Mall of the Swamps Part 3

3

Dixie Outfitters

Before each retail day began, minutes before the mall would open to the public, Riley Kenyon would set out three flags at the front of the store. 

The first flag, the one in the middle on the highest pole, was the flag of the United States of America.  Riley loved this flag, as he felt he loved his country, at least the best elements of his country.  He had fought for his country in the first Gulf War, a short but brutal conflict.  He wasn't injured, as some of his buddies were, and he didn't suffer from PTSD (Post Trauma Suffering Disease was the best name Riley could recall for it), but it still left a deep impression on him.  He wished Poppy Bush had not stopped them from invading Baghdad.  Maybe the Iraq War would not have been such a FUBARic mess.  Maybe it would not have been necessary for the son to come in and finish up what his Daddy didn't.

The second flag that Riley put up, the one to the left of the US flag, was the Georgia flag.  Not the current one, of course, the one brought about by weak-kneed legislators caving into liberal pansies and whiny minorities.  No, it was the pre-2001 version that he proudly displayed.  It had the state seal of Georgia to one side, and then it prominently displayed the Confederate flag on the other.  This flag was boldly adopted by the state of Georgia in 1956, to show the damn Yankees that they would not be pushed around, that Southern states had a god given right to be SOUTHERN States, and that they would not be forced to become pale copies of their namby-pamby Northern brethren.

The third flag that Riley put up, to the right of the US flag, was the purest and most glorious flag of them all.  It was the confederate flag, and yes, he was aware that at the time of the War Against Northern Aggression, that it was not the flag adopted by the Confederacy, but the Battle Flag of the Army of Northern Virginia.  Still, over time it had come to symbolize that great revolt, and it was a flag that Riley deeply revered.

Inside Riley's store were many varied symbols of Southern history, heritage and pride.  The flag was just the tip of the iceberg, and what a beautiful iceberg it was.  They had t-shirts celebrating Dixie Girls, with flowers, birds, motorcycles, pictures of gorgeous Southern women dressed in t-shirts and cutoffs.  They had items celebrating hunting, guns, pickups, and of course, items celebrating the gory of God.  They had t-shirts glorifying the Confederate heroes and leaders who had struggled so valiantly to preserve Southern heritage, and items honoring the individual states of the Confederacy.  There were t-shirts for young boys reveling in 4 wheelin', fishin', frog huntin' and even Yankee crushin'.  They even had stuff for Dixie Babies!  Who wouldn't want to have a Little Princess t-shirt, with a Dixie toddler dressed up with a Confederate symbol hair bow?

Currently, his store was occupied by a few customers, including two of his regulars, Digger Crowley and Sandy Harley.  Like him, they were two rather large gentleman, but in a muscular, strong way.  If there was a bar fight between the three of them, it's hard to say who would come out the winner.  They had youth and brute strength on their side, but he'd like to think he was bit wilier and more experienced.

They were there with Cissy Reese (Sandy's step-sister) and her little three old girl, Debbie.  Cissy was trying to pick out a cute Dixie Girl t-shirt for Debbie, something that would replace her outgrown Dixie Baby one.  The active, chubby little girl was pulling down t-shirts off their rack, and Cissy was trying to chase her down and put back the merchandise that Debbie was gleefully dislodging.

"Why don't you make this a real Dixie store, and sell some guns, too, Riley?"  asked Digger, a sarcastic smirk on his face.

"It's a clothing and accessory store, Digger," answered Riley, exhausted even listening to the question. "There's plenty of places to find guns."

"What's the matter, Riley?  You don't like guns," said Sandy, reaching around and pulling out the gun he had tucked into the back of his pants.

Riley's left eye tick twitched.  "Look, you boys know I got nothing against guns.  Heck, I own a couple dozen myself.  I run a franchise, and that's just not the marketing strategy that my franchisor wants us to go into."  Riley didn't mind guns, and he knew that Sandy had a legal right to carry, but he wasn't comfortable with them flashing it around in the store.  You never knew who would be in the store and how they would take to it.  Some of his customers were hardcore, true confederate sympathizers and gun lovers.  Others were more casual, upper middle class professionals who just liked to toe dip into Southern heritage culture every now and then.  For the store to succeed, it had to be open and welcoming to both kinds of customers. "Sandy, I'm going to ask you to put the gun back up.  I don't want to spook my customers."

