I wrote this for Lakewood, as sort of a sign-off, and he is 
welcome to expand on it, if he cares to, and share the 
by-line.  -- JD

This is extremely flattering.  Years ago, Joe wrote to his 
readers, "Please feel free to borrow any of my characters or 
story ideas....  As far as I'm concerned, anyone who wants to 
can do a sequel/prequel/re-write...or anything else inspired 
by my stuff....  I do...ask that you post your story under 
your own name or alias and not under mine."*  (*See the 
"Editor's Note," at the end, below.)  To my knowledge, he has 
never before offered to share a by-line.  I'm not sure what I 
could add to this story -- but I'll certainly give it a lot of 
thought.  -- C.L.  






               NO COUNTRY FOR OLD SHERIFFS

                           by

                        Joe Doe


I WROTE THIS AS A THANK YOU TO LAKEWOOD AND SEARCH'EM FOR ALL 
THEIR HARD WORK.  MANY THANKS, GUYS -- WELL DONE!


I was Sheriff at Clarksville at the same time my dad was Sheriff 
over at Baton.  The funny part was all those smart college girls 
who'd heard about Dad and drove off the Interstate to get around 
him...and ended up driving right into my jail.  He and I always 
got a big chuckle out of that.

I don't know if Dad was proud that I was a Sheriff at the same 
time he was.  I know I sure was.

Things change, though.

Back in the early sixties, young women didn't travel alone much, 
at least not until those stupid beach party songs and movies 
started coming out, and every 19-year-old with a bikini decided 
she just had to drive south for Spring Break to be "Where the Boys 
Are" or play "Beach Blanket Bingo" or whatever.  

It was different in those days.  No ACLU, no fancy-pants lawyers, 
no so-called "police brutality" suits.   A girl who got arrested 
was so embarrassed about being a jailbird that you never heard a 
peep from her after you let her go.  Nowadays you practically have 
to fire off a few shots just to shut 'em up.

Dad never wore a gun; he never needed to.  When he told a woman to 
get out of the car and put her hands on the hood, it was always, 
"Yes, sir!" or "What did I do wrong, Officer?"  Never any smart 
mouth.  

I'll tell you something else.  In those days women didn't carry 
guns, or mace, or tasers.  When you fondled their boobies, the 
only thing you felt was titty.  

Dad spent much of his career arresting women for "driving while 
blonde," an offense that had nothing to do with hair color and 
everything to do with being a hot babe driving alone without no 
father or boyfriend to protect her.  Dad said he never understood 
why hot pussy was allowed to run around loose like that.  Truth 
is, it always puzzled me, too.  

Those were the days.  My dad squeezed so much T&A in those days, 
he used to brag that the term "cop a feel" came from him.  You 
could pull a woman over, give 'er a little grope, and send 'er 
on 'er way, with no harm done.  If she was real hot, you could 
take 'er down to the station and make 'er dance a little 
striptease to order.  It was all in good fun, and Dad sent 
'em home none the worse for being wiser.

Back around '65, though, things started to change.  We started 
getting a lot more sass.  College girls all the time squawking 
about their rights to this and that...and asking what the charges 
were.  It pissed Dad off so much that he opened up the county 
prison farm.  

Half the time Dad didn't even bother to file charges.  He would 
just tell the judge (his brother Elroy) some sassafras about resisting arrest and disrespecting the badge.  After 30 days to 
a year working on the chain gang and humping at the truck stop, 
they wasn't nearly as snooty coming out as they was going in.

1967 was the so called "summer of love" and, if you ask me, it's 
when the weirdos officially took over the world.  If you pulled 
over a car load of Yankee coeds in those days, it was pretty much 
a miracle if one of them didn't have weed.  

At first it threw Dad for a loop -- the concept of sending women to 
jail for real crimes never occurred to him.  But I helped him set 
up two more prison farms, and, before long, ever'body -- me and 
Dad and Uncle Elroy -- was raking in a pretty tidy profit.  

Nowadays you can't even tell a girl to put her hands on the hood 
and spread 'em, because some idiot will use a video camera to 
record the whole thing.  Of course it's nice to be able to video 
the searches down at the station -- I've got quite the little 
Blockbuster going, if you know what I mean.  But the old days 
were the days.

The women we put in the prison now are mostly professionals, so 
we've upgraded a lot.  We scan their fingerprints into the computer 
and digitize their mug shots.  They get real trials and ever'thing, 
even if Uncle Elroy's son, Melroy, still finds 'em guilty.  

And we have a real exam table (with stainless steel stirrups), and 
rubber gloves, and lube, and everything.  Yes, we take our jobs 
seriously these days, and we search 'em good, inside and out.

Still, I miss the old days.  Back then, old Joe Doe wrote nearly 
a story a week, and even if it was a pain in the backside for his 
editor to fix up the grammar to make it sound right...and never 
complained (excepting a little).  

And Katie wrote some good ones, too, and Ashley, and Deputy Duffy, 
and Lakewood, and Hildabert, and Zola, and lots of others besides.  
So many there was hardly time to edit 'em all.  Yes, those were 
the days.  

I always like talking to one of the old timers when I get a chance, 
'cause things are so different now.

If you pull a woman over for speeding now she spends the whole 
ride to the station bitching about how she's innocent, and how 
she demands a lawyer...and a phone call so her daddy can bail 
her out.  When cell phones first came out, I practically had to 
sprint over to the damn car to keep them from calling for help.  
We got a doo-hickey that jams them now, which is good, because 
I'm getting too old to outrun a damn cell phone.

We scan them in, and strip them down, and shower and delouse them, 
and they blush and squirm and stare at their toes.  Even after all 
these years, each girl is a little different.  I love them all, 
and servicing them keeps me going, it truly does.

These days Joe writes only a few stories a year.  It's always nice 
to hear from him, 'cause it's a little like the old days then.  

Last night, I had a dream.  I don't know dreams are of much 
interest, unless you're the party involved, but here it is:  

I was sitting in a speed trap, behind a billboard, when I saw 
Dad drive by.  He was a young man, much younger than I am now.  
Although he had the siren on, and was driving fast, he sort of 
froze in my mind's eye, and I could see him clear as day. 

In the back of the prowl car were three hotties -- a redhead, a 
brunette, and a blonde.  On the dash he had a huge stack of 
stories...from Joe and others.

He didn't see me, just sped on past.  I knew that someday soon 
I'd catch up with him, and the girls would be waiting for me, 
with that stack of new stories from Joe and the rest, waiting 
to be read.

Someday.

Soon. 


		******************************

*Editor's Note:

For Joe's two other stipulations regarding sequels, prequels, 
and re-writes, see "Give 'Til It Hurts."

C. Lakewood