Business first: both closings, house selling and buying went well. Dinner at Bubba's on the beach and back to condo for well deserved R&R. Day started not so good. Maid house cleaning service was supposed to meet us @ Pawley's house at 6:30. We were there. They weren't. They showed up an hour and ten minutes late after three phone calls questioning their where-abouts.
Behind us now. Garden City, 10th floor, perched above the activities below and there was no shortage of cheap entertainment even from this elevation.
Mom attempted to write her daughter's name in the sand, position the tiny tot in the sand and make a Kodak moment but each time the incoming wave did an Etcha-Sketch on the sandy scribbling. Undaunted she repeated it three more times. The ocean won, no contest.
Crevices and canyons even from 10 stories above are quite prevalent. Gender neutral, a butt crack is a butt crack, and saying no to crack is pointless. These folks are oblivious to flaunting that dark cavity between their right and left cheeks.
Women must have an imbedded memory chip in their brains. Wave hits, each and every one cop a feel on their breasts, repositioning them and then they tug at their bottoms. Ageless, this is a ritual. I wish I had a penny for every breast that I've seen this afternoon being groped by their owners. Apparently there is no beach rules prohibiting fondling. Let me or one of my male buddies clutch a crotch for the sake of oceanic wave repositioning and I bet we would not be viewed the same.
Grampa Cowboy sits poolside smoking a cig, wearing his straw hat, long sleeve blue denim shirt, denim jeans and boots, not exactly beachy attire. Out of place but what can I say, it's his vacation, right?
Ironically a chunky man holds a confederate flag beach board to his breast in the pool and less than five feet away, a mountain of a black man swims undaunted. White man and back man, neither impacted by the rebel markings, enjoy life. That's the way it should be. Enter Jesse Jackson or Al Sharpton and it's skewed ugly. These men make their living off of stirring the pot. Let the people decide and stay out of it please.
Mom, bless her heart, covers up the deep hole dug by her kids before departing the beach. She scoops, she kicks and even does it doggy style but eventually the hole is no more. Safety oriented she does it right.
Dog walkers, the canines always eye candy and chick magnets. You learn a lot by watching the owners and their chosen breeds. Dogs are indeed the ultimate chick magnets, no matter what the breed; well that huge Great Dane might deter a few gals but the little fuzzy types are crowd pleasers.
Just too funny, two couples huddled around their beach umbrella, long gone is the sun. It's time to fold the umbrella, there is no protection required from the shadows.
The ocean is sort of angry, laying an ambush, just ten feet out, the bottom drops out, churning and grasping folks. People stumble attempting to exit the watery foe and fall aimlessly into the pit as they enter. Most compensate. Others fumble and stumble, cheap entertainment.
Life guard has called it a day. Those in the water tempt fate and venture deep. Thank goodness there is no riptide.
Surfer girl looks for the perfect wave. Apparently perfection is in the eye of the beholder. I miss the concept, no hang ten waves capture my attention,
Aunt Lillian said the ocean sounds so angry. To us it is pure liquid tranquility. To each his or her own. Soothing and watery therapy, it relaxes those stressed. There is just something about those crashing waves that impact the soul.
With the house sell and move this is just what the doctor ordered. While the beach is packed like a can of sardines, from ten floors up, we are free as a butterfly, claustrophobic free from the zillions of ants below in the July frenzy.
We are debt free with our beach front condo and now we'll be mortgage free with our new home. Life is certainly good at an age when it is time for us to enjoy life to the fullest. It's our right of passage, given the journey we've traveled to get here. We wish only the best and love to those we care for the most; good health and a long lives, neither are promised, but both are to be cherished.
From the Grand Strand we clutch life's utters and milk it, filling our pale the best we can. That's the way it should be, no regrets, no looking back, stumbling forward, keeping it in perspective, grounded and loving it.

