The secret diary of . . . the Uffindell lynch mob
MONDAY
Marshall Luxon opened the door of the jail cell and said, “This is for your own good, pardner.”
Deputy Uffindell said, “I know, Marshall. I know.”
He stepped in and sat down on the edge of the bunk. He took off his hat, and smoothed it. He was afraid. News had spread through Dodge of his apparently really terrible deed when he rode with the King’s College gang in his youth.
“I ain’t proud of it,” he said. “Yeah.”
“I apologised for it,” he said. “Yeah.”
“I guess,” he said, “you’ll be wanting this.”
Deputy Uffindell took off his badge and held it out to the Marshall.
“Not yet, Sam,” said the Marshall. “Not yet.”
There was talk in the Twitter Saloon of a lynch mob. They sure as hell were riled up. The Twitter Saloon was a tiny little bar where you could measure the temperature by the moral climate, and right now it was soaring.
But it might blow over, the Marshall thought. It might die down. At the end of the day, the Deputy’s apparently really terrible deed was a long, long time ago, and it was an isolated incident.
TUESDAY
Marshall Luxon shook the bars of the jail cell, and screamed, “Goddamn it, Sam! There’s been another isolated incident!”
He held up the front page of the Dodge Moral Climate Gazette. “It says here that when you rode with the Otago University gang, you pounded on a woman’s bedroom door while screaming obscenities until she escaped through her window. You called out, ‘Hit the road, fatty!”’
“I dispute this version of events,” said Deputy Uffindell. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Mind you, it was a long time ago, and I smoked a fair bit of dope. Didn’t everyone?”
Marshall Luxon heard a commotion in the Twitter Saloon. Angry voices floated across the street. He could feel the heat of their righteous crusade on the back of his neck.
WEDNESDAY
The lynch mob got busy. They cut off a length of rope and slung it over the branch of a tree on the main street. Others rode through Dodge, screaming obscenities about Deputy Uffindell. They were good and mad. More than that, they were good and morally indignant.
Quite a few of the townsfolk paid them no mind. They didn’t care for those kinds of antics. They regarded the cowboys of the Twitter Saloon as a bunch of liberal asshole bullies.
They had more pressing concerns and got back to thinking about the All Blacks.
THURSDAY
“More isolated incidents,” sighed the Marshall. “Look.”
He held up the front page of the Dodge Moral Climate Gazette . It showed photos of the house where Deputy Uffindell had flatted when he rode with the Otago University gang. The house was trashed, and four pairs of women’s underwear were hung on the hallway coat rack.
“What the hell you got to say about that?” said Marshall Luxon.
“I would’ve thought there were more than four,” said Deputy Uffindell.
FRIDAY
The lynch mob had set up camp outside the jail house. They sang songs, held up signs of Uffindell swinging at the end of a rope, and cooked sausages.
“This reminds me of some other occupation,” said Marshall Luxon, peeping through the curtains. Just then a rock smashed through the window.
He crawled towards the jail cell.
“Here,” said Deputy Uffindell, and held out his badge.
Time was running out. The lynch mob would soon be at the door with rifles, pitchforks and knitting needles, their faces illuminated by blazing torches of fire. Once again the Marshall could feel the heat of their righteous crusade on the back of his neck.
They weren’t coming for Deputy Uffindell. They were coming for him.