The faint swish of burlap shifting in the darkened interior of the wagon caused the deputy’s hands to shake. He forced himself to breathe slowly, his heart racing. If it weren’t for the humiliation that would surely greet him when he came to his senses, he’d jump off the wagon and put as much distance between him and “it” as he was able. Did Randy hear that rustling sound? He glanced at Randy Wilson. The twenty- year-old deputy was staring at the road ahead. Icicles hung from the ends of Randy’s handlebar mustache. If Randy did hear, he was not letting on.
Ordinarily, Don, the deputy whose job it was to manage the “prisoner” while the other one drove the wagon, would have seen this as an occasion to have some fun. Randy was a six-footer but he had a round face, still soft with youth and with his full lips, well, the top lip distinctly bowed in the middle. Don had declared Randy’s lips made him look like a girl. You’re prettier though, Don laughed. The result of Randy’s efforts to address the problem of his lips was a blondish growth of silky whiskers that now hung on his face like needles on a porcupine. Don had grown his own moustache, a generous bristle of brown and auburn as a solution to his receding chin, unaware the effect made it worse.
