Karma

Call it Karma like Earl, or call it “What comes around, goes around.” Every form of religion or belief system that I know of has some form of equalization regarding the good and bad things that happen to people. The universe just has a way of evening things up. What more incentive do you need to use honor and integrity in all that you do?
Two weeks after the first Waverly card-playing event, Count asked me to attend another with him. I thought to myself, here is my chance. I will not get caught without my cameras again. But now I am having a dilemma. Count and I appear to be rekindling our friendship. That sounds too queer. We are getting to be friends again. If it were not for the money, would I accept the invitations? Am I posing as a friend just so I can burn him? God, am I turning into the worst kind of Marine, doing this to a brother Marine, for money?
Count and I arrived at the Trackside, but the previous hand-job bimbo was not in sight. No matter. Another older, but thinner gal quickly took her place. Drinks were purchased, and pleasantries exchanged. Something called

The Incredible Hulk was placed before me. It is made from Hypnotic, which is blue in color, and Cognac (YAK), which is brown. My elementary knowledge of primary and secondary colors tells me that the mix should not make green, but in this case it does. The mix also should not make you feel like Ferrigno’s character, but unfortunately, it does as well.

I realized that I appeared to be poised like a cat ready to strike, hanging on their every word, just to see if I thought I could have the opportunity to collect video! Count had me there to chase strange with him, and here I looked like a student of the game, when I should be teaching Count how to be discreet. Would it not be more fun to chase skirts with him, instead of trying to hang him out to dry? I am not sure this shit is all worth the trouble.

Not 10 minutes had passed, when Count as much as told me that he was going to ride with this women to her home on the north side of town, just a few minutes drive from the bar. He told me I could wait here for him, and he would return, or I could feel free to take off on my own and catch him at work tomorrow. I would not play it safe anymore. It was time to pull the goalie. My goodness, if he only knew I was tracking him like a bloodhound.

I followed Count and the woman a few blocks behind. I came to the corner just in time to see the tail lights dim. I waited until both silhouettes entered the split-level home. Damn it Heck, what the hell are you doing? Just drive on, forget this shit. Leave Count alone to his own demise. I drove around the block and stopped at the stop sign across the street and catywhompus to the woman’s driveway. Looking up through my video, I could see the living room lights where Count and his friend were undressed, doing God knows what. Why am I acting disgusted? Count is doing what I wish I was doing.

At that very moment, a pick-up pulled into the driveway, and I could only imagine that it was the woman’s spouse. I began to fear for Count. Shit, he’s about to get caught in the act! Damn, you dumbshit, how could you be so careless. Then I spotted the silhouette that had to be Count, running from the backside of the house, through the backyard directly toward the street in front of me. I practically tossed the camera into the backseat, quickly started my vehicle and sped down the road. Rolling down my window, I yelled at Count, “Get in, you stupid fuckin’ jarhead!”

He did not dare do a Bo Duke slide across the hood of my Wrangler. It was too high in the air, and the hood latches were bound to snag something. Just in case, I drove ahead of him so he would run around the back. Count did not have a stitch of clothing on. He jumped in my front passenger seat, buck naked, taking inventory of the clothing he had in his hands with a smile on his face, “What the fuck are you doing here, Heck?”
I had no real answer. “I was just leaving town,” I nervously lied, “and I saw you running naked.”
Thankfully Count was another great thinker who had a reply prepared without listening to my answer, “Fucking great Karma!”
“Yah,” was all I could think to say. Karma my ass; who are you now, Earl? I could only imagine what was running down his crack into my vinyl buckets.
“…and it had pleased Him to have His only Son hung from a tree with a bad joke over His head.”