The Jesus Cow - Kangaroo
By
Graybeard Paine
Billy Bob Clanton was driving slowly when he swerved hard right to avoid a Martian flopping around on the road. I know that because he told my deputy, who called me at 3:00 AM. I was more than a little pissed that he called in the middle of my snooze time. At my age I have trouble enough sleeping.
“Billy Bob just showed up, all scratched up and yelling about Martians,” my deputy said. My deputy is named Doug, but everyone calls him Dawg. “He says the Martian forced him into the ditch and attacked him when he asked for insurance verification.”
Billy gets really drunk every month when is wife Kwasi has pms, so I asked, “What’s his blood alcohol?”
“two one”
“Jesus H Christ, Kwasi must be a terror this month.” I said, “Lock him up for public intoxication, check to see what he ran into, and don’t tell a soul about this until we know what’s going on.” I could depend on Deputy Dawg to carry out some of my orders, but probably not all of them. He’s the worst damned gossip in the Department and Billy Bob is, after all, one of our leading citizens. Dawg isn’t too smart but he’s only about two years from retirement so I have to live with it.
I got the next call woke me at about 6:00 AM and I decided to call it quits for the night.
“How’s Billy Bob doing?” I asked, not really giving a damn one way or another.
“He woke up early, spent some time at the porcelain altar, and now he’s banging on the bars yelling for food.”
“Let him go hungry for awhile, “ I said. “What did he run into?”
“He pretty well demolished his truck on a power pole,” he said. “I found the dead Martian – it was a kangaroo.”
Now, dead Kangaroos are not often seen on Oklahoma highways. More often are dead skunks, tortoises and armadillos.
“Where in hell would a kangaroo come from,” I said with just a hint of surprise in my voice.
Deputy Dawg confirmed my opinion, “Sheriff, I think they come from Australia.” Deputy Dawg is dependable when it comes to intellectual subjects.
“Keep it under your hat,” I said.
I stopped off at the Chatterbox for a quick breakfast and before Maylene even said, “Hello” she asked, “Can I have the dead Kangaroo?” So much for the tightness of Dawg’s hat.
“Maylene,” I asked, “what in hell would you do with a dead kangaroo?”
“I’d have him stuffed and put him by the front window with a sign that says, ‘Billy Bob’s Martian’.”
I laughed. Maylene laughed and everyone in the place laughed. We all knew she wanted to get even with her biggest competitor. Practical jokes were dead serious business in Coyote Creek. A stuffed kangaroo would even the score for the purple and yellow stripes he had painted on the Chatterbox while she was in California on vacation.
The free breakfasts I get at the Chatterbox pretty well decided the issue. I said, “You can have the kangaroo, but if someone claims it, you’ll have to give it back.’ She agreed and it’s a done deal.
I had Dawg deliver the roo to Bufford Burford, our local taxidermist. Mostly, we call him B.B. because it’s hard to remember which of his names comes first. Anyway, B.B. went into spiritual mode and began reciting prayers for the deceased. B.B. once said to me, “Every creature has a soul and I want them all to go to heaven.” He was a medic in Viet Nam, so I guess he has reason for what he believes.
Later, I was standing around the Chatterbox, swapping lies with the early morning crowd when I got the call.
“Sheriff, you better get over to B.B.’s quick,” Dawg said, “He’s really excited and says there’s been a murder.”
“Who was murdered,” I asked.
“He didn’t say.” Dawg was not known for his thoroughness.
I pushed the Ford just a bit over the speed limit and got to B.B.’s just as the Dawg’s black and white 56 Desoto arrived with lights flashing. My deputies provide their own cars and Dawg swears by the Desoto. It’s big, solid and has a pushbutton Powerflite transmission. Booger worked on the big hemi engine a bit, and it can outrun anything in the County.
“Stay out,” I said. I knew Dawg would obey my orders this time. He won’t get anywhere near a dead person.
I walked into B.B.’s. He was shook and shaking.
I asked, “Who got murdered?”
“The kangaroo,” he said.
I was a bit out of sorts, myself.
“You called me to look at a dead kangaroo?”
“ That’s not all sheriff. This was in the kangaroo’s pouch.”
B.B. pushed a plastic bag of one hundred dollar bills my way, followed by a bag of white powder.
“I think it’s illegal drugs,” he said.
I have lived here long enough that I keep my language under firm intellectual control.
"No shit," I said, “What else did you find?”
B.B. is a damned good taxidermist and a thorough guy, even though he does cry when he’s dealing with dead animals.
“I got a 30 caliber slug out of her,” He said. “It was a lung shot – she was suffering.” He gave me the slug, carefully wrapped in plastic wrap.
“One more thing,” he said. “Her stomach was filled with this.” He handed me a bag containing a slimy green mush.
“What the hell is this?” I asked.
“Partially digested marijuana,” B.B. said. “She’s been eating marijuana.”
I hate it when my days get complicated. I swore B.B. to secrecy and took the evidence home for safety. Even a skilled burglar will leave a package in the freezer that is labeled, “Liver, Tongue & Kidneys”.
I gathered up my ace “investigative police dog, Dweezel” and, together, we set out to investigate.
Dweezel is a black Lab who smiles a lot, eats a lot, sniffs crotches a lot, barks seldom and has only one outstanding skill. If I say, “Mark that tire,” he pisses on that tire. If I say, “Mark that guys leg,” he pisses on that guy’s leg. I may need his services before this case is closed.
Dweezel and I swung by Lulu Belle’s Bar and Grill to get the investigation started. The Grill was closed years ago, but the Bar is still in operation. I could tell by the truck out front that Lulu Belle was entertaining the only certified redneck in the county.
Julius was named after an orange drink his mother tasted at a mall and that’s the only name anyone uses for him. He’s just Julius. He drives a beat-up old Ford pickup with a loaded gun rack in the rear window. The truck is plastered with fading bumper stickers expressing his past and current thoughts, “THIS TRUCK GUARDED BY SMITH & WESSON,” MY KID CAN KICK THE SHIT OUT OF YOUR HONOR STUDENT,” “TO REPORT MY DRIVING, CALL 1-800-FUCK-YOU,” “WILL TRADE SLOW WIFE FOR FAST BOAT.” The Confederate flag decal on the rear window is right next to the one with the little cartoon boy pissing on Chevrolet.
I walked slowly past Julius’ truck, casually glancing at the piles of rusty tools, discarded beer cans and other junk in the back of the truck. Julius’ faithful friend and companion, Harvