Ogreness, Black Lake-book5

Chapter 12
~

We got back on the road within the hour. I maybe looked across at Nuel a couple of times, surprised she was still alive. And in one piece. I’d never heard anyone speak to my papa like that, without fisticuffs forthwith. Some spilled blood.

Maybe it’s a sign of what retirement does to a bull. Papa has never displayed a laid-back attitude in front of me. Old age either rattles the mind, or makes a bull care less.

Mama had glanced my way a few times, as though worried I wouldn’t be able to grab Papa before he sailed across the counter for the worrisome hen’s throat.

But Papa rarely growled. His lips worried his tusks often, as though he worked hard not to laugh, even.

Nuel broke our silence. “Yar papa holds his convictions firmly.”

I took that as a euphemism for, he’s stubborn. But I didn’t take offense. He’s a bull ogre for goodness sakes. What would anyone expect?

“That’s what I’m likely to face at Black Lake, huh?” she asked.

Unlikely any ogre from the Range was gonna accept we had any responsibility for the breakdown between ogre and man. Nor be reluctant to speak their mind.

“Ya think we ogres in the North caused all of this, doncha?” she asked.

Did I? There had prolly never been a lot of respect between the two races to begin with. The situation would have been worse if orcs and goblins in any numbers had ever wandered North. Thankfully the other little people wanted nothing to do with the Northerners, and kept to their simple ways in the hills—for the most part.

They were wise. Maybe ogres and trolls would be better off if we’d done the same.

When the mines played out, the trolls should have migrated back to the South. Maybe they will now, if Zug has his way. Hard to imagine, after generations adjusted to livin’ above ground, them takin’ to the mines again, in the Range. Most every police force, I’ve more been told than observed, is pretty much all trolls. Who would mess with an eight-foot troll?

“I was raised under the mantra, just keep yar head down,” Nuel continued. “That’s how we’ve always lived. The poor relations aren’t our fault.”

Not natural for an ogre to turn the other cheek. Maybe the disconnect, the distinction between their differin’ interactions between Northern and Southern ogres, amplified the rift.

“Are ya even listening to me?” Nuel asked.

I gave her a glance. What could I say? I work with humans every day—don’t really enjoy it, truth be told. They fear me. Go out of their way to avoid any interaction. So the ogres of the company have prolly come to avoid them, back.

We communicate to them through voice and e-mail. My mind went back to the conference room, hours earlier. The growls, which mean nothing to us, flyin’ between the ogres. The hesitancy of the six humans in the room to interject with their own questions or issues.

Holy moly. I have a problem in my own organization. What kind of productivity does it stifle? How does it kill cooperation?

“Yar face is talking but yar lips aren’t flapping,” Nuel complained.

“What?”

“Ya lose the ability to comprehend Standish?”

We weren’t speakin’ Ogreish, were we?

“Ya jocks are so dense. How did ya ever become a big shot IT executive?”

That was really rude. “Ya’re my guest.” A little anger may have leveraged its way into my voice. “Speak to me like that again and ya can walk the rest of the way to Black Lake.”

“Try to kick me out.” She growled, which of course I had to answer.

We continued that for a good six-count, before we both realized at the same time prolly, sounded kind of stupid. So the cab returned to uncomfortable silence. Which is good, because I had to think about the communication issues in OW.

Is it the same issue between the races in general?

And inherent throughout Ogre Industries too— more than likely.

Well, duh. Ogres have always leveraged our physical statures to intimidate. Intimidation in business, for us, is as ubiquitous as our growl. We get better deals because we don’t mind loomin’, allowin’ the chest to vibrate in that subtle way.

Not so subtle to humans. Maybe.

We aren’t known for bluffin’. If we say we’ll sue, we follow through, and hire the better lawyer. We warn a businessman we’ll break him—we will. Business-wise. We aren’t a folk to tick off.

But trolls, despite their grander physiques, would rather dance and tell stories than posture and scheme.

Some of the gentlest folk I’ve ever met have been trolls. My neighbor Gozer. Stink. If that bull didn’t love to hear his own voice so much, he’d be a joy to be around. Cats out of nowhere will come and crawl into his lap for a scratch.

Funny, that dogs don’t like ’em so much. Otherwise, dogs are a good judge of character. Sissy has never shown much interest in Nuel. Ha. That’s funny. Sissy loves everyone else. Even Gozer, for that matter.

Movement flashin’ out from behind an overpass ahead drew my attention back to the road.

