White Tiger




White Tiger
 
The following story is completely fiction.   It is what inspired me to write, Bethyl and the Dragon Dagger.

     If you ever saw his, 56 Chevy pick up truck, coming down this Texas county road, you would swear, it was heading, to old man Wilson's scrap yard. To say, it had just a few spots of rust on it, would be an under statement.  From a far distance, it looked like complete rust, from its front to its rear.  Now if you, were standing right be side it, you would be scratching your head. Who in the world, would want to have a brand new paint job, in the color of rust.  That was Frank for you. Forever and a day, I tried to get Frank, the truck's owner, to paint it a different color. One, which more pleasing to the eye, but he was stubborn, as Daisy, his old mule. The other day, I once again mentioned to him, the idea of changing its color. He shook his ugly face vigorously, "no". He stuck out his tongue, giving me the raspberries.  In his mind, it was his truck, and he would do, as he pleased, no matter what anyone else said.

     Besides, Frank being so ugly, he was short.  So short, he could barely see, over the dash board. Before I started up the truck, I had to make sure, my seat belt was buckled. Now most people know, those old trucks didn't come with them. Well, Frank had them added, sparing no expense. "Safety first," was his motto.
     Frank is a, pure Texas redneck.  A thing, he was most proud of being. He had a gun rack, mounted against the back window, and everywhere we went, he took his old double barreled shot gun, even though he was near sited, and couldn't hit the broadside of a barn.
     When ever I mentioned this to him, he would proudly point, at the silver plate on the stock of the gun. It had engraved two simple words, "peace maker".  At close range, very few people would want to face, the barrels of a scatter gun.
      On this day, we had George tagging along with us. It happens more times, than naught.  If ever he wasn't with us, we would wonder what was wrong with him.  The cab was too small, for the three of us to fit in it. George took his favorite position, lying down in the bed of the truck.  Frank had especially installed, a two inch thick, all weather, royal blue, shag carpet to make him comfortable. That way, George could soak in the sun, as he slept back there.
     Today, the sun was shining brightly, as we headed down that stretch of road.  It is normally deserted, at this time of day, but today we came across it, sitting on the side of the road. A black Trans-Am, which looked, to be in mint condition.
     Coming out of the bushes, was a man, about six feet in height. He tried to open the door, but it seemed to have locked, itself on him. He then put his face, against the window.   His face grew bright red in color.  I knew exactly what Frank was thinking, "city slicker".
     So, I pulled the pickup off the road, behind the car, to offer my assistance.  As soon as I got out, the man noticed me. He shouted, he didn't need any help. That is when the alarm bells, went off in my head. There was something there; he didn't want me to see. I took another step forward. I started to tell him, I was just being neighborly. He reached his right hand down, and pulled a gun out of his belt.  Pointing it at me, he shouted, "I told you, I don't need any help."
     That is when George, decided to let the man know, he was there.  Two heavy clunks, sounded on top of the cab, as he put his front feet, up there.
     It only took the man, a couple of seconds, to glance over there, and realize, I wasn’t alone. His gun hand began to shake, He exclaimed, "That is a white tiger!"
    I looked back at George and said, "George, did you know, you were a white tiger?"  George said nothing.  He just stared at the man. I added, "George, have you eaten, yet today?"
     The man didn't find it amusing. His gun hand was now shaking, like a leaf. There was a stutter in his voice, as he said, "If that tiger makes a move, I will kill him."
     I gave a man a wry smile, "Not with a head shot. You have to hit him in the heart."

     The man now had both hands on the gun, trying to steady himself.  "I will give you to the count of three, to get out of here.  One ---"
     Sounds came from behind the man.  Frank had pulled back on the hammers, of his shot gun. The next thing, the man felt, was its barrels, in his back.
     The man was now frozen in place.  I stated, "That is Frank with a double barreled shot gun, in your back. From this distance, he never misses.  Now the best thing, for you to do, is make sure the safety in on your gun. Then handed it to me, handle first."
     He showed us, he wasn't stupid, and could follow instructions.  After giving me the gun, I had him kneel on the ground. Then I told him, to lie on the ground, face first and put his hands, behind his back.  Frank put the hand cuffs, on the man. Frank then reached into the man’s back pocket, taking out his wallet.
     The sheriff pulled up.  Before getting out of the truck, Frank had activated, the GPS signal to let the sheriff know, we may need back up, on this one. The sheriff ran the man’s ID, and found out; he had outstanding warrants on him. 
     The car had been reported, stolen just a few hours earlier.  Getting up, the man looked at Frank, and gave a weird laugh.  "I was stopped by a monkey."  Now Frank is no ordinary monkey. He is an official deputy sheriff, for the county.  He wears a brown vest, with his badge proudly displayed on it.  He also wears a deputy sheriff’s hat.
     Frank turned to the car, and noticed there was a five year old girl in it.  He got her, to open the door. She grabbed a hold of him crying, "I want my mommy." Frank put his arms around her, to comfort her.
     It turned out, she had been sleeping in the back seat, when her mommy, had stopped at a store. The keys had been left in the car.  The man, who had stolen the car, didn't realize she was back there.  When he stopped, along the road, to visit the bushes, she locked him out.
     Once again, Frank got his picture, on the front page of the paper, with the girl's mommy, giving him a kiss. He's got all the luck.  He saves the day, and gets the girl in the end.

     By now, you are wondering, why I called this story White Tiger, when Frank is the hero, not George. You see, Frank doesn't like all the attention, he gets. To him, he is just doing his job. Also, to him, if it wasn't for George, distracting the man, he wouldn’t have been able, to sneak up behind him.
     As for me I am the writer here. That is because neither Frank nor George, know how to spell.

 

 

This is from my book, White by wander_in_star