A trial run is always a good idea.

So if Big Bob expected to successfully lynch Capt. Jones he needed to test the gallows to make sure the necktie party would work. No better lab rat existed than Lt. Smith. With beady eyes set too close together and a sparse soul patch goatee on his weak chin, the veteran corrections officer even looked like a dirty rat at the end of his rope.

Thanks for coming over, Big Bob said.

Thanks for thinking of me, Lt. Smith said.

Big Bob explained how security exploded into a major issue since the paintball ambush. With Lt. Smith’s prison law enforcement background and aspirations to rise through the ranks of police work, he wanted him to head up a contingent of elite commandoes to safeguard his unlicensed booze and burger bar and enforce the rules.

I’m honored to help. Lt. Smith said.

You don’t know the half of it, Big Bob said under his breath.

Whoa, now that is some spectacular addition to the club, said Lt. Smith, pointing to the grim wooden structure that dominated the corner of the garage by the pool table.

I built it this morning, Big Bob said, walking to stand beside a 15-foot gallows constructed from lumber he stole at the landfill and used to build picnic tables for his restaurant. This will serve as an advertising brand for our white power movement. The gallows is a visual deterrent to lawbreakers to show we’re serious about our race war.

You ought to move this baby outside by the mud wrestling pit, Lt. Smith said.

Exactly where you’re headed, Big Bob thought, getting buried under the mud wrestling pit as soon as I dig your grave with my backhoe. Lt. Smith and Capt. Jones were like two piss ants in a pod. He was better at racism than both of them put together yet they acted like he was no smarter than a black lawn jockey posed with a lantern in front of a Southern plantation gate. Big Bob would show them.

Shining in the morning sun, with its stained wood grain timbers polished and thick, the ominous piece of capital punishment equipment drew the eye and held it in place as well as any outlawed police chokehold.

We need to hang a big dummy to test it, Big Bob said.

One that looks like Obama, Lt. Smith said.

I’m worried the planks won’t hold, Big Bob said.

You can hang that mutt of yours to try it out, Lt. Smith said.

Big Bob acted like he hadn’t heard Lt. Smith’s grievous insult.

Arf, said Clancy, wagging his tail and slobbering over another well-gnawed coyote bone.

We need to experiment to make sure the beams are strong enough, Big Bob said. Want to volunteer?

Hold my beer, Lt. Smith said.

‘Merica can always count on you, Big Bob said.

Climbing the stairs, Lt. Smith checked each step, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he made his way to the top. Standing on the trap door, he bounced some more. Jumping up, he grabbed an overhead joist with both hands. Letting go with one hand, he dangled from the gallows like a chimpanzee, comically scratching under his arm.

You big ape, Big Bob said.

Rushing up the steps, Big Bob reached out with a thick paw and tugged on the thick rope noose he already tied and secured to the top of the gallows. Lt. Smith couldn’t help laughing. We got to get this on video, he said.

The whole world is watching, Big Bob said.

Setting up the camera, Big Bob planned to release a double-feature once he finished thinning the herd and lynched Capt. Jones. He expected a world-wide viewing audience of at least a million right-wingers after blaming the double executions on Joe Biden supporters.

Big Bob adjusted the noose snug around Lt. Smith’s neck.

You want a hood?

No mask for me.

Smile, Big Bob said.

Lt. Smith offered up his best Elvis sneer.

Thank you very much, he said.

Big Bob ran down the stairs and threw the handle.

After a few minutes, the victim’s legs stopped kicking.

Lt. Smith died doing a one-man jitterbug.

Or was he dancing the Watusi?

Better yet, how about another dance from the power to the people 60s?

Funky monkey Lt. Smith went out doing one big, bad Boogaloo.