Everything Sucks #6, Easy.



  Everything Sucks

  Short Story #6

  Easy.

  Written by R. Smith

  Edited by Shawn M. Greenleaf

  Cover & Design by Savage1Studio

  Copyright © 2013 R. Smith

  All rights reserved

  Books and Series by R. Smith

  Pop Culture Sucks, Manifesto Of A Vampire

  Everything Sucks Series

  Knights Of Albion (coming soon!)

  Easy.

  Bitsie liked it when Mr. Callister needed a new suit. He could stand still. Standing still oughta’ be an easy job, but based on her experiences with other customers, she figured it must be roughly on par with parting the Red Sea. By that analogy, Mr. Callister was her Moses.

  She knelt at his feet, several pins jutting from her tightly pursed lips as she worked on the cuff of his dark blue pants.

  When her brother Stitch walked in, she greeted him clumsily, "Hey'der, Shtch," and slid a pin out of her mouth. Only a few more to go and she could get on with it.

  Stitch tipped his hat at Callister, who half-waved cautiously. His whole body was littered with potential pinpricks, so he didn't want to risk getting blood on his new Sunday Best.

  "Mom told me we had a buncha new stuff you wanted me to check out?"

  Bitsie spit the pins out in her palm, "Mm-hmm," she rose to her feet and stuck them back in their threadbare cushion as she continued, "that Canadian textile outfit sent us more samples. A lot of them are really nice. Help me narrow it down?"

  "I think we're safe trusting your judgment. Just ask Mr. Callister," Stitch smiled. "Lookin' sharp there, fella. "

  "I never go anywhere else."

  "Why thank you, gentlemen," said Bitsie with a comical, sweeping curtsey, "but I’d like a second opinion before I place the order."

  Stitch shrugged. "If you insist."

  "Thanks. It's a mess back there, I'll go with you," she said before remembering her manners. "Oh! Would you mind, Mr. Callister? I'll only be minute."

  "Imagine me shrugging carelessly," he replied. "Do your work."

  She smiled, hooked her arm through her brother's, and they headed for the storeroom. She was grateful to have a family that got along so well. Stitch was the kinda guy who treated everyone like an old friend, and the only charge she could level at their parents was ignoring her and Stitch's real names (Betty and Stan) in favor of ridiculous nicknames that had stuck so hard, Bitsie sometimes forgot her name was actually Betty. A minor beef, obviously. Nope, Bitsie knew she came from quality people. If she hadn't, then working with the lot of 'em would’ve been a real chore.

  The crate in question was in the far corner sitting on the floor in front of several bolts of fabric, 'Toronto Textiles and Crafts' stamped on its side. Stitch fished through the samples until he found them. Four quart bottles of whiskey. Real whiskey.

  "Gotta love those snow-sucking Canadians," Stitch chuckled as he tucked the bottles in his arms while Bitsie opened the hidden door and held it with her foot. He walked into the bar carefully, cradling his eighty-proof babies.

  "Who's on watch at the barn tonight?" asked Bitsie. She made a point to know every detail of their clandestine enterprise, even the ones she wasn't responsible for, in case she ever had to step in.

  "Norman. Tommy went on a run. He got a wire about rum coming off a ship in California, and you know Tommy."

  They grinned and declared in unison, "all booze in good booze!"

  Stitch checked the small brass watch in his breast pocket. "Hey, don't keep Callister waiting!"

  Bitsie dashed back to the front of the store to find her client standing still as stone. She suppressed a grin as she slipped 5 pins between her un-madeup lips (mustn't stain a client's fabric). If Callister were 20 years younger, Norman would have some competition. She didn't really mean it of course, she loved her man to the moon and back, but sometimes when he really got on her nerves. . . well, Mr. Callister was ready-made for a shiny pedestal.

  Later that evening she flipped the 'Closed' sign in the front window, and shed her 'Seamstress' skin, exposing the one beneath. The Runner. Stealthy, solid, and clever.

