The Legend of Spanky Carlton
Legend has it Jim Croce heard the story of Spanky and changed his name for the song "Leroy Brown." All that anyone knows for sure is that Spanky Carlton was a bad man. Holding the left hand of fate and the right hand of a demonic sledgehammer, the end wouldn't be pretty for an ugly soul like his.
"I heard once Spanky slapped a man so hard he died."
"There's no way that's true. You can't die from getting slapped on the ass."
"You can if its the three-time regional arm wrestling champ doing it after four whiskey sours and an insult.
I even heard it smelled like smoke after. Spanky hit him so hard his ass sizzled."
"That's the most disgusting thing I've heard this week."
"Be thankful your tombstone doesn't say "RIP 'Hot Buns'"
"Hot buns? What's his actual name?"
" No one knows. He was some tourist from out of town. Must have lost his wallet when he got slapped out of his Chacos."
"That's a nightmare. Dying in a dive bar after being spanked to death? And losing the dignity of your own name? Maybe it's better that way. There's only so much shame a soul can take."
The windswept remnants of lost conversations and blank gravestones carried past the basement tavern where "Hot Buns" lost his life to the fearsome right hand of Spanky Carlton. The urban legend grew from the truth of Spanky hitting the man's ass so hard his spinal cord severed. His death was instant, unlike the repercussions of a single armed assault. Spanky walked out of the tavern as a free man. None of the patrons were sober enough to give an acceptable statement. That worked for police chief DiSanto; he didn't want to make the call to have his officers try and pull in Carlton. DiSanto added the incident to his case file on Spanky, saving his evidence for the day he'd have an open and close case. Operating with uncertainty around Spanky was like dangling garlands of deli meat in front of a bear.
Spanky tried praying at the church on Easter, but the priest barred him from entering. He argued that Spanky held the scent of the Devil on him. Someone would later inform Father O'Hara that Spanky smelled of sulfur because of his morning dips in the hot springs.
Left to his own devices, Spanky found refuge in the pines beyond the edge of town. He cleared land with a rusty ax and the memories of being bullied as a child. You have to be a hard man with a name like Spanky, and when you start as a soft child, you've got a long road to travel.
Spanky worked the wrecking yard- serving his reputation as a junkyard dog. Kids would crowd the fences on crushing day when Spanky would operate the heavy machinery and cube the totaled cars that littered the lot. He stacked the cubes in the outline of a castle at the backend of the lot. Not that he'd ever tell anyone, but he loved the attention as the kids oohed and ahhed as he tackled the rusted bodies of old Pontiacs, Fords, and Chevys. Spanky pretended that he was back at the LSU, hitting low blocks and leaving jerseyed bodies in his wake.
Baton Rouge often called to him at night. The heavy air deep in the bayou, snapping gators, and the distant whispers of dark magics. Drifting off the path, Spanky aimed towards his Cajun queen. He rubbed the Spanish medallion around his neck in vain for his French love.
"Go west!" that gnarled goat of a man told him. "You'll find your story out past the pines." Spanky spat on Manifest Destiny and packed his bags anyway. California wasn't a place for bad men anymore. The days of bandit kings and gloried outlaws died with the expansion of the industries. There was no place for little rebels in the world of tycoons and suited men. For a giant of a man, Spanky felt small under the gaze of the open sky. He hated that.
Beauregard DeVille- even a snake couldn't swim through the slime like that man. His thin mustache sat under sharp, black eyes. Shined shoes, ever-changing suits, and cufflinks, DeVille wore his wealth in relaxed comfort, as if he lounged in three-piece suits and slept on diamonds. He stole Charlotte Laurent from him. And for a man with everything, he should have known better than to steal from a man with nothing else to lose.
To say Spanky planned the night he stormed into the DeVille estate would be to give him too much credit. Armed with a shortened machete, Spanky burst through the double doors, gutting the doormen that served as unpleasant reminders to the dangers of low wage work.
"CHARLOTTE" Spanky bellowed as he hunted through the estate with wild eyes. The taproot the witch doctor gave him kicked in as he found the ballroom. Beauregard stood with Charlotte in the center of the dance floor.
"Mister Carlton, an undoubted surprise. May I fetch you some refreshments?" Beauregard said. Charlotte trembled behind him.
"Just hand her over, DeVille. She's had enough of your games." Spanky said. The image of DeVille split into three, as Spanky struggled to track which version was the real one.
"Perhaps you should sit. Aside from your indecorous entrance into my home, you look to be catching a fever." A sharks smile followed Deville's words.
Spanky staggered towards the trio of DeVille's.
"I see you entertained the good company of Francois. I imagine he gave you something terribly exciting for your adventure tonight."
"You slimy fuck. Is there anyone in this town you haven't robbed of their free will?"
"Appears the last white knight stands before me. Shall we see him fall?" DeVille asked Charlotte as he stepped towards Spanky.
Spanky whipped his forgotten machete towards DeVille, sinking the blade deep into his chest. DeVille stopped and tsked.
"You can't stab a dead man in the heart and expect anything. Didn't your mama teach you better than that, Spanky?" DeVille's hand grabbed the blade and pulled it out with ease. He took another step forward and flicked Spanky between the eyes, dropping him to the floor.
The smell of foul water greeted Spanky as he woke up. His eyes caught a harsh sun and the sound of distant splashes. He knew he was deep in the bayou without looking around. The image of DeVille's face rode a wave of anger through his mind before fear crept in behind it. Whatever that thing DeVille was, Spanky wanted no part of it. Even Charlotte was a price too steep to pay if it meant dealing with that devil.
So Spanky ghosted through the bayou and beyond, before finally reaching his resting point in Weed, California. He thought if he relinquished his claim to love, he'd be free from the nightmares. But Spanky knew that once you learn about the things that go bump in the night, you don't dwell in the shadows during the daytime. Even there, the reach of lost love and dark magic can whisper of impossible dreams.
