The neon sign outside the Grassy Knoll Pub flickered like a drunk firefly as Sheriff Roy Templeton pulled his cruiser into the gravel lot. Mud Lick, Alabama, wasn’t known for high drama unless you counted the time Leroy Buckshot swore the Piggly Wiggly was a front for a 5G lizard conspiracy. Tonight, though, the call from Cassidy, the Knoll’s doorman, had Roy’s hackles up. “Sheriff,” he’d whispered over the phone, “some fella’s in here swearin’ two wrestlers done a murder. You better hightail it.”
Roy adjusted his Stetson, grabbed his Maglite, and stepped into the smoky haze of the pub. The jukebox was blaring Lynyrd Skynyrd, and the usual crowd—mostly locals nursing Bud Lights—had their eyes glued to a wiry man in a trucker hat waving his arms like he was auditioning for a Pentecostal revival. “I seen it!” he hollered. “Them two over there, the big ‘uns, they killed a man! I heard the shots!” Continue reading →