Baron - Florida Man

Join the Wolfpack Publishing mailing list for information on new releases, updates, discount offers and your FREE eBook copy of The Target H

Florida Man

Kindle Edition

Copyright 2019 (as revised) Mike Baron

Wolfpack Publishing

6032 Wheat Penny Avenue

Las Vegas, NV 89122

wolfpackpublishing.com

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the authors imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.

Ebook ISBN 978-1-64119-748-9

Paperback ISBN 978-1-64119-749-6

Gary Duba and his best friend Floyd Belmont sat on the deck of Garys deluxe double-wide, raised four feet above Florida on cinder blocks in case of flooding. Two-hundred-foot tractor chains stretched over the house like massive belts, anchored in concrete plugs in front and back, in case of hurricane. The night was hot and humid, with squadrons of mosquitos dive bombing the deck, oblivious to the citronella candles, tiki torches, yellow wrist bands, and ample applications of Deet on both mens fully tatted arms. Home-made mosquito traps hung like obscene fruit from Garys hand-made awning, stitched together from Harbor Freight tarps.

It was just past eleven, Little Big Town playing on WBCW, Florida Country Radio through the tinny speakers of an old Sony boom box. The boys had been drinking shine, smoking reefer, and snorting a little crushed oxy since nine, when Floyd had arrived in his eight-year-old Chevy van with Belmont Pest Control emblazoned on the side, along with its logo, a dead palmetto bug in a mint green oval.

A sign in front said, THIS PROPERTY PROTECTED BY SMITH AND WESSON.

Another sign said, TRESPASSERS WILL BE VIOLATED.

Floyd hawked and spat a loogie over the rail. That fuckin bitch still owes me three thou for her boob job. Only reason she dated me, so Id pay for her fuckin boob job.

Floyd was five feet six, built like a fire hydrant, sideburns like a Civil War general, chest, shoulders and back covered with black fur like a bear. He wore bib overalls and no shirt.

You gotta admit, Gary said. Shes got a nice rack.

Gary sipped shine, causing his Adams apple to bob up and down like a bouncing ball. Tall, bony, with thick, knobby wrists, a brush mustache, and a full mullet concealed beneath a Confederate cap, Gary was the picture of Southern manhood. He wore a sleeveless Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt showing off his tatted arms which included a skull with a dagger through it, a skull with a snake through it, a heart with the legend Mom, Johnny Cash, and barbed wire bracelets.

My advice to you, Gary said, is not to worry about that skank. She gone. Be grateful shes out of your life and didnt give you the clap or something.

Floyd lit a Camel. I just wish I had that three thou. I could really use it.

Look at it this way. Its worth three thou just to have her out of your life.

Now shes dating some Cuban slickee boy from Coral Gables who says he can get her modeling work. My ass. Only modeling she does is on a pole with a G-string.

Thats what you get for dating a stripper.

Floyd sucked a Dixie dry. She told me she loved me!

Gary barked. You told her youd take her to Jamaica!

Floyd belched luxuriously and reached inside his coveralls and scratched his balls. Got anything to eat?

Dubious.

If I order a pizza, will they deliver out here?

Depends on the driver. Good ol boys will. Them Indians and Iranians and all wont come out here. Not even with the fuckin GPS guiding them. Say its not worth the trouble.

Floyd blew a ring. What trouble?

Fuck if I know. Lemme go look in the freezer. I might have some frozen catfish.

Floyd bent forward, put a finger down his mouth and made a vomiting sound.

Well Ill look. I might have some tater tots or something.

They sat there.

Well? Floyd said. You goin? I mean, I could do it, but you got shit in that fridge that looks like sea foam. Looks like something from Alien, yknow what I mean? I mean, you oughtta clear some of that shit outta there before it breaks free and kills you in your sleep.

Yeah, okay.

They sat there.

Well? Floyd said. Are you goin or not? Cause I go in there, omma just start throwin shit out the window. Well let the raccoons eat it and see if it kills em.

Gary gripped both armrests of his home-made Adirondack and heaved himself to his feet, holding on to the bannister while his head swam, waiting for things to focus. He shuffled through the tinny aluminum screen door, letting it bang shut behind him, and paused in his living room as if seeing it for the first time. A yellow and brown plaid sofa, listing at one end faced his flat screen television, resting on a worn wood kitchen table. Hed snagged both the sofa and the table from Goodwill for eight-five bucks. One wall was decorated with a Dolphins pennant, the Gators, a framed poster of Dale Earnhardt Jr. A shelf made from cinder blocks and wood planks held his bowling trophies, DVDs and CDs and a stack of American Angler, Sport Fishing, Outdoor Life, Field & Stream, Big Black Ass, Monster Titty, and Monster Truck.

He hovered for a moment wondering why he was there. His gaze fell on the yellow refrigerator.

Right.

He went to the fridge, opened the main compartment and bathed in the cool air and light. Plastic containers of noodles, green chicken salad, and one lone yellow bacon strip. He shut the main and opened the freezer, trying to find meaning in the monolithic chunk filling most of the space like an iceberg. He jammed it with his hand, busting loose a package of Jimmy Deans Pork Sausage and Muffin Breakfasts which had lain there since Clinton was president.

He went through his mostly bare cupboards finding only a can of chicken broth and a box of croutons. Well fuck. Gary was hungry too. He wondered if he offered a big tip, if the Caesars in Turpentine, twenty miles away, would deliver.

He pulled out his wallet and filed through. He had seventeen dollars, barely enough to pay for a pizza and a tip. And then he was broke.

Gary worked as an off the books roofer for Big John Schermerhorn, but he hadnt worked in two weeks and soon hed have to pay mortgage, four hundred and twelve dollars, and utilities. Gary did not plan to remain a roofer forever. No sir. He had a dream. His dream was anchored in reality.

His dream was anchored in four concrete plugs sunk into the earth, in the front and back. Gary had invented a system to prevent houses from being blown away in harsh weather. House suspenders. Massive cables running over the roof, keeping the house pinned down, like a seatbelt.

He was just waiting for a big blow so he could take his results to the authorities and get the ball rolling. Gary figured he needed a hundred thou to get started. All he needed was an opportunity.