As we reintroduce you to another member of THE TIN CUP CLAN, I thought you might want to get a good look at our resident redhead, “STICK,” aka David Byrge. He’s a little on the wimpy side, but a true friend nonetheless. Enjoy this little excerpt from “THE LEECH CEMETERY WITCH.”
Most simply moan a weak “here” and let it go at that, but the smart ones, well now, they gotta be proper, so you usually get a firm “present,” and that’s about it. The cool kids and jocks generally snap a sharp and loud “sir.” The rowdy and the rebels usually mutter a lazy “Yo,” without so much as bothering to sit up straight, which of course is followed by the “eye-roll.”
When my name is called, I always speak up with a simple “here,” not too loud or obnoxious, just enough to be heard. But when it comes to Stick, well, you never know what you’re gonna hear.
This morning I reckon he was in an unusually good mood. A sharp “HERE SIR” rattled through the room when Burton called his name, causing everyone’s head to snap in Stick’s direction. There he was, standing at attention, eyes focused straight ahead. A sharp military salute caused a snicker to float through the room. It even brought a smile to ol’ Burton’s face. Stick, not being one to turn down attention, drops the salute and reclines back into his seat, an obvious look of satisfaction on his freckled face. The three of us had a hunch Ol’ Stick was gonna pay for that one.
Before we start, I need all you cats to pass last night’s homework to the front of the room. A collective groan suddenly washed through the room, followed by the sound of shuffling papers. Without warning, a loud “daing-it” pierces the shuffle.
Stick didn’t do his homework again.
Burton looked up.
Again?
We go through this at least once a week. What do I need to do, Byrge; call your dad or what?
“Good luck with that shit,” came Stick’s reply.
That collective groan immediately turned into a collective gasp as it echoed against the walls.
The three of us sat there dumbfounded, mouths open in disbelief.
Holy crap!
He didn’t?
Stick looked at the room, pleased with himself for the comment.
Dave leaned over to me and whispered. “He’s gonna git it now fer sure. Burton cain’t let a challenge like that go without answer.”
He was right.
Burton’s eyes turned a vile shade of yellow, and his cheeks a bright crimson. You could see the anger building on his face.
He was silent for a moment, just long enough to ponder the value of ol’ Stick’s life.
Everyone sat frozen in silence, waiting for the verdict. Life or death, it could go either way; no one knew.
Then he spoke. Low and slow, his usually calm voice now possessed a noticeable quiver.
All right then, young man, if you wanna play it that way. He stopped for a long slow breath as he aimed his finger at Stick.
Don’t leave this room till you see me.
You hear me?
He glared at the skinny redhead; Lord knows what was going through his mind.
That was it; the verdict was in… Death.
We all feared the worst for our old pal, yet hoped for the best, but there it was, ol’ Stick had bought the farm, plain and simple. Yep, the old boy had just paid hard money for a whipping!
The Tin Cup Clan 
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