Page 71 of Brewbies
On one side of Highway 101 was the Raven Creek property, where a— Wait. What the fuck?
His eyes widened as far as they could go at the sight of a whole-ass tent city right onhiscreek! Other canopies came into view as he crested the hill. A circus tent the size of a man o’ war. Two long aisles of artisans setting up display booths and unpacking their wares.
Across the highway from the chaos of the circus was—in a word—anightmare.
Or, at least, a nightmare for most officers of the law.
Protestors.
Stringing together a line of profanity he’d be immediately canceled for, he swerved toward the demonstrators and parked perilously close, partially blocking the road. Praying for patience, he jerked open the door and unfolded into what was supposed to have been a lovely late-spring afternoon dappled by sunshine and the restless shadows of deciduous leaves.
Instead, he was greeted by the chant some fucking Shakespeare had started among the protestors. “We’re not mean. We keep it clean. Don’t want our kiddies to see your titties!”
Holy Christ. It was worse than he thought.
Ethan scanned the throng, estimating their number at about a hundred, and then the crowd for any sign of weapons, disturbing the peace, or criminal activity. He had seen enough protests in his lifetime to know how quickly things could turn violent, but these folks seemed content to just stand there with their signs and chant their rhymes. Besides, the median age of the group was very likely in the high fifties.
And that was being kind.
Still, though the day was fading, it was a Thursday, which meant whatever was going on over on his—er Darby’s—er—the Raven Creek property was winding up to be a weekend affair.
Well. Fuck.
Finally, Ethan found himself face to face with the ringleader of the protest. Pamela Christiansen, a woman with a shock of white hair and a face like a prune.
He’d rather come face to face with Sasquatch…Who probably has fewer chin hairs,he thought unkindly.
Pamela was one of the county’s premier protesters. She could be found on the wrong side of history at about every place people gathered to be grumpy. Women’s wellness clinics, book burnings, drag shows, places with unisex bathrooms—anywhere people were fighting for human rights, basically, she was there with a reason to deny them, usually with a helpful scripture quote as to why.
“What’s going on here, Pam?” Ethan demanded, trying to keep his voice calm and level.
“Thank the Good Lord you’re here!” the old woman screeched, shaking a red, angry sign in his face. “This erotic circus is a den of sin and debauchery! And it’s right in our backyard! Just what do you intend to do about it, sheriff?”
Ethan sighed, looking across the street to see a scruffy teenager standing on his grandpa’s swing, riding it way too high for safety.
Didn’t like that. He didnotlike that. One. Fucking. Bit.
Lashed to one of the oak’s many gnarled branches was a huge vinyl sign advertising Cirque du Café with the tag line: Save Brewbies and Save Boobies.
When the actual fuck did Ms. Dunwell have the time to organize something of this magnitude? Only a week ago he’d informed her she’d be shut down, and that went into effect just yesterday.
Which had nothing at all to do with why he and his pink-haired adversary-with-benefits had been avoiding each other since they’d made it weird for minors to touch that swing.
Ethan had imprisoned himself in Townsend Harbor proper, so he didn’t pop a semi every time he drove to the highway.
One of Pamela’s minions, Janet Something-or-other, waddled over in her violet housecoat. A tall wooden cross was her only sign, and she pumped it up and down so hard, the extra flab beneath her arms threatened to knock over anyone who ventured too close.
“What are you planning to do about this, sheriff?” Janet shrilled a second time. “George and I donate good money to your election campaign because the Townsends have always been so good at keeping out the rabble who bring filth and smut to our town!” She spat twice on the ground—to ward away sex demons, probably.
Frowning, Ethan considered how to answer.Rabble? Didn’t people stop saying that after they guillotined a bunch of nobles two hundred years ago?“Ma’am, I can’t keep anyone from entering or exiting Townsend Harbor unless they break a law. That’s part of living in a free country.”
“Then what good are you?” a man said from somewhere at his elbow. “You’re just going to watch the morality of this town go to shit? What am I supposed to tell my children when they ask why no one is wearing underpants beneath their chaps?” He pointed at a pair of pink-leather-framed ass cheeks attached to a statuesque woman with a very prominent Adam’s apple.
“Tell them what you like,” Ethan answered. “Another advantage of living in a free country.”
The man—who apparently only knew how to buzz-cut every hair on his body—wiped the sweat from his brow with an American flag bandana and got right in Ethan’s face. “I shouldn’t have to. They aren’t even out of diapers yet.”
Ethan had learned long ago not to give inflammatory men credence. They always had something to prove and were more than willing to turn the heat up until violence exploded.
