General Lee's Revenge--Karma

Chapter Nine: "Au Revoir"

That was the last thing Hughie Hogg ever heard: a gunshot. Blood sprayed across the wall, covering the crimson wallpaper and a seemingly out-of-place painting. Clayton watched him fall back, his limp body tumbling down the stairs, his cane rolling down after him. His bones crunched upon impact, leaving his broken body on the ground floor, a pool of blood seeping into the carpet beneath him.

The shocked recoil from the wound had set Hughie's arms up to his head, as if he were trying to shield his eyes from something, the bright white light of death probably, or so Clayton guessed.

The devilish man's face was now emotionless as he brought the muzzle of his gun to his lips, blowing away the small stream of smoke wisping out of the barrel, face shadowed by his fedora. A slow, wide grin spread across his face and he made his way down the stairs to Hughie's corpse, nudging it with his foot.

The front of Hughie's coat fell open, exposing a holster under his arm. Clayton scoffed.

"Pathetic," he muttered, "couldn't even defend himself."

He holstered his own gun, pulling the brim of his hat down and turning with a sweep. Promptly, he raised a hand, twisting and waving it in the air.

"Au revoir," he called out, his voice echoing in the halls. His tone quieted, face dropping once more as he growled under his breath, "And good riddance to ya you son of a bitch."

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Rosco had seated himself on a sidewalk bench, just outside the post office. Flash sniffed around at his feet, the handle of her leash looped around his wrist. The air was warm, sunlight creating a sparkling cascade of light down the street from the reflections off of chrome bumpers and mirrors.

His face was obscured by a newspaper. It was last week's edition, he'd picked it out of the trash. He wasn't reading it, the paper was more to cover his face than anything, not that his sheriff's uniform was anything but inconspicuous.

He hadn't been sitting long before he noticed the sound of approaching footsteps. He didn't look up, mostly because he knew he wasn't supposed to, but partly because he was afraid. Before long, those footsteps drew close and he felt someone sit down on the bench beside him. The man was silent, and Rosco found himself peeking out from behind the newspaper to see him.

He wasn't like how he remembered him. Seeing his bruised face, Rosco was reminded of how the Devil from months passed had never allowed anyone to lay so much as a finger on him. Now here he was, back in Hazzard of all places, tail tucked between his legs. If that affected his confidence, however, he'd have no way of knowing.

"I'm surprised you came, figured you'd chicken out," Clayton said, not making eye contact.

"We had a deal," Rosco replied quietly from behind his newspaper, his voice shallow and a little fearful.

"And I've kept my end of it. You'll be happy to know, Hughie's gone, he's been... taken care of."

At this, Rosco swallowed hard, glancing over at Clayton. "Uh... t-taken care of?"

"Dead, deceased, wasted, blown away, are any of those the words you're lookin' for, sheriff?"

Rosco made a small noise in his throat and watched as Clayton got up from the bench.

"I'll be around, I suppose."

Rosco blinked, looking up at him.

"And don't take that as an invitation to need somethin' from me, I ain't here for work, and I don't want any of your boss' blood money." Just as before, Clayton waved his hand over his shoulder, walking away. "Au revoir, cherie!"