Full day today, 12 hours to be exact. Movers have us loaded and ready to unload at new location Thursday. My butt is bouncing off the low ground and I was just doing stuff on the outer edges, not actually packing and loading like the young limber backs. House is empty just the same. Still have a couple of fun packed days before unload and move in day. Vacation week has taken on  a new meaning for these old bones. Creaking and hurting as only ole folks can, such a whiner I am. I've earned that right...right? Can I have an amen? Sun rises early here on the beach front tomorrow as we have to meet the maids doing their professional cleaning bright and early at 6:30, about twenty minutes from here. Closing on both houses, old and new between 2 and 3 PM. Fun, fun, fun...on the Grand Strand, lacking the seam the sand and the sun...necessary evil kicking in to do what is necessary. Did enjoy an adult beverage on the balcony about 8, unwinding to the sounds of the crashing waves from ten floors above.
Oh yeah, just for the record, the Atlanta Braves just scored coming from one run down to one run ahead...chopping my little tomahawk  I am...a Braves fan from the sixties...
Okay, rambling ways almost behind me and I've tortured you enough with this tonight's blogging madness. By the way, check out the book review I did on MK Horror. I'm the featured reviewer there. Just goggle and go, then look up book reviews for all mine. Maggie dearest would appreciate the hit on her site so say something nice. Heck comment any ole way, any PR is good PR, right?
Road hard and put up wet, I'm spent for this Monday. Happy trails until we meet again. Don't let the bedbugs bite and snore if you feel froggy.

I'm one of those rambling moods so bear with me. We're beaching it for a few days at our ocean front condo, practically homeless having sold ours and moving to another one next week. Moving is not fun, especially at my age, even when we have movers do much of the packing and so forth. My brain is functioning just fine and can identify and relay those messages loud and clear. I made an attempt to save my aquarium fish by relocating them to a ten gallon aquarium at the beach, thinking the vacation would do them good. Sadly my plan went south, losing five of nine when the cheap filter didn't do its trick. I tried valiantly to rescue them and it is not a good feeling watching them go belly up and not have the resources to save them. I have my filtration system from my fifty gallon aquarium on my ten, overkill, no pun intended, but it seems to be clearing up the water and the sluggish survivors are moving about. Time will tell if they can make it about five more days before relocating them to their new home. Nope we're not leaving the beach, just shifting our surroundings a tad further north. We'll actually be less than ten minutes drive from the sands and sea in Myrtle Beach. Moving is moving and whether you're going near or far, it is painful to endure.
Writing and promoting my books has taken possession of the back burner but that doesn't mean YOU need to sit idle like me. Support a hungry wantobe and Google ole T. Allen Winn and purchase a copy of both Detective Trudy Wagner Grand Strand classics (1) Road Rage and (2) North of the Border. Or help sixteen year old Dale Thomas Jackson take on the bullies in Dark Thirty. If you hanker for a good cry and a few good laughs take on my story, The Caregiver's Son, Outside the Window Looking In.
I'll be one of about a dozen local authors manning a booth this November at The Dickens' Christmas festival in Myrtle Beach. Come visit me and the others dressed in funny clothing and buy a few books, knock down that Christmas list.
Ocean is screaming my name, waves crashing, shifting the sand and chasing the summer tourist. Not much sun toady, overcast, perfect beach weather for those not wanting to be shake and bake burned. Once the tide heads back to where it came from, and the July army of ants swarm to the local eating places, we might just take that leisurely late afternoon walk. Yep, it is a tough life, at least for more day when the movers arrive and we have to temporarily bid the ocean front a fond farewell. Today we enjoy.
By the way, I didn't proof this so make this sort of game with your family and friends. See how many errors you can find. Win a spot to be my permanent editor.

From the pages of Whomping the Golf Ball

 

 

 

 

I Don’t Do Strategy

 

Let me state for the record that I totally understand the concept, golf is a game of strategy. It’s just not in my game plan. Whompers don’t do strategy or at least, don’t do strategy well. Calculating yardage, verifying the pin placement, selecting the appropriate club or using the best brand ball for your play is serious business to most golfers. Guess I don’t fit into that “most” category and don’t take the game that seriously.

            My assessment, strategy contributes to a stressful round as does having higher expectations than what you know to be reasonable. I know my limitations plus I’m too laid back to let any game ruin my day or life. Those who play with me typically have a full appreciation of what they’ve signed up for within the first two or three holes.

            Seriously strategic golfers should never invite me into their foursome. That’s why I don’t perform well in those captain’s choice, best ball type tournaments. I have no best ball and I certainly wouldn’t be a captain’s choice for partner; too much strategy for me. I receive a best ball invite because I can putt fairly well. Heck I’ll putt from thirty yards off the green when possible; Texas wedging it to the hole.

            I find it comical when my playing partners agonize over their club selections determining if this shot requires their one hundred yard club or their one hundred twenty yard club. I don’t have clubs for ten or twenty yard increments.

