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Lumpy occupies 7th Street

Seth Thompson
Published: Thursday, January 31st, 2013

“So I didn’t even wear my ‘Only Good Commie Is a Dead Commie’ T-shirt ta this thing, jus’ so I could look, ya know, respectable- an’ tha’ TV camera guy hasta go interview tha’ wing nut that showed up carryin’ a rifle over his shoulder.”
No, it couldn’t be, I thought. I spun around. I couldn’t believe my eyes. 
It was Officer Lumpy— thinner than I’d ever seen him, impossibly sunburned and emitting a thick cloud of noxious cigar smoke. I thought I was hallucinating, but, there he was, standing near the corner of 7th Street in Rapid City, wearing an old pair of jeans and a faded Hawaiian shirt with a telltale bulge under his left armpit from his 10mm pistol—just part of the crowd gathered there in front of a local gun shop for the nationally-announced “Gun Appreciation Day.” 
Where had he been all this time? During the last year, no one seemed to know. His ex-wives, his long-suffering boss and the poker dealers in Deadwood hadn’t seen him, or wouldn’t admit that they had. Cases of Coors went un-drunk at the local watering hole and boxes of El Supremo cigars lay un-smoked in the humidor at the local tobacco shop. In the case of Lumpy’s boss, he seemed vaguely relieved that the old street monster was nowhere to be found.  

“So I didn’t even wear my ‘Only Good Commie Is a Dead Commie’ T-shirt ta this thing, jus’ so I could look, ya know, respectable- an’ tha’ TV camera guy hasta go interview tha’ wing nut that showed up carryin’ a rifle over his shoulder.”

No, it couldn’t be, I thought. I spun around. I couldn’t believe my eyes. 

It was Officer Lumpy— thinner than I’d ever seen him, impossibly sunburned and emitting a thick cloud of noxious cigar smoke. I thought I was hallucinating, but, there he was, standing near the corner of 7th Street in Rapid City, wearing an old pair of jeans and a faded Hawaiian shirt with a telltale bulge under his left armpit from his 10mm pistol—just part of the crowd gathered there in front of a local gun shop for the nationally-announced “Gun Appreciation Day.” 

Where had he been all this time? During the last year, no one seemed to know. His ex-wives, his long-suffering boss and the poker dealers in Deadwood hadn’t seen him, or wouldn’t admit that they had. Cases of Coors went un-drunk at the local watering hole and boxes of El Supremo cigars lay un-smoked in the humidor at the local tobacco shop. In the case of Lumpy’s boss, he seemed vaguely relieved that the old street monster was nowhere to be found.  

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