The Jar of Nephren-Ka

The Franklin Job

Calhoun County, Georgia: 12:38 PM, Sunday, June 3rd, 1984

Lloyd 'Turbo' Franklin. I was getting sick to death of this asshole, and I hadn't even met him yet.

The car felt like a sweatbox, stifling in the summer heat. Even with the windows down, I could feel sweat rolling under my shirt, pooling where my lower back had plastered itself to the cheap vinyl seats.

I shifted to break the seal, and the springs creaked in protest. The sun blasted down on the cracked and faded dash, and my Coke, purchased from the convenience store I was parked at less than an hour ago, was already a waterlogged mess in its soggy paper cup.

I had been sitting here for just over 18 hours, watching the trailer park 200 yards down the road. Watching the third trailer on the front row. Watching the trailer that held good 'ole 'Turbo', along with half a dozen other strung out idiots on one hell of a bender.

Turbo's mother, Ira according to the file, had been the only person to leave the property since I'd been here. The others, even Turbo, came out on occasion to piss - I guessed the trailer had too few shitters for that many bodies - but otherwise had stayed inside.

I watched through the open windows, binoculars picking out small details. Details like the fact that all of them, save the mother, were armed. Small caliber. .22's, .32's, maybe a .38, but there was at least one sawed off double-barrel.

A firefight in a trailer park was bound to be a bloodbath. Walls were so thin in those things that a small child could put their fist through it. Studs as far apart as the manufacturers could make them and still call the thing structurally sound. Gonna be lots of collateral damage if we started the party in there.

18 fucking hours, for Christ's sake. Surely these idiots had to stock up sometime? Well, if it didn't happen soon, I might have to force the issue.

I chewed another sunflower seed, feeling the shell split and crunch under my teeth, then maneuvering the shell fragments to the front of my mouth, where I spit them out the window. There was a mound of these scattered on the pavement, silent testament to my vigil.

I took a sip of my Coke-that-was-mostly-water, then chucked the cup out the window in disgust, missing the dumpster by a few feet.

I grabbed the binocs again, and scoured the dingy trailer. It sat at kind of a three-quarters perspective from me, down in a valley so I had a bit of view down into it. I could see the thin near side along with the long front. There was a window on the near side, but it was shut and rendered opaque by long strips of cardboard. On the long side, there were four windows, all open to let the breeze in.

Through the first window I had a lovely view of dirty pots stacked ten deep in what was presumably the sink. In the whole time I'd been here, the stack had only grown.

The second and third windows surrounded the front door, sitting off a few feet to each side of it. Through these, I could only see dust motes dancing in the sunlight. The rest of the room was too dark to make anything out, but from my night surveillance, I knew the general layout of the room. I also knew that Turbo's rowdy gang spent most of their time in this room.

The last window down the long side seemed to lead to a bedroom, but the angle was such that I could only see a wall with a ratty dresser.

The front door opened, and Turbo himself stepped out onto the stack of cinder blocks they were using for a porch.

Whatever it was that he had going for him, it wasn't looks. He was about 5'11" and weighed maybe 140 lbs. Thin in that kind of wiry way that a lot of country folk are; not an ounce of fat on him, you thought he was a bodybuilder until you realized just how tiny he was. Kind of like a redneck Iggy Pop.