            I play old man golf using about four different clubs from my bag, more if you count my assortment of three wedges. Par fours and fives; driver off the tee, seven wood or number five hybrid from the fairway, then my bronze headed wedge one hundred thirty yards to ninety yards, 52° wedge between ninety yards and sixty yards, then 60° wedge for all others unless I’m using the putter aka Texas wedge. Par threes, choices are wedge, a nine wood or my five hybrid, unless driver is required. Stating my game plan already sounds too much like strategy for me.

            Yardage, I check it only to determine if this is a wedge or wood shot. One of my buddies has one of those Sky Caddies glued to his hip so he can determine the exact distance to the pin. Knowing the distance doesn’t play into my game as much as direction does. My aim and direction doesn’t always agree. Knowing how far to hit it and actually hitting toward that yardage is what makes my game so challenging.  A hundred fifty yard second shot to the green might be a two hundred twenty five yard third shot for me from an adjacent fairway.

            Ball selection is so over rated. Use a white one or yellow if you prefer. For the past three years living parallel to the green on a one hundred seventy yard Par three, I have become accustomed to collecting balls. I no longer buy balls. I just wait for them to fall from the sky then sort and egg crate them for later use. So far I’ve accumulated over three hundred with only one broken window. I dump a dozen in the bag when I get low. My buddies often ask when helping me look for my ball, “what were you hitting, how’d you have it marked?” My response, “I’m not sure what brand but it would have had somebody else’s initials on it.” I don’t lose as many balls now because what ever we find must be mine.

            Reading the breaks on a green, bet that Sky Caddie doesn’t do that for you? I’ve tried to be a little more patient and at least squat down behind the ball to look for a slope or something. For somebody who doesn’t stalk the hole from every angle for five minutes, I putt pretty well. My toughest vice is waiting my turn as I’m a quick draw both on the green and in the fairway. Slow play is the kiss of death for my game. If I have to wait, the mind wanders all over the place. If I did do strategy then I could probably occupy those long intervals.

            It’s fun to watch someone plan their shot. “Should I draw the ball? Is this the place to use a fade? Hook it or slice it? Flop it or bump and run? Sometimes I picture a third base coach out in the fairway giving them the signs. I’d be taking off the bunt sign and having them swing for the fences.

            Here’s my game in nut shell. I grab one of the clubs a mentioned earlier to match the scenario. I hit it. It goes somewhere. If it’s my tee shot, I’m ecstatic if he goes far. It doesn’t have to go straight. I address the ball and hit it again, and it goes somewhere else. If I’m lucky that somewhere else is toward the general direction of the green. If not, I’ll whomp it again from where landed. I keep whomping it until I finish the hole or reach double par.

            At the end of a hole I mark down my tally. At the end of the round I tally up the damages. If I’m around 100 or just below, I’m happy. If I ended the round with the same two balls I originally pocketed then I’m bragging about the round. If I finish with more balls than I started, I had a remarkable round, and probably had an opportunity to do some nature trails. So goes strategy.

 

 

 

Sopping a Possum

My mama’s classic saying, ‘I’ll eat anything that won’t eat me first’ has been sort of a part of family tradition, at least on her side of the family. We probably owe it all to Papa, the matriarch and critter killer extraordinaire. Papa, born in the year 1900 lived through the hard times, those days when you were lucky to have a decent meal on the table. He didn’t hunt or fish for sport. Anything bagged or hooked provided food for those not too proud to partake of what bounty had been prepared in the stew pot, skillet or roasting oven. There was no waste from any fresh kill, that’s for sure.

It’s funny how some people will turn their noses up to wild game but will not blink an eye when it comes to store bought meat. Did they forget their ancestry? Man has lived off the land since the beginning of time. Domesticated animals are just ones that used to be wild once upon a time; they just don’t know it now, having gotten used to the good life on the farms. Eat, drink, poop and eat and drink and poop some more, life is good, until that appointment with the slaughter house. At least wild critters have a fighting chance, some dignity to their dying. It’s part of the natural food chain and law of survival of the fittest. Grocery stores have not always existed as a cultural theater for eats. Think about those pioneers, those settlers, folks who took pride in foraging for their meat, whether on land or in streams and lakes.

