something. How fast can you get it in the paper?" was Bill's remarks.

    "Well, if I hurry out there and take your information down, I could get it in by this evening for tomorrow morning's delivery. I'll put it front page for you. I may even be able to get the county paper to post it too. Who knows? May help you out, the more people see it." Steve Peterson, the editor for the little community paper, had been a valuable member of the community for a dozen years.

    He was the man every one went to see when they wanted to let the whole town know of a birth in the family, or a death, an engagement or wedding, a graduation, or when they wanted to announce the birth of a grandchild. The day Martha had passed away, no one even had to ask Steve to write a memorial. He took it upon himself to do up a 5 page insert that honored the life of the lady who's husband served the town so admirably.

    No one quite knew how he had managed to get pictures of Bill and Martha from when they were young and dating, or how he managed to acquire photos of their 3 kids and 7 grandchildren, but he did it. He even framed one of the inserts for Bill to place in his home office, on the wall just behind his desk.

    Typical of most of the town, Steve had spent years working for larger papers, and had taken an early retirement package after 20 years with the USA Today, sold his condo in the city, and moved to the little sleepy town to run his own little paper. It was in his blood and he had to have something to do. He didn't make a ton of money, but the revenue from the classified ads and the 1/4 page ads that dotted the paper more than kept him afloat. He knew as long as there were people living here, he could always count on the half page ad from the hardware store and the back page ad from the local used car lot to pay his overhead.

    "Alright Bill, is there anything else you can tell me. I've got the serial number for your pistol. I'll post that under the photo you gave me of it. I'm sure between my subscribers and those of the county paper, someone may know something. There's only a couple of pawn shops where someone could try to cash it in. I'll have it written up and on the presses in no time." Steve promised.

    With that, Steve hurried off to begin his work, and Bill went back to his thoughts. Why would someone want to hit him over the head? Why would they steal his pistol? Were they going to use it to hurt someone else? Where did they come from? Where were they staying? So many things crossed his mind as the day dragged on, he was starting to feel some throbbing in his head again. "Time to take another Tylenol," he thought.

    The day before Christmas was usually filled with people running around for last minute gifts or stocking stuffers. But this year, with Christmas Eve falling on a Sunday, there was no traffic at all in the little downtown commons area. After the morning church service, everyone returned to their homes or to the cabins they were renting up on the mountainside.

    The cabins, located up on the North face of Blood Mountain, were always booked this time of year. From Thanksgiving to Valentine's Day, twelve of the fifteen cabins were the main source of revenue for Bill's two sons and daughter. Bill and Martha had purchased the land long ago, before the overly inflated prices of land and homes had taken hold of most of the country, and it was there dream to run some sort of winter wonderland Bed and Breakfast up on top of the mountain. That dream took a backseat for them in 2001, when Martha was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Despite the aggressive treatments and therapies, the cancer was more aggressive, and Martha lost a 6 month battle with the disease.

    Bill decided he would lay her to rest at the top of Blood Mountain, as it was the place where she wanted to be the most, and from there he felt she could look over the town and keep an eye on him while he was working. Not a year later, Bill began construction on the first cabin, a little two bedroom with a loft. Bill wanted to be closer to his wife of 43 years, so he built the cabin and moved in shortly after Christmas 2004, putting his home in town up for rent for the extra money.

    Within another 15 months, with their father's permission and the help of the employees from their construction company, the two boys had built the other 14 cabins. The boys picked one each to be their winter home for them and their families. Their sister, Jill, decided to rent hers out with the other twelve, although she left several weeks open for her family to come up at their leisure during the Holidays.

    As he walked by the headstone towards the front steps of his humble little cabin, he looked down and said, "Don't worry honey. I'm fine. And I'm gonna get my gun back."
    Those who do evil to others - the killers, the rapists, psychos, sadists - you will come to know me well. Call me... The Punisher.

  9. #9
    Join Date
    Aug 2008
    Location
    Roaming Central Texas
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    297

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    Good Start TET. TGM

  10. #10
    Join Date
    Jan 2010
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    Great Lakes area
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    Quote Originally Posted by TEOTWAWKI13 View Post
    Driving through town, he couldn't help but think how much he loved this time of year. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson had decorated the front of their little bakery. Icicle lights out front, a small tree in the window, and a wreath adorned the front door. Next door to them, Floyd's Barber shop also glowed with Christmas joy. It wasn't actually owned by Floyd. The man's name was Paul Jenkins, but he figured long ago a good, respectable barber shop had to be named Floyd's.

    Up the street, the small hardware store still had a customer or two, probably a visitor to town picking up some extra firewood or a last minute Christmas tree to take to a cabins located up the mountainside. One of the ways the small hardware store managed to survive the big box store boom was to provide things like firewood, Christmas trees, pumpkins in the Fall, and the like to the locals, who still appreciated the small town way of doing things.

    Tomorrow, being Sunday, all the stores would be closed. And with Christmas on Monday, it would be a couple of days before anyone would be visiting the small downtown area again. As he patrolled the main road in town, he was making sure to peak down the alley ways, using the spotlight of the patrol car as his beacon of light, just making sure there were no vagrants hiding in the shadows.

    Just as he made his way past the alley way between the local "outfitter" store and Neal Williams' furniture shop, he thought he noticed something moving down behind the dumpsters. Parking his patrol car, he grabbed his Maglite, and unsnapped the button to the holster that held his S&W .357 pistol. Walking down the alley way, he could hear the slight crunching of the snow beneath his feet. It was quite cold out this evening, 25 degrees had been reported on the bank sign earlier. And 10" of fresh powder was likely to arrive over night.

    Making his way past the dumpster, he was nearing the end of the alley when he heard the clang of what he thought was an aluminum can. Peaking around the back of the building to the left, he found nothing. Slowly looking to the right, he was startled by the sound. "MEEEOW".

    "Dag nabbit, you dang cat! 'Bout gave me a heart attack. Shew! Get out of here." he muttered as he kicked some snow in the direction of the feral cat. Turning to head back to his vehicle, he suddenly felt a painful jolt, followed by a sensory overload. His legs and arms stiffened as his body hit the snow covered concrete in the back of the alleyway.
    Ok, I'm nitpicky...a PISTOL is magazine fed, a REVOLVER holds 6 rounds.
    "Never send a Glock to do a 1911's job."

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