  Stitch and their Ma handled the brewing, she and Tommy did the running, and Norman was the guard dog. He wasn't so big on the intellectual stuff, but a sharp guy in all the ways that mattered. He just wasn't the bookish type, and that was just fine by Bitsie. She knew he'd cut off his own leg before he ever lied to her, and a man you could trust was a man to hold on to.

  Anyhow, every night when she flipped the sign, it was an electric thrill.

  Most nights the 'shine business ran smooth as any other, but the possibilities excited her for some reason. She figured her insides were wired a little off center, though she was darn glad for it.

  Common slang for the small, rowdy-type Speakeasies like theirs was 'Blind Pig,' or 'Blind Tiger,' and Bitsie liked pigs. Turned out it was one'a those 'curve ball' nights for their Pig.

  Stitch had a fight to deal with. A regular, Busby, got the notion some bearded gorilla of a man had swiped his . . . oh, who knew what. Bitsie knew Busby from way back, and he was a square enough guy sober, but one too many and he'd puff out his chest; gunning for a fight. Little scuffles most of the time, which is why her brother refused to ban him. He wasn't much trouble, and he dropped good coin. And, of course, Stitch was the type to give everyone a thousand and one chances.

  She poked her head in when she heard the ruckus. Everyone was having a good holler. She elbowed her way to the bar.

  "You gonna bust in on this?" She shouted at her brother.

  Stitch shook his head. "Nah. These kinda fights are just good wholesome entertainment as far as my customers are concerned," he nodded toward the crowd with a wide grin. "No worries. If I see real harm bein' done, I'll cork it."

  Bitsie left him to his business.

  She figured the mini-battle would be the extent of their excitement for the night. The storeroom door had barely clicked shut behind her when she was proved wrong.

  There stood Sheriff Porky-Pants, real name Paul. (there seemed to be an epidemic of nicknames in their town) He was the kind of man you could tell was plagued by teasing as a kid. Slouchy, soggy, and far too smart to relate to most folks. He'd survived by clinging to one great dream. Leaving town the second he grew up, and finding someplace where he fit in. Someplace he could shine. Maybe the FBI. Or something in research.

  It never happened.

  First, he married a lady who sang him a pretty song about getting away, but changed her tune almost overnight. Then he’d caught a terrible flu bug. Nearly died. His wife still couldn't be convinced to move away, so he resigned himself to sticking around for a few years, and accepted a job with local law enforcement in the meantime ("I can transfer anywhere I want, whenever I want. It's perfect"). The dream faded more every time he bumped up the ranks at work.

  He wound up with twins to support, neither of whom were fond of him. (Bitsie never said anything out loud, but she had a strong suspicion Mrs. Porky had turned frigid the second she popped out her babies, and the children had learned to be dismissive toward their dad from her). With a family to support, he dedicated himself to climbing the ladder at work. Which is exactly what he did, all the way to Sheriff. As soon as the badge was pinned on him, he knew his dream was dead. He'd never travel anywhere until he died and went to heaven.

  She felt guilty for thinking of him as Sheriff Porky-Pants, but the name had just stuck. For better or worse, it was tough to think of him as Paul. Porky had assured her several times that, given what he dealt with at home, Porky-Pants ranked dirt-low on his scale of insults. "I know most folks don't mean it with malice," he’d said wearily.


  This evening, his usually slumped shoulders were fully squared off.

  Trouble.

  Bitsie braced herself for action. "What's the word, Sheriff?"

  He rubbed a sweaty palm along the back of his neck. "I got a wire from Lou up in Salem. He just had four feds come through his town with a list of raid spots, and Tommy's barn is on it--now Lou says they're going on rumors and hunches, so we oughta beat this thing easy, but we gotta move fast. I already put Norman on alert, and your mother is in the car checking all the guns in case it comes to that--and you know if it does I gotta flip on you, I've got a fam--"

  "We all know what you've got, Porky, we're jake." Bitsie felt her spine tingle. "I'll tell Stitch to close up early."

  "No!" The Sherriff shook his head. "I didn't tell the other two joints in town to close up, and I don't want Stitch closing either. These feds aren't looking to bust purveyors, they're strictly after the brewers and runners."

  "That's us twice. You sure it's smart to keep the bars open?"

  Porky did his best to remember how fast