I grew up seeing nothing odd about the various critters that graced our plates. And contrary to old wives tales most didn’t taste like chicken. And for the record, if you’ll eat chicken, you should be willing to eat anything. Spend a little time around a hen house or chicken yard and you’ll understand what I’m saying. Ole narrow head will eat just about anything that he can shove down his pecker. Pigs are no better. I’ve heard it said that deer are too pretty to eat. Does that mean cows are ugly and it’s okay to eat ugly? A possum is far from pretty but most folks don’t stand in line waiting their favorite possum part. And yes, possum has graced Papa’s table, roasted with taters and onions. Toss in some cathead biscuits for sopping and man you’ve arrived. What about some BBQ coon? Davey Crockett wore a coon skin hat. You don’t think he just tossed away the raccoon carcass do you? I forgot, raccoons are pretty, aren’t’ they? I must confess; partaking in coon was tougher than most for me because I’ve had friends who tamed raccoons for pets. They are very intelligent and quite entertaining.

While possum and coon were not mainstays on Papa’s menu, if picking s were slim, they’d have to do. There is no shortage of either in the wilds. Neither fare too well crossing roadways. The chicken has nothing on them when it comes to road kill opportunities. Armadillo, possum on the half shell mark the roadways in Florida and Georgia. Don’t worry; I’m not going to promote eating road kill. That being said, fresh road kill like deer is hard to pass on. Squirrels, ole Peter cotton tail, quail and doves found their way to the table more often than not. Squirrels made good dumplings and were also excellent fried, as was rabbit. Everyone in the family loved both. Doves nor quail really ever did much for me; not because I didn’t like the taste, but more so because there wasn’t enough meat on their bones. Skinning and cleaning the little fury critters were an art form. Papa had it down pat, two nails strategically placed on an old fence post; he’d be finished in record time. I’ll skip the details for those squeamish about this sort of thing.

Grappling under the river bank with his fishing pal, Papa seldom came up empty. No rod, no reel, no hook, no net; real men just reached under the bank, felt around until they located their prey. Papa could tell the difference between a snake, a fish and turtle just by touch and feel. Asked once what he would do if he latched onto a snake; he just said, ‘Hon, I’d throw it on the bank and keep looking.’ I’ve seen some of those snapping turtles; mean temperamental buggers. Still, I can say I never met a turtle I didn’t like, in a stew or fried. Boy that is some good eating and you pay a hefty price if you order turtle at a restaurant.

Papa was a fisherman, not a sports fisherman; he was a man’s fisherman. He didn’t believe in catching something and then setting it free. If it was caught it was ate as he would put it. Forget trolling for bass. Nothing beat fishing for brim, crappie or mouth watering catfish. You didn’t stop unless they quit biting or you ran out of bait. Mama and I fought over the catfish tails, battered and crunchy. If either of us was within striking distance of the black skillet, we’d break off those tails before they ever reached the table. It wasn’t uncommon for a platter of catfish to arrive tailless. Good eating size was about five to six inches long. The big ones were filleted. Half the fun was eating around those pointy little bones. Only the skeletal remains were left if done right.

Papa never was a deer hunter but as an adult I was a fair shot. Parents and grandparents alike couldn’t get their fill of battered cube steak or a venison roast. Papa could whip up some mean deer hash. Heck he could convert most any form of meat into hash. My wife was always fearful of eating his hash, never knowing whether a goat, deer or some other wild thing might have been used. For the record, is a goat pretty? All kidding aside, he could make the best traditional hash using chicken, pork and beef, all ground with a hand grinder attached to a table specifically designed to affix the grinder. I inherited the grinder, the table and the recipe but not the gift to make hash. A friend and coworker from Pittsburg just couldn’t grasp the concept of hash. He said ‘why would someone take a perfectly good piece of meat and grind it and mush it up and then flop a gob of it with a spoon on a slice of bread on a plate?’ Kirk changed his mind after I took him to my grandparent’s house to taste it firsthand. I think he even had a second helping.

Papa John could have had the perfect hunting-fishing-cooking show; preparing his vittles to challenge ones’ taste buds and knowledge of the menu’s origin. Scrambled brains and eggs was a breakfast special. We’re talking real cow brains. Those same people, who turned their nose up at eating a pretty deer, now snub eating cow parts. Brains to the tail, all is consumed, even mountain oysters; testicles that is. Leave nothing but the moo. Yep, growing up poor and during hard times makes one appreciate what nature has to offer to feed the hungry. Papa and Granny knew this all too well. Mama grew up on these tasty vittles and it didn’t skip a generation with me.

