Nemesis

Roy Buford was the kind of man I always instantly hate, a cocksure attitude made evident by the angular cock of his head, a perennial half-smile meant to signal malevolent intent.  He made sure the handcuffs were clamped painfully tight on my wrists, and after fastening them made a point of yanking them upwards behind my back, causing my shoulders to experience shooting pain.  Outside at the cruiser he slammed my body into the rear passenger door, told me to spread my legs, and then kicked at each of my feet, forcing them further apart, which resulted in a lightning-bolt spasm of pain in my groin ligaments.

"Any weapons, scum?" he said, reaching around to grab my penis and testicles in a bear-sized right paw, squeezing hard until my eyes watered and a groan escaped my lips.

When he spun me around I saw that the two women were there, both looking at each other with a worried expression.

Buford said to them, "You did the right thing here.  There should be no problem collecting that reward money.  Of course, to make sure you get it I could put in a good word.  Only cost you fifteen grand each.  That'd give me the thirty thousand I need to write my next book:  They Call Me Sheriff: The Roy Buford Story.  What do you say--sound like a good deal?"

I could see Dolly and Mindy knew they had no choice.  They both nodded almost imperceptibly.

When he forced me into the rear passenger seat of the cruiser he made certain I whacked the left side of my noggin against the door frame.  As soon as he went around the vehicle and crawled in behind the steering wheel, he said, "You know, you're the kind of puke that purely makes me sick.  You think you're better than everyone else, don't you?--that you don't have to play by the rules.  Everybody else is trying to do the right thing, to get by as best they can, but you want to live life free from the restrictions that govern all law-abiding citizens.  There's nothing I'd like better than to put a plug square in the middle of your forehead.  So please--PLEASE--try to make an escape."

I looked briefly at the evil pair of eyes staring at me in the rearview mirror then turned away.

The BookForce marshals were waiting for me at the Brewster County lock-up in Alpine, and I was immediately escorted to a cell, where I'd spend the night until appearing before the Lit Commission magistrate in the morning.

While I lay on the bunk, recalling the events of the past few days, it seemed like the life I'd been living in the Chisos Mountains was nothing more than a dim recollection of the distant past.



The magistrate was the same one I'd faced before, a sober judge whose thin, gaunt face bore an expression whose message was clear:  you've really stepped in shit this time.  After reviewing the laptop computer monitor in front of him for an indeterminably long time, he said, "You are to be remanded to the U.S. federal agententiary at Ciudad Juarez, Texas.  I hereby sentence you to two years of 'hard writing' in solitary confinement.  Your only human contact will be with a personal tutor assigned to insure compliance. You are now required to produce two books during your incarceration.  Any and all profits from said books will go directly to the State for a period of two years after your release from custody.  Additionally, you will pay a $10,000 fine to compensate for the amount missing from the $60,000 needed to cover the Federal Book Creation Fee for two volumes."

When he finished he looked up at me with watery blue eyes, each nearly obscured by an unruly forest of graying eyebrow hair.  "Any questions?" he said.

I just shook my head.

He said, "The best advice I can give to you, sir, is to do your time with dignity, write the books required of you, and try to turn your life around when you're discharged from the penal facility."

Afterward I was escorted by BookForce marshals out the rear door of the courtroom, ushered into the celled-off section of a white van, forced to sit on an uncomfortable bench seat where my head was covered with a black hood made of heavy wool.