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  Chester, being stunned, reluctantly let go of his human prey, but his predatory instincts wouldn’t let him give up. He made a pass at Strep, his attacker. Grabbing him by the leg, he pulled and bit as though the blow from the board had not affected him. For the second time, Strep used both hands and hit Chester across the back as hard as he could. Finally, Chester seemed to be seriously injured and unable to pursue his victims further. As he tried to retreat, Strep gave him another sharp blow to his retreating rear end sending him sideways.

  Still holding on to the board with one hand, Strep grabbed Topop with the other, and the two struggled down the road towards the church. As they stumbled along, Strep was able to trade words with the evil spirited group, who were standing across the road laughing and yelling for Chester to continue his onslaught. But Chester had had enough, and refused to pursue the disabled men, able only to look back and bark a subdued, “woof-woof.”

  Still, near enough to be heard, Strep raised his fist and yelled, “You gonna get yours, white bastards.”

  “What ya gonna do, shithead,” Homer yelled back and shook his fist in the air.

  “You’ll see white trash!”

  “If you ever hit Chester again you shit-head, I’ll shoot you like a gator,” Henry shouted.

  The men continued to yell insults and threats at each other, but none cared to pursue the encounter at this time.

  Unaware of the goings on the outside, Patrick came down from his living upstairs quarters into the deserted bar-room. There was a stale smell of alcohol and cigarettes permeating the whole place. He opened up the windows and doors to let the things get some fresh air. He would close the windows in an hour or so, turn on the air conditioning, and start the business cycle all over again. Such was the routine for Flood’s Place and this part of the Lowcountry.

  Chapter 9

  Local black people built the old church down a side road from the main highway, in 1915. While constitutionally free, most of them survived by hard work, little money, and even less real freedom. Life’s luxuries consisted mostly of having adequate food and a permanent roof over their heads, no matter how basic. In times like these, a belief in spiritual and magic was sometimes the only hope they had. While some put their faith in the Bible, others turned to faith in the paranormal and voodoo creed. New Hope Baptist Church was built by some of these unfortunate individuals who were spiritual, yet pragmatic in their thinking.

  The church itself had changed little in the past 100 years. The pews were made from twelve-inch wide solid pine planks, and the floors were worn and creaky when walked upon. The open beams holding up the roof were perfect resonators for the sounds of the choir and speakers at the pulpit. The courtyard outside had changed only by the presence of automobiles, instead of horses and carriages as in the earlier years.

  What had not changed at all, were the people who attended the church seeking spiritual support and peace while here on earth, and visions of life after death. Above all, the social exchange with others of like circumstances was a major reason for the large gatherings.

  The services had already started. When Strep and Topop came through the door into the church, their appearance revealed that they had had anything but a peaceful day so far. With the bloody leg of his torn pants flapping back and forth, Topop followed Strep down the aisle. Strep, who had reverently removed his flamboyant hat as he entered the door, took his usual seat in the third row of pews on the right side of the church. Several people who were able to see his bloody pants stared with wonderment and whispered among themselves as the two men entered.

  A large crowd had gathered today. The ten-person choir was replete in harmonizing various old-timey hymns for 30 minutes to the swaying and clapping of the congregation. Pearl Creekmore, the choir’s leader, was in front of the enthusiastic group. She was in tune with every pitch of sound made by the members. In the back of the church, an outburst could be heard periodically, when the name of Jesus was recited in a song. “Praise the Lord… Jesus is great…Amen…,” or some appropriate comment about the “savior Jesus Christ,” added to the joy of the assemblage.

  On cue, the joyful choir ended the last song with a low hum. A lone voice in the front row concluded the singing festivities with a resounding, “Aaamen.”

  Now it was Pastor Pink’s time for a sermon beholding the audience’s expectations. He started with a welcome and then read a passage from the Bible. Flaying his hands and pacing back in forth his voice reached a full pitched crescendo within two minutes. He admonished those who sought excess and all forms of inequity, not strictly following his interpretation of the doctrine of the Holy Bible, to reform.

  The summer’s 93-degree heat dictated every window in the old church’s structure be wide open. This allowed the sound of the activities to be heard for a mile away. The deacons had made an effort to get air conditioning units installed for the past several years but were unable to collect enough money to pay for them. The women used cardboard fans with Parker Funeral Home advertisement on their backs, attached to flat wooden paddles to fan furiously. Most nodded or shook their heads in agreement to Pastors Pink’s comments. A few men used their hats to stir a small breeze by their faces.

  The bright light in the church sparkled against Strep’s gold front tooth when he smiled widely, as Pastor Pink warned everyone about the ills of consuming any form of alcohol. He hit a passionate high note when he slowly drug out an admonishment, “God forgive those ignorant sinners who make and sell moonshine down the river. They know not what they do when they place this curse on themselves and those who they sell it to.”

