Deputy Jeavons Catches A Peach Stealer

by John Lambert


Copyright on this story text belongs at all times to the original author only, whether stated explicitly in the text or not. The original date of posting to the MMSA was: 24 Feb 2008


A fitful sun cast long afternoon shadows over the suburban street, the heat of the day had dissipated, and the smells and sounds for preparations of evening meals were everywhere. I strolled along a road with neat houses on either side to deliver a reminder about an unpaid jaywalking fine. I glanced down an alleyway, and saw the youth. He looked around in all directions, except, crucially, the one that would have revealed my presence. Then, like a guilty schoolboy instrumental in something nefarious, he clambered nimbly over the fence into a garden. For a small town we seemed to have a surfeit of boys and youths bursting with sin. I caught a glimpse of ripe, full buttocks as he disappeared into the garden. The youth's tight blue jeans clung to his shapely rump as if in desperation.
I strode through the gate of the house where the culprit was trespassing and found the owner, an old man, reading sleepily on his front porch. He looked up at me, pop-eyed with disbelief. He did not look the type of citizen to receive regular visits from uniformed Police Officers.
'Sir,' I said, 'I don't want to alarm you, but I believe you have an intruder in your back garden.' I informed him as quietly as possible. He had a virile and imperious face and he was raging, he clenched his fists fiercely, and his growling voice seemed to shake with suppressed wrath.
'After my peaches, I'll wager.' He announced staring at me over his pince-nez. His face grimaced in an angry and determined expression like that of an Old Testament prophet. He rose creakily on stiff legs to dispense divine wrath.
'You leave this to me, Sir, I'll catch him.'
I crept stealthily down the side of the house, the old man followed in my wake.
The boy, as the householder had prophesied, was high in the branches of a peach tree. I managed to get quite close to him, near enough to observe that he possessed a muscular and curvaceous tail that I deemed ideal for a hard and prolonged switching. As I got close to the tree and the boy, he tossed a peach over the back, wood panel, fence of the garden. Clearly, the peach stealer had an accomplice. The collaborator was alert.
'Po-lice, run Tyson.' An agitated young voice called out. Loud and rapid footfalls made it obvious that the a better's loyalties did not extend to being caught.
Tyson, tried to run. He jumped down from the tree and scampered towards the fence. It was just enough of an exercise to set my heart racing and provide me with the excitement of the hunt without causing any anxiety about the eventual outcome.
I grabbed the youth by his collar. He wriggled and squirmed.
'Let me go.' He struggled some more. I always enjoyed touches of rebelliousness when displayed by boys in trouble.
'Be still.' I shouted with a blend of menace and brusque professionalism. He stopped, and stared me sulkily in the eye. I gave him my 'sass-me-and-see-what-happens' look that inevitably started boys trembling.
The house owner came tottering up the garden. His eyes were alight with triumph, his voice hardened and rose to an indignant shrill.
'Ah, this boy, Sir.' The old gentleman said shaking his head despairingly and pointing an angry finger, 'needs a fine good whuppin'.'
The expression of disbelief and alarm on 'this boy's' face transformed itself into a hunted look and he started quaking. A chevron of concern cut deep into his brow.
'It ain't as simple as that, Sir.' I stated in a professional manner, 'he had an accomplice, a partner in crime.' I brooded malevolently at 'Tyson'. 'I need to take him to the station.' The youth started to lick his sweat-beaded lips, and his eyes flicked in directions.
The idea of a visit to the station distressed him even more than a 'fine good whuppin', his face became disfigured by a frown. I was time for Tyson to feel uneasy and grasp his situation. It took little liveliness of his imagination to realise he was in deep trouble.
'Who was your friend?' I asked.
The owner of the peach tree became impatient, 'Don't be doing with that, you axe me, he needs a switch across his ass, and he needs it right now.' The house-owner's face pinched like a set of pliers.
'Who was your friend?' I repeated making a further attempt to coax an answer from him with minimal success.
His defiant response 'I neva seen him before' was, I regret to say, curt to the point of provocation.
I thought briefly, I studied the downcast boy and then said.
'Ok, Tyson cut yourself a switch.' I growled my words in a careful monotone and then lapsed into silence. The boy's mind was in turmoil. He even opened his mouth in order to hear better.
'A switch?' He said, and then added 'you figure on whuppin my ass?' His voice was suddenly quieter, weaker in timbre, speechlessness descended on Tyson as his voice stuck in my throat. The old man's face contorted with pleasure.
'Make it a good one, Tyson.' I said crisply and then add, 'and if you don't start calling me 'Sir' soon, I'll finish with your switch and whop you cross-eyed with one I pick.' The house-owner chuckled merrily. Tyson gulped, colour drained from his face and he stared at me with an expression of surprise and abject entreaty.
'Hurry, Tyson.' I urged, taking off my jacket to demonstrate my seriousness. 'Folks are gathering.'
'Yes, Sir.' His choked voice quivered with indignation, but he cleared his throat to continue. 'I'se be quick, Sir.' The edge of defiance in his voice did not return. He appeared, at last, afflicted by a modicum of guilt.
The householder supervised selection of the switch. He directed Tyson towards an apple tree. It was the worst possible choice for a boy who would soon be feeling a stout switch cut from that type of tree over his rump. The owner of the house skipped with surprising vitality and zest to a shed and emerged with a pair of pruning shears. As ever, in our town, word of an exciting incident got round fast. A group bustled about, beyond the fence, eager and watching anxiously, waiting to see what happened next.
'He's cutting a switch.' A voice gasped feverishly.
The old man and the boy debated the merits of lengths of woody twigs. Eventually, I heard the 'snip' of the shears.
I will say this for Tyson. He was obviously a well cared for and politely raised boy. He cut an excellent switch.
'It this OK, Sir?' Tyson asked timidly offering me the stick.
'He's given the switch to Mr. Jeavons.' A voice hissed in exhilaration.
Watchers peered through gaps in the fence, they were bright-eyed, and with tongues moistening lips, but they retreated quickly as I spun round.
I slashed the switch a couple of times and my actions further confirmed the excellence of Tyson's choice.
'Ok, Tyson,' I said, 'it's good,' The three-foot length of switch made an ominous hissing sound as I wagged it up and down. 'Pants and shorts down, lets get this done.' The 'pants and shorts down' met with the Householder's adoring agreement. His smile was wide; 'coast to coast' on his wrinkled and lined face.
'Bare ass?' Tyson muttered lamely in bewilderment. One cheek started twitching; he grimaced and started biting his lip.
'Bare ass always adds immense interest to the occasion.' I confirmed nodding my head and swishing the stick.
'He's getting it bare ass.' A scandalised voice in the crowd whispered. Tyson obeyed huffily, but soon stood with his pants and shorts around his ankles. No doubt, he was thankful for the long shirt that hid his most precious treasures.
He even bent over, but his position was not to my satisfaction.
'Turn round this way.' Tyson, very flustered, shuffled about. I announced in a loud voice. 'I want everybody watching to see what happens to the tails of boys who steal in this town.' The youth's rump faced the gawping observers, who grew in number as word spread like wildfire about the 'happening'.
Overexcited chattering greeted the first sighting of Tyson's splendid rear-end as with the stick I swept his shirt away from his excellent buttocks. It was the perfect bottom for anybody with a wagging switch to hand, but then I find all bottoms appealing in that circumstance. Tyson's seat was the colour of coffee with a splash of cream, tender looking and it shook in its vulnerability. I thrashed a hard blow across it. Tyson released a terrified squeak as the stout switch thrashed across his bottom. The loiterers gasped, 'woo-hoo' somebody bellowed. Tyson kept reasonable still, just a small shuffle. I whacked him again. He groaned morosely. The owner of the house came to watch proceedings from the rear. His position obscured the view of others and they immediately urged him to move. The old fellow looked sated with pleasure as he examined the darkening marks across the silk-like skin of the bad boy. I thrashed another blow, and Tyson released some anguished mumbling and briefly rubbed his rump. He settled again, offered his sore rump for my further attention. I thrashed him again. His bottom was coming nicely to the boil now. Tyson yelped, jumped up, and rubbed his ass with huge enthusiasm. Several people guffawed loudly at the sight of the youth kneading his ass so avidly and hopping about while he did it. He gave me a baleful look.
'One more.' I said encouragingly.
A groan came from those assembled, and indeed the old man moaned something about 'light punishment'. I quietened everybody, by threatening, 'While I've got this switch I might come back there and look for some others to use it on.'
Tyson's bottom quivered as I tapped the switch against it, I then lashed a hard blow. He hollered, skipped and, according to somebody in the crowd was in danger of 'rubbing his ass right away'. He pulled his shorts and pants up very quickly, but he carried on rubbing and comforting his splendid, round and sore bottom.
He stood before me, his face shiny with heat, eyes moist and promised 'not to do it again.'
'That should happen to all people who break the law.' The old man offered loudly as an opinion to the dispersing crowd.
The youngster walked to the front of the house and out to the street with both hands still churning his hot buttocks and grumbling quietly to himself.
I accepted some coffee from the householder, who felt that the switching had been 'easy' for a youth like Tyson. Having finished my coffee I remembered my errand, and pulled the 'Reminder Notice' from my pocket.
'Do you know where 742 Savannah Avenue is?' I asked.
The pop-eyed expression of disbelief returned. He blanched and hesitated while his coffee mug shook in his hand.
'Are you Mr. Crompton? Mr. Ambrose Crompton?' I asked enunciating every syllable precisely. I knew he was and he nodded his head with small, nervous jerks.
'Well, Mr. Crompton, you better be paying this fine,' I handed him the letter, 'I know your views on what should happen to people who break the law and how 'easy' some punishment can be.' He froze and gawped in amazement.
He clattered his coffee mug to the table.
'I'll be checking, if this fine ain't paid in two days, I'll come round again, and I wont be a talkin', I'll leave this switch right here on the porch.' He seemed to shrink into his clothes, to wither under my gaze. 'Much obliged for the coffee, Sir.'