A state trooper. Lights going. I had to stomp on the brake to keep from hittin’ him, swerved into the left lane as the Green Hornet fishtailed a bit. Nuel screamed. I might have muttered a thing or two.

Truck under control, I continued to brake, and pulled back in the slow lane to chill my nerves. Holy jeepers.

The trooper was pullin’ Darshee and Wizper over? Why? I was followin’ them on cruise control, and they weren’t going more than a mile or two over if any. The hens pulled to the shoulder within a quarter mile.

I pulled in behind the trooper, wonderin’ what in the heck. I stepped out of my truck, to face a nine millimeter. “Back in your truck,” the man shouted.

Okay. I don’t like to be shouted at. Or be told what to do. A real growl stole out of my core. The trooper fidgeted outward, eyes leveled behind the gun pointed at my chest.

Nuel shouted, “Get back in,” and repeated it over and over.

Darshee and Wizper were shoutin’ the same thing.

I think the trooper was about to shoot me, but that just made me angrier. “Get his badge number,” I shouted at the hens.

Traffic was backin’ up behind us. Figgered, since the trooper now stood on the center stripe. Clearly he worried more about me than vehicles travelin’ highway speeds.

“They shoot first, ask later, when it comes to us,” Nuel hissed at me from my open door.

The cop continued to threaten me. I told him this isn’t over, and slid back into the Green Hornet.

We sat. Sat a while longer. The trooper never approached the hens. Another trooper, siren blarin’, approached from the other direction around the broad curve. Uh oh.

Took the newcomer a bit to find a safe place to cross the rough median. When the car pulled up, the officer came to the truck, gun drawn. Out of the truck, he shouted. In out. They should decide. I flung the door open, to Nuel’s warnin’ to chill.

“Hands up.”

I wasn’t happy, but I did as I was told. Then he wanted me to lean against the truck and put my hands behind my neck. The other trooper was backin’ him up now. My chest vibrated.

Pretty sure the come-lately fellow was about to wet his pants as he cuffed me. Cuffed me. The jerk. Now the other guy was readin’ me my Miranda rights. Are ya kiddin’.

We had to wait another forty-five minutes before a vehicle big enough to transport me showed up. In the meantime, the first trooper presented the hens with tickets. four officers with their weapons drawn eventually escorted me into the back of a wagon.

No one showed any interest in askin’ me my side of the story, or havin’ any kind of a civilized conversation.

The odor hit me. Ah, jeez. Don’t they ever clean their paddy wagons? Human sweat smells so bad. Van prolly came from Detroit a decade ago and had never been wiped down since. Just not right. Don’t humans know about our snouts.

They’re sensitive.

The odor was a lot worse than the chafin’ the cuffs gave my wrists.

I vibrated along on the cold metal seat for a good forty minutes. As the van pulled off the highway, I heard a roar I couldn’t place.

The van jerked to a stop and the bar that snugged me into my seat rose, which allowed me to shift to my right, where I could see through the glass between me and the cab of the truck. I smiled.

The roar. The violet paint of the ogre council, a helicopter with its rotors still spinnin’ good, on the opposite side of the parking lot. The back door of the wagon opened and a human in a conservative business suit stood next to an ogre I well recognized. The human was familiar too, now that I thought about it. No cops with leveled guns any longer. Only one stood back a bit with the council folks.

The deputy or whatever, not a state trooper, climbed into the van, uncuffed me.

The council attorney asked me, “How are you doing?”

I said, “I’m ticked.”

“Sounder minds have decided this never happened,” the attorney said.

“Understood?” My council peer growled. It wasn’t a growl for me I don’t think, because he glanced at the deputy.

“That imply I won’t be suin’ for false arrest?” I asked.

The human in the suit smiled. “There’s no such thing as false arrest, but yes. No you won’t be suing, unless you want to spend the night in jail so you can be arraigned tomorrow morning?”

I thought about the aroma in the wagon. Wasn’t gonna smell any better in their jail.

“I need to get to Black Lake.” I had an excuse not to be stubborn.

“We thought you’d see it that way,” the attorney said. “What took you so long to get here.”

Funny. Really funny.

~ Nuel ~

I don’t know how the idjit kept from getting killed. I watched the human’s eyes. He was a hair from pulling the trigger, and lots of times, I’ve heard, they empty a magazine to make sure a giant isn’t just ticked off. That many bullets has bound to hurt an ogre bull. A lot.

Amazing how fast this council can make something happen. Maybe that’s a good sign.

~