Vernon God Little

DBC Pierre Vernon God Little

Act I Shit happened

one

It's hot as hell in Martirio, but the papers on the porch are icy with the news. Don't even try to guess who stood all Tuesday night in the road. Clue: snotty ole Mrs Lechuga. Hard to tell if she quivered, or if moths and porchlight through the willows ruffled her skin like funeral satin in a gale. Either way, dawn showed a puddle between her feet. It tells you normal times just ran howling from town. Probably forever. God knows I tried my best to learn the ways of this world, even had inklings we could be glorious; but after all that's happened, the inkles ain't easy anymore. I mean – what kind of fucken life is this?

Now it's Friday at the sheriff's office. Feels like a Friday at school or something. School – don't even fucken mention it.

I sit waiting between shafts of light from a row of doorways, naked except for my shoes and Thursday's underwear. Looks like I'm the first one they rounded up so far. I ain't in trouble, don't get me wrong. I didn't have anything to do with Tuesday. Still, you wouldn't want to be here today. You'd remember Clarence Somebody, that ole black guy who was on the news last winter. He was the psycho who dozed in this same wooden hall, right on camera. The news said that's how little he cared about the effects of his crimes. By 'effects' I think they meant axe-wounds. Ole Clarence Whoever was shaved clean like an animal, and dressed in the kind of hospital suit that psychos get, with jelly-jar glasses and all, the type of glasses worn by people with mostly gums and no teeth. They built him a zoo cage in court. Then they sentenced him to death.

I just stare at my Nikes. Jordan New Jacks, boy. I'd perk them up with a spit-wipe, but it seems kind of pointless when I'm naked. Anyway, my fingers are sticky. This ink would survive Armageddon, I swear. Cockroaches, and this fucken fingerprint ink.

A giant shadow melts into the dark end of the corridor. Then comes its owner, a lady. As she approaches, light from a doorway snags a Bar-B-Chew Barn box in her arms, along with a bag of my clothes, and a phone that she tries to speak into. She's slow, she's sweaty, her features huddle in the middle of her face. Even in uniform you know she's a Gurie. Another officer follows her into the corridor, but she waves him away.

'Let me do the preliminaries – I'll call you for the statement.' She slides the phone back to her mouth and clears her throat. Her voice sharpens up to a squeak. 'Gh-hrrr, I am not calling you a moron, I'm explaining that, stuss-tistically, Special Weapons And Tactics can limit the toll.' She squeaks so high that her Barn box falls to the floor. 'Lunch,' she grunts, bending. 'Only salad, poo – I swear to God.' The call ends when she sees me.

I sit up to hear if my mother came to collect me; but she didn't. I knew she wouldn't, that's how smart I am. I still wait for it though, what a fucken genius. Vernon Genius Little.

The officer dumps the clothes in my lap. 'Walk this way.'

So much for Mom. She'll be pumping the town for sympathy, like she does. 'Well Vern's just devastated,' she'll say. She only calls me Vern around her coffee-morning buddies, to show how fucken tight we are, instead of all laughably fucked up. If my ole lady came with a user's guide it'd tell you to fuck her off in the end, I guarantee it. Everybody knows Jesus is ultimately to blame for Tuesday; but see Mom? Just the fact I'm helping the investigation is enough to give her fucken Tourette's Syndrome, or whatever they call the thing where your arms fly around at random.

The officer shows me into a room with a table and two chairs. No window, just a picture of my friend Jesus taped to the inside of the door. I get the stained chair. Pulling on my clothes, I try to imagine it's last weekend; just regular, rusty moments dripping into town via air-conditioners with missing dials; spaniels trying to drink from sprinklers but getting hit in the nose instead.

' Vernon Gregory Little?' The lady offers me a barbecued rib. She offers half-heartedly, though, and frankly you'd feel sorry to even take the thing when you see the way her chins vibrate over it.

She returns my rib to the box, and picks another for herself. 'Gh-rr, let's start at the beginning. Your habitual place of residence is seventeen Beulah Drive?'

'Yes ma'am.'

'Who else resides there?'

'Nobody, just my mom.'

'Doris Eleanor Little…' Barbecue sauce drips onto her name badge. Deputy Vaine Curie it says underneath. 'And you're fifteen years old? Awkward age.'

Is she fucken kidding or what? My New Jacks rub together for moral support. 'Ma'am – will this take long?'

Her eyes widen for a moment. Then narrow to a squint. ' Vernon – we're talking accessory to murder here. It'll take as long as it takes.'

'So, but…'