chewbacca

        At the edge of the hamlet named Chewbacca there was a cement block building that resembled an LSD sugarcube, totally inconguent to the cedar grove embracing it. From there radio station COHO (named for an Alaskan salmon popular with Wookies)  broadcasted its warm porridge of jazz and folk music. Today's playlist included Miles Davis, Stan Getz, Dave Van Ronk, Emmylou Harris and The Flatlanders. On weekends listeners heard Prairie Home Companion.
        Tyson Gowain owner and bottlewasher loved her own commentary, if no one else did.
        At the moment she was late to air.
        She had paused at the sheriff's office to glean details of the mysterious incident at the Potlatch. There were none to report. Sid had refused to file a complaint or talk about his injuries. Nobody's damn business.



                                                                                        *


        Artie paid a call. He paused and idled the Indian and gazed at the transmitting tower where little aircraft warning lights blinked like the red eyes of forest vermin. He rode up, cut the engine and dismounted. There was Tyson's Love Bug parked so that it could roll downhill for a jumpstart. He stepped inside the Sugar Shack and found her munching salmon roe on Wellington water crackers. Pre-recorded Pacifica News gave her a five-minute nosh-break.
        "Hi Guy," she merffled with a mouthful.
        "Hey, Good Looking."
        A mountainous human being, Tyson Gowain was burly and hard as a hockey slapshot. She arm-wrestled with forearms like Popeye's. She was also soft inside as a jellyroll. Normally attired like Paul Bunyon, today she wore a Soundgarden teeshirt and some Eddie Veder kneebritches.
        "Gorgeous, if I knew you were coming--"
        They hugged. Artie lost.
        "Heard you were looking for me," Artie said. "Here I am?"
        She wrangled a chair for him and patted the seat. "Tell me about Sid."
        "Somebody beat the daylights out of him. A mysterious man in black. With a jab like Bruce Lee."
        "That's all?"
        "For now. Sorry."



                                                                                      *


        Radio COHO entertained Sid Greenburg enormously. He loved Prairie Home Companion. He loved Velma Frye from Tallahassee. The store was closed and he sat behind the hardwood counter. His radio told stories and sang songs in the late afternoon.
         He wore Hawaiian shirts voluminous as the mainsail on a square-rigger. His belly rolled like that of a Sumo wrestler over the cinch of his khaki Dockers and people tittered behind his back that he probably had not seen his penis since he was twelve. Fat Jewkid.
        Obesity sucked.
        At this moment he fretted. Worried that Hiram Pratt would return and kill him.
        He gazed at golden motes in a particular slant of sunlight while his mind transformed them into hornets.