  Of course, Pastor Pink’s words fell on deaf ears as a wide majority of his parishioners seldom went more than a few days without drinking the “wicked elixir.” In fact, he himself, never passed up an opportunity to take a drink as long as it was from someone else’s jar, not wanting to be caught dead actually buying the devils brew. Near the end of the sermon, the choir started to hum where they had left off. Then they stopped as the pastor finished his message and followed it up with the benediction.

  After the services, Pastor Pink stood at the door shaking hands and chatting as the small crowd edged their way through the foyer. When Strep shook hands with the pastor, he invited him to have dinner at his house. Since no one had invited him yet, the invitation was graciously accepted.

  Strep rode on the passenger side of the car. Topop was in the back seat as Pastor Pink pulled up to the three room shanty, where Strep lived with his wife Lony and five-year-old daughter, Althea, who everyone called Sugar Pie. Topop shared the dwelling and slept in one of the two bedrooms. The third room of the old house served as the kitchen and living area. A small porch with a slanted roof ran across the front of the house. A two-hole outhouse in back served the families practical disposal needs. The porch served as a shady respite from the summer sun, as well as the center of social conversation among the household. Sugar Pie broke loose from Lony and ran to the car when she saw Strep get out of the old 1991 Chevrolet sedan.

  “Sugar Pie, you miss yo daddy?” said Strep as he picked her up and carried her to the porch.

  “Yea daddy, is Mr. Pink going have dinner with us?”

  “Of course he is. God sent him, Sugar Pie.”

  Sugar Pie was an intelligent child for her age. She always called Pastor Pink, “Mr. Pink”, when he visited Strep to discuss religion, politics, or just be sociable.

  No doubt, the ever-present Mason jar of moonshine Strep kept under the porch, as well as an occasional meal of fried chicken or some other southern delicacy, was a strong motivating factor for his visits.

  As Strep sat down in the chair, he said to Lony, “you got anything made for dinner, woman?”

  As with most southern people, the mid-day meal is dinner and the evening meal is supper. The southern faire for poor folks like Strep consisted of beans or black-eyed peas cooked with a couple of ham hocks or an occasional neck bone. It was usually served with a healthy helping of rice. Of cours
e, on Sundays Lony always prepared fried chicken or pork chops.

  Pastor Pink was a spiritual soul, but he was also a sly old fox when it came to food and drink. He knew what would be on the menu of most of his parishioners on Sunday, and always took advantage of an invitation to someone’s house when invited. When the pastor stepped to the ground, the car lifted an inch or so, and the body made a small screeching sound, being relieved of the weight of his 300-pound body.

  Seeing Topop’s torn clothing and that he was limping, Lony said, “What in the world happened to you Topop?

  “Well we had a run in with a dog, and it weren’t pretty.”

  “Yes, I can see that.”

  After telling the story about what had happened when they passed Flood’s Place, Lony treated Topop’s leg. The incident was the major topic of discussion, but things settled down when Lony said dinner was ready. Everyone walked from the old wobbly porch into the kitchen to enjoy a good meal of fried chicken.

  After dinner, they all gathered back on the porch where the conversation quickly turned to retribution for the attack at Flood’s Place. Topop had several friends who lived near Shelltown, the commonly known center of the witchcraft culture in the area. He was angry and ready to call on his friends to employ their unique paranormal weapon. The pastor didn’t like the idea of turning to witchcraft to get back at the bikers. Out of respect for Pastor Pink’s views, Strep kept quiet on the subject. For now!

  Finally, the pastor, not wanting to listen to anything else about witchcraft, decided it was time for him to leave. He couldn’t go until he conducted a family prayer.

  “Good lord forgive the perpetrators who had inflicted pain and injury on such good men as Strep and Topop. Help them heal their wounds and be kind to all people. Bless the whole family and give them guidance to get through the evil things done to them. Please help these two people forgive their enemies. We all know that God will deal with them on the Day of Judgment.”

  All the time the pastor was praying, Topop could only think of revenge on his perpetrators, and there was no way he intended to wait until the judgment day for it to happen. Death, he thought was too good. His next move would be to call in the only weapons he felt he had at his disposal--some wizardry was definitely in order now.

  Chapter 10

  Chester the hero… The story of the Cobb Club war on the two black men was gaining momentum. At Flood’s Place when someone talked about it, a small piece of information was always added. It didn’t matter if the addition was true or not. When the story was told, embellishment made Chester more of a hero. Eventually, the attack of the two black men and subsequent chase by the dog took on epic proportions.

  The dog himself had become an idol. Before it was over, Chester was more popular than the Pope. He was described as gallantly attacking the entire Geechee community and defending the vanity of every white person in South Carolina. Someone even said, “Too bad Jefferson Davis didn’t have Chester on his side, or we would have won the Confederate War.” The fantasies of the drunken group went on and on.

  “We put the fear of God on them bastards,” said Big Al.

  “And if they didn’t get the message, we can go up there and give it to them again,” said Tee.

  “The next time they come by here, I’m going to run my bike right up their backs,” Honey Boy laughed.

  “And with them two ass holes will have your tire marks over their backs,” someone else chimed in.

  “I don’t think you got the balls to run ‘em down,” said Tee.

