It's Murder at the Buy-Right

39

Russell Bodine had paid his cousin, Buster, seven whole dollars and forty-seven cents in pocket change to 'rent' Buster's weed eater bike with the attached child bike trailer.

Buster was a wizard when it came to anything mechanical. He lived two streets over from Main. His daddy ran the local gas station/garage, so Buster had access to tools. Buster also had a six-year old baby sister, Elva, which accounted for the bike trailer.

The trailer wasn't store bought. Two bike wheels and a box pretty well described it. But what Buster lacked in imagination for bike trailers to haul his baby sister around in, he more than made up for when it came to his weed eater bike.

Russell had coveted that prize of mechanical ingenuity since its creation. Buster boasted his bike got a hundred miles per gallon with a top speed of twenty-five miles per hour.

Pretty good for a foot-pedal cranked gizmo.

Buster was waiting behind a shed at the end of Main Street. All Russell had to do was sneak off unnoticed and hop into the bike trailer.

"Let's go!" Russell said, pulling off the robe and carefully laying its contents in a corner of the bike trailer.

Buster began pedaling for all he was worth. The engine sputtered and took off. There was a loud rev of the motor, and off they went.

The parade had made its way toward the middle of Main Street. By now, it had fallen into its slow rhythm. Smile, wave, walk.

The bands were loud and almost in tune. The children were laughing and Santa was calling his 'ho ho' messages to the eager crowd.

Buster and Russell were barreling down Main Street like a loose cannon. The little engine was running rough and loud. But that was nothing compared to what Russell had planned.

With precision aim, Russell Bodine began throwing snapper pops at the bystanders and parade participants alike. With gleeful abandon, he threw a barrage of firecracker-like fire pops.

Buster zipped between small gatherings of people. Down the right side of the sidewalk, back into the street, he drove like the demons of hell were on his heels. 

Russell was thrown from side to side in the little cart as it careened first on one wheel and then the other. But miraculously, Buster managed to right the trailer before it toppled over.

In and out. Left and right. People ran this way and that, screaming and dancing as the pops blew up under their feet.

There was Elwood, standing on the porch of the Sweet Peace and Everlasting Slumber – (Coffins Dirt Cheap/Best Price Guaranteed in Town) Let Us Lay Your Loved Ones Down – Funeral Home and Crematorium with his black stove pipe hat and holly sprig. The little red balls had bobbled fitfully as the undertaker waved and nodded his head at folks in the parade.

Buster weaved in and out like a fly through a badminton net, and Russell trailed behind lobbing snapper pops as quickly as he could throw them.

Some in the crowd thought it was funny.

But Mama Yammah's llamas unanimously did not find Russell's snapper pops amusing.

One minute, Big Mama was whirling and whipping her veils and gauzy wings and in the next, all hell broke loose.

The burlap was scratchy. The band noise was ear-splitting, and the llamas wanted nothing more than to be left alone and set out to pasture.

Russell threw his snap at the foot of the lead llama. It popped when it hit the asphalt, sending the llama into a fit of hysteria.