Murder Clubs, Hippies and Porn Stars

I’ve been watching a lot of lighthearted British crime shows lately. You know the ones, where the local clergy or a retired novelist can just stroll up to a murder scene and start interviewing suspects without anyone batting an eye. It’s almost always a small town, with a woefully understaffed police department, who welcome the help of the unqualified interlopers and start handing out assignments to the local townsfolk.

Does this really happen in the U.K.? Can you imagine the insurance liability nightmare this would cause in the U.S.?

As someone who lives in a small town tiny town village hidden deep in the Appalachian mountains, I think I should find a few like minded busy bodies and start my own Frog Pond Holler Murder club. We have two part-time officers who rarely even patrol enough to justify having a town police car. Surely they’d appreciate some help.

The only problem is the lack of actual murders.

We have one about every ten years or so, with little doubt of who did the killing. The last one I recall was when the dude who sold boiled peanuts at the side of the road, accidentally shot his wife. There was also a stabbing at the campground during one of the big biker rallies, but they brought in the SBI for that one.

I’m pretty sure the State Bureau of Investigation would be less forgiving of our offers to assist.

Maybe instead of murder club, it could be a crime solving club.

There’s always been a small drug enterprise in the holler, although it’s been a while since I’ve seen Methany and RayRay selling their wares outside the post office. Now that I think about it, it’s been pretty peaceful in the holler for a while now.

I might be barking up the wrong tree here.

Anywho, I’ve been watching the forementioned crime shows on PBS. I recently went to a paid membership (it’s only $5,) partially because they’ve lost all their federal funding and also, since I cancelled my YouTubeTv subscription, I don’t want to miss Call the Midwife.

My t.v. is on most of the time. I need the background noise, especially when the old hippie across the road has his fill of beer and decides he’s Bob Dylan.

What he does to that guitar should be illegal.

I call him Hippie John, not to be judgey, but because there are two John’s across the road and Hippie John only wears oversized tie dyed tees with matching baggy pants. His hair is long and gray and he’s got a full beard. He’s often seen wandering around muttering to himself.

The other one, Porn Star John, stays in an Airstream part time. I don’t know where he goes, but sometimes he’s gone for months, with or without his r.v. He’s not an actual Porn Star, but when he arrived in town, he told everyone he was in the film industry and his nickname was born. I’ve since found his IMDB and discovered he actually is in the movie business, has won some awards and is legit.

I still don’t much care for him, but whatever.

Hippie John lives in a tiny house. It’s not one of those cute little two-story builds you see on social media. It’s a tiny, old school, one room cabin. I had a chicken coup that was bigger. He’s extended the size by hanging blankets around the porch, creating another room. It’s owned by a manager of one of the restaurants in town. He lived in the tiny house originally, but has since had a little house built. He’s hardly ever there, in his new house, but his teenage sons stay there often.

I’ve watched the oldest, with his long hair, black jeans and boots, preparing for battle. He waves his katana, spinning around and hollerin’ like he sees the enemy approaching. Or zombies. I’m not sure, I just know he’s ready. The last time he was out there, he came so close to decapitating himself that I dug out my old EMT bag and sat it by the door.

I don’t think I can do anything about a beheading, but it’s just a matter of time before he slices and dices himself, or worse, Hippie John comes wandering out of the tiny house, caterwallin’ some unintelligible tune before he makes contact with the business end of Jr.’s katana.

And sure, I’d call 911, but if the ambulance is on a call, even on it’s way back, it’s at least a half hour out. That’s why every able bodied adult in the holler is a trained first responder.

Ah well. I think I’m going to spend the rest of the day in my “sewing room,” (the corner of my bedroom.) I have more fabric to cut for baby quilt I’m working on. It’s all bees and flowers. More appropriate for spring than fall, I think, but it’s still pretty.

Ya’ll have a good one, we’ll talk soon!

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