Foods that my folks used as a mainstay can be quite expensive on menus if you have to pay for them. I for one would give nothing for the experience and lip smacking opportunities provided by a heavy set, balding old man in Red Camel overalls. His life was simple, values true, what you saw was what you got, no put-ons and forever making a lasting impression on an only grandson. “Hon, let’s take these red wigglers and go catch us a mess of catfish at the Fork Shoals dollar a day fish ponds. ’ Now that’s an adventure that deserves its own chapter.

T. Allen Winn's North of the Border

Join Deputy Trudy Wagner in the next grand strand adventure, North of the Border. By it now where books are sold on line. Google T. Allen Winn at your favorite site. Here's a sampling of what you're missing.

Jorge Cruz, deep in thought, almost didn’t notice the white Mustang convertible with its hood up, pulled on the shoulder of highway 90. The young lady never waved him down, just sat there in the driver’s seat with her head buried in the steering wheel. He glanced at his dash clock and it was a quarter past midnight. This stretch of the highway, dark and desolate, was no place for a woman alone.

       He spotted an old pulpwood road in his high beams and eased in and turned around to see if he could assist. Pulling off the shoulder directly in front of the white convertible, the raised hood blocked his view of the lady sitting behind the wheel.

       Leaving his old Buick running, headlights down on low beam, he opened the creaking door and headed toward the woman in distress. The lady stepped out of the driver’s side and smiled, looking relieved to have someone stop to help her. Jorge noticed she wore a white polka dotted mini skirt, sheer black blouse, and knee high black leather boots. Her huge breasts pressed braless against the fabric, exposing more of her than he felt comfortable seeing. His first impression was that she had to either be a local stripper or a prostitute. That was not his concern. She required assistance. He would not judge her.

       “What’s the problem?”

       “If I knew that I wouldn’t be sitting here now would I?” She smiled, answering him in an almost angelic yet sarcastic tone.

       “That was a stupid question on my part,” Jorge apologized in his broken English accent.

       “You are Hispanic?”

       “Does that concern you if I am?”

       “I didn’t mean it as an insult. I have this thing for languages. It’s almost a curse. I have to guess the origin when I hear an accent.”

       “No offense taken. I’m originally from Mexico. I hope that is not a problem?”

       “On the contrary...I had you pegged for Mexican. I simply love your culture. Do you think you can help me?”

       “I’m no mechanic, but let’s see what I can do. What did your automobile do to bring you to a stop?”

       “It just sort of chug-a-lugged, and then the engine died. The gas gage indicates I have at least a half tank of gas so I’m not sure what happened. My baby has never stranded me before.”

       “Let me take a peek under there,” said Jorge, peering under the hood.

       Leaning forward, he checked the battery cables, jiggled the spark plug wires, opened several caps, checking fluid levels, and pretended that he knew more than he really did about the mechanics of an automobile engine. If he couldn’t fix it, which he had no reason to believe he could, he would offer her a ride; probably not the safest thing for a woman alone to accept a ride from a stranger. It just struck him. He had not introduced himself to her and didn’t know her name, either. How rude he had been. 

Jorge never saw her making her move. The syringe penetrated his neck like a bee sting. He instinctively grabbed his neck and clutched the female hand holding the needle. How had he been so stupid? The Good Samaritan made eye contact with the lady in distress questioning her intentions then collapsed on the ground.

       She closed the hood on her White Mustang and made a quick phone call on her cell phone. She needed to dispose of the Buick as quickly as possible. She tugged on the limp and lifeless body of Jorge Cruz, maneuvering him into the passenger side of her vehicle.

       She checked the ID from his wallet. “Yep, this was him, and right on schedule.” It paid to do one’s homework she thought.

 

 

Horry County Police Department

Near the South Carolina Grand Strand

 

Constable Woody Anderson had been summoned to Sheriff Hank Singleton’s office. This always made Woody nervous when the big guy formally requested his presence. Woody had just received troubling information and wasn’t in the best of moods, and he felt things were only about to become much worse.

Hank stood and shook Woody’s hand then said, “Woodrow, you look a tad down. What seems be the problem, tough case?”