  “You wanna bet. I’ll show you,” said Honey Boy. But the bikers had had enough for the day. In spite of their state of euphoria, Patrick tried to calm them down and mistakenly thought they had good sense enough to be satisfied with bragging rather than going on a second harassing expedition.

  Finally, at the behest of the bawdy crowd, Big Al went outside, got Chester, and brought him inside. He and Tee lifted Chester to the top of the bar, and toasted and roasted him. Then Honey Boy said Chester, you gotta drink with us, whereupon he poured a half bottle of beer into a dish and sat it in front of Chester. Sure enough, Chester started lapping up the alcoholic beverage. When the dish was empty, the rancorous group refilled it and Chester, without hesitation lapped it up again and again.

  Then a friendly argument started about what kind of beer Chester liked best. The comment led to a contest whereby Chester was to determine the best beer. The drunken fools sat a bowl of Bud in front of the dog, and he lapped it up, then they tried him with Millers, and he did the same. They were unable to complete the test, when Chester finally went prone on top of the bar with all four feet spread straight out from his body, his drunken tongue hanging from one side of his mouth. As his eyes closed, he let out a loud belch expelling gas from the huge amount of beer he had drunk. The audience went wild with laughter and yelling.

  Later that day someone insisted to Patrick that Chester was sick because the two black men hit him with the board. Of course, the only thing wrong with Chester was that the men in the bar had caused him to drink too much beer, which brought on a human condition known as overindulgence. In a rare gesture of excitement, Big Al told Patrick to give everybody a round of drinks on him. The bikers still going over every detail, continued to revel over the incident.

  Then Big Al seized on the crowd's enthusiasm to add to the shenanigans. He picked Chester up, carried him outside, and put him on top of the fuel tank of his motorcycle. His head was hanging over the handlebars, as the men revved up their bikes. Instead of being afraid of the apparatus, Chester seemed to love his new perch. As Al made a few spins around the parking lot, Chester started barking as if he wanted to go faster. The parade was on. Finally, eight or nine motorcycle riders streamed down the main highway with bandannas flying in the wind. Big Al and Chester was leading troupe.

  Al led the single file riders up the small road toward Strep’s house. Strep and Topop heard the motorcycles approach and went out on the small front porch to investigate. As they did, they were astonished to see so many bikes in front of the house.

  Inside Honey Pot was crying and hugging onto Lony, who herself was scared to death. For all she knew the crazy bikers would come bursting into the house and harm if not kill them.

  There were more motorcycles than Strep had ever seen in one place. They were following each other in a circle about 50 feet in diameter. The scene was straight out of an old western movie, where the wagons circled for protection from the Indians. In this case, the wagons were motorcycles with the “bad guys” riding them. The speeding bikes must have been going 25 mph and sped up and slowed down as they came up to each other in the tight circle. Dirt spun outward from the circle and up against the front porch of the house and onto Topop and Strep, who were just standing there scared to death. All they could do was to shake their fists and yell at the wild riders.

  Strep didn’t want to do it because he knew it would just escalate the situation, but he went into the house and got his pistol. When he came out, he waved the old short barrel .22 H&R back and forth to let his adversaries know he could defend his family. The gun wasn’t even loaded. All he wanted to do was threaten the riders and show them he too, did have some defense against their reckless harassment. It did no good. The bikers were having fun at the innocent family’s expense, and it wasn’t time to stop. If Strep had actually been able to fire a shot, it would probably have been ignored.

  After at least ten minutes of circling, there was a visible rut on the grass. Then finally, Big Al led the group who pulled up side by side within twenty feet of the porch and stopped where Strep and Topop were standing.

  The others pulled up side-by-side one at a time and sat there revving up the engines. The two black men were mortified. All Strep could think was to protect Lony and Honey Pot if these stupid people came onto the porch.

  Homer Aiken and Henry Padgett were on each side of Big Al facing the porch. Big Al shouted, “I know you poisoned Chester, you mother-fucker. But you didn’
t kill him. He survived and here he is for you to see. Chester let out a couple of barks. I’m telling you now if I ever see you around Flood’s Place again, I’ll shoot you like a snake in the grass, you understand me, shithead?”

  Then the bikes sat idling, waiting for Big Al to continue.

  “I still may decide to make you pay for messing with Chester, you hear me?” As if to punctuate the threat Chester let out another series of repetitive barks, no doubt remembering the savage attack he earlier had made on Topop’s bright green sharkskin pants.

  Strep yelled back, “We ain’t poisoned no dog and what if we did white boy? You got no business here. You got the wrong person. I never done nothing to no dog, and I will go anywhere I wanta in this county. You bastards get off my property, or you will be shot. Now git and git fast.” Strep shook the unloaded pistol in the air as he was yelling.

  It didn’t bother the bikers as most of them had pistols in their own pistols in their saddlebags. Besides, they felt safe in numbers. The majority of them were well beyond drunk anyway, which had more to do with their boasting and outrageous behavior than the facts at hand.