Sandy shrugged his shoulders, and then put the gun back.  "Whatever you want, Riley.  I'm just happy to know that it's there if I need it.  You never know when you're going to run into trouble. I mean, I'd know what I'd do if Obama were to show up."

Digger guffawed, and then swatted Sandy upside the head.  "You redneck moron!  What good would that do?  You'd turn him into a hero, and the Muslim loving sacks of crap running things would still be in charge!"

Yeah, boys!  You got to watch what you say," agreed Riley.  "That Patriot Act stuff, you never know when they're listening."

Just then Riley saw a black woman walk by the front of the store.  She looked at the Confederate flag for a second, shook her head, and continued walking.  Riley recognized who she was, maybe one of the few blacks he knew by sight.  She was Ramona Adams, the legal secretary at Cooper & Strickland (or maybe it was just Cooper now, since Strickland had been murdered, most likely by that little Yankee guy), and had helped him with some of the incorporation and franchise papers.  She wasn't overly-friendly, but she sure had been competent and helpful.

Sandy was livid.  "Did you see that?  Did you see the way she stuck her nose up at our flag?  How dare she?  Things were a lot better for them before the Yankees came and messed things up!"

Sandy was so loud that other customers, including Cissy, turned their heads.  This was not the kind of loud discussion Riley wanted to have at his store.  These boys had no gift for speaking in the carefully cultivated code that you had to learn to express your true feelings.  All that political correctness crap made him choke in disgust, but sometimes you just had to swallow your pride and do it.  Besides, everyone who mattered knew what you really meant.

"Maybe we need to plant a Confederate flag in her yard!" suggested a giddy Sandy. "And a brick painted with the flag thrown the window!"

"You are too much.  Why don't we just go by there with flags on our pick up and honk the horn loud.  That should make out point," Digger said.  Then he pulled Sandy close.  "Do we really need to call attention to ourselves right now?  Let's not lose sight of the bigger picture," he whispered.

Sandy reluctantly agreed.  "You're right. It's just I hate it so much when people disrespect the flag.  Damn nig...."

Riley quickly interrupted.  "Yes, boys!  I think we need to take a look at this new belt buckle I got in.  Look at that beautiful rendition of the flag with the words on it, The Confederacy Rises!  Ain't that magnificent?"

Cissy came up to the counter, and laid a  t-shirt on the counter  (Dixie Girls, with the word BRAT written large and decorated with Confederate flag colors and designs).  Little Debbie was with her, and grabbed Digger's hand as if he were his Daddy.  Riley was pretty sure he wasn't, but he suspected Eddie Reese wasn't either (the marriage of Cissy and Eddie was just too short and convenient). Little girl actually had the close set hazel eyes and sharp chin of a Harley.  But it wasn't Riley's place to know anything for sure.

"If you boys are done blathering, would you take the time to check me out?" said Cissy, with a coy wink.

Riley blushed.  "Darling, I always got the time to check you out!"

Digger was still musing.  "I know what we should do.  I think we need to rename the Compton Park project and call it Dixie Land.  Line the son of a bitch with Confederate flags, and feature pro-southern businesses and restaurants.  Why, Riley, we could have your business right at the center of things!"

Sandy added, "Especially if you sell guns, Riley!"

"Well, maybe we can get on with it, at long last.  Now that we got that environmental and legal stuff over with," said Digger.

"Isn't it a murder site now?' asked Cissy.

"Not for long," growled Digger.  "Sheriff just has to get off his ass and string up that little Yankee feller."  Digger shook his head.  "Can't believe that gorgeous chunk of Southern womanhood, Christie Delco, was actually married to that hobbity dweeb."

"Well, now," Cissy said.  "There ain't no accounting for taste sometimes, is there?"

Riley Kenyon was not gonna argue with that.