“Janice’s cousin Marian Bond is coming to town this weekend from Gatlinburg, Tennessee, extending her honeymoon to the grand strand.  I say, Bond, but she just recently got married again. I can’t remember her new name this time. It begins with an S, something like Salmon or Samson, Simian or something like that.  I’ve never met the groom. She will be living in Butler, Tennessee with him after they wrap up this honeymoon stop, so she says. Marian was originally from Abbeville, South Carolina, a little town nestled in the Piedmont, near the upstate area, about four and half hours from here. You might remember it.  It was the place they filmed parts of the movie, Sleeping with the Enemy, with Julia Roberts. Anyway, she’ll want me to play tourist with her. You know how I hate that crap.”

“Come on Woodrow, it won’t be that bad. Look at it this way; you’ll be doing it for Janice, rest her soul.”

“Oh it will be that bad. She’s already sent me a partial list of places she wants to go. I can just see them sitting on that motorcycle at Hard Rock Café up at Broadway at the Beach, the perfect tourist photo op. I’ll have to drag the rug rats along too; they eat this stuff up, and especially any chance to go to the Pavilion, unless I can corral Lullabelle or the mother-in-law into babysitting.”

“It could be worse; you could be the one mounting the motorcycle, smiling for the camera. Besides, your chaps deserve a little downtime with their daddy, now and then.”

“I draw the line on being in any of those gosh awful touristy pictures. Maybe you could have me pull a double shift this weekend. I could tell them you were short handed or something. ” 

“Woodrow, I’m not going to that, and you know it. This is Janice’s family. You just need to man up and do what’s right.”

“Maybe I should locate that bastard, Lance Rocker and let him be their tour guide.  He’d probably enjoy ruining another marriage.”

“You know you don’t mean that.  Okay, humor me, son. Where do the newlyweds want you to take them?”

“It’s not that big of a deal. I’ll survive. I didn’t come here to air my grievances. You asked me here. What’s up, boss?”

“It’s time for me to take it easy and pass the baton,” stated the mountain of a man, Sheriff Hank Singleton. “Woodrow, I’m a dinosaur and too set in my ways. Besides, the old ticker isn’t what it used to be. It would be unjust for me to stay out my term.”

       “Just like that, you’re rolling over. You’re just going to hand it over to someone else and walk away?”

       “Woodrow, look at me. I’m an old fat fart with a diagnosed heart condition, and it’s time for me to call in the dogs. I’m damned fortunate I survived that serial killer ordeal a few years ago. Lance Rocker lobbied for my resignation back then. Lucky for me he moved on to the big time, got the hell out of town with that big TV show deal, and things finally died down.”

       “Come on Hank, you still have some good years left in you.”

       “Woodrow, to be honest, I’m tired of doing this. I’m just plain burned out on law enforcement. I’m ready to kick back and do a little fishing, a little hunting, and maybe just plant me a row or two of okra and a few tomato plants. I’m glad you’ve been promoted to Constable. You deserve it. You’ve earned it.”

       “I guess I can sort of understand. We’ve all come a long way. I really had to work to overcome Janice’s death. I, for one, am glad Rocker has moved on to greener pastures too. I hate that bastard for screwing my wife, and I still hold him partly responsible for her death. Not having to deal with him probably saved his life and me a term in prison. Good riddance, I say.”

       “I would feel the same way if I were in your shoes. You and Wagner did a fine job. You brought down Joseph Preston, putting to bed all those road rage murders, and you even nailed Tim Ford. Ford is still locked away and should never see the light of day.”

“That was indeed a defining moment for Horry County law enforcement, and kudos to you for allowing Wagner to form that CSI unit.”

“She just confirmed why I hired her. I still have a tough time swallowing Preston’s rampage, though. That troubled soul killed a hell of lot of motorists, just to avenge his folk’s deaths.”

“I just wish we could have brought him to justice. The damn coward had to put a bullet through his brain.”

“It saved the taxpayer, Woodrow.”

“So when does your retirement go into effect?”

“End of the month, just three short weeks,” replied the grinning mountain of a man with a slick shaved head, now standing up from behind his desk. “It’ll be just enough time for me to teach new arrival, Sheriff Burton, the ropes.”

“So tell me about this fellow Burton.”

“She’s not a feller.”

“Not again...don’t you believe in hiring men anymore, Hank?”

“Dag-nabbit, Woodrow, she’s qualified and was available.”

“It’s not going to be the same reporting to a skirt.”

“Now don’t prejudge, Woodrow. Samantha Burton had quite an impressive career down in Charleston.”

“Samantha Burton, I’m sorry chief, she just doesn’t sound like sheriff material to me. For some reason I have this vivid picture of Bewitched!” Woody tried to twitch his nose like the television witch. 

“Give her a chance, Woodrow. You felt the same way toward Wagner, if memory serves me right. On paper she looks like she can hold her own in this position.”

He shrugged. “I suppose I really don’t have a choice, do I?”

“Nope, that’s a fact. How do you think Wagner will deal with reporting to a woman?”

“Why don’t you ask her, sir?” She responded, standing in the doorway. “And my last name is now Pierce, remember.”

“I reckon I just did,” answered a scrambling Hank Singleton. “Good morning, Detective Pierce.”

“So you’re really going to do it, sir, just up and retire?”

“That’s my plan and I’m recommending this Burton to replace me, at least until the next election. The Mayor has bought in on it, so I reckon I still carry a little weight around here.”

“We need more women in this department. I’d say we’re on the right track,” stated an exuberant Trudy Wagner Pierce. “No offense Sheriff!”

“Watch what you wish for, Detective Wagner. I mean Pierce. She’s a tough piece of work, and she has a reputation for kicking female butts.”

“I have a big one to kick, sir, and always welcome a challenge.”

“This is going to be just great. This department is going to hell in a handbasket.”

“Come on Woodrow,” advised Hank. “That’s an inappropriate comment even for you.”

“Sorry Hank, I sort of liked things before the female invasion.”

“Not to worry, Sheriff, she’ll wear him down like I did. He’s not as tough as he acts.”

“See what I mean, Hank.”

“Enough, do I have to remind you that you’re supposed to be professionals? Can we just change the subject? Y’all really ought to get out there and fight some criminals and make Horry County a safer place.”

“We can do that, Hank,” answered Woody, winking at Trudy.

“Pierce, we have a missing person,” advised Hank. “Go by the Pentecostal Church in North Myrtle Beach, and talk to Raeford McCrery. He’s the preacher there. It seems that his associate pastor is missing. He hasn’t shown up for several days. The good preacher said he hasn’t been seen in a couple of days.”

       “Will do, sir,” replied the blue eyed detective, still fit. Her six foot one frame remained lean and hard at one hundred forty pounds. Now twenty nine, she no longer wore her blonde hair cropped short. Brady Pierce, her husband, had convinced her to let it grow out shoulder length. “What do you have on your agenda, Constable Anderson?”

       “Homicide, domestic dispute down in Surf Side, and I’m doing the follow-up.”

       “Who bit the big one, a man or woman?”

       “Neither,” Woody replied, shaking his head in disgust. “ A nine month old girl; the father just got tired of her crying and smothered her with a pillow, best we can tell while the mom stood by and did nothing to prevent it.”

       “Pathetic,” chimed in Hank. “I hate it when innocent chaps are victims. It’s just a crying shame.”

       “What’s really pathetic is the mother. She’s not fingering the father. They’re claiming they just found the baby dead in its crib. Coroner says different. Worse still, they were manufacturing methamphetamine in their home.”

       “Keep me posted, officers. Now go do your duty,” said Hank, his nearly three hundred pounds supported by a mountainous frame would have made him look like Big Foot, except his hairless head would not support the Sasquatch theory.

       Woody in contrast was eight inches shorter. He no longer sported a mustache and side burns. He was now clean shaven and twenty pounds lighter, and he still remained a pit bull. His hair once jet black, was now peppered with gray, compliments of the road rage murders and the loss of his wife, Janice. She had died at the hands of the serial killer after having had a one night stand with newsman, Lance Rocker. Preston, the road rage killer, had attempted to pen the murder on Rocker.

       The road rage serial killer case had shaken the beach community but had no long term effects on tourism; rather the opposite. Lance Rocker had penned a book on the case. It had landed number one on the best seller list for almost sixteen weeks. The book launched his lucrative television career, and he now hosted a weekly investigative reporter show on the Crime Channel. No longer a thorn in the Horry County Police department’s side, he had relocated to Atlanta.

       The beach community had eventually returned to normal. Sure, it still had its fair share of crimes, but nothing to the magnitude of the Road Rage Murders. Transients, especially during the peak tourist season, brought with them numerous home break-ins, assaults and shoplifting. There were still the occasional murders but most were domestic or gang related, and not the work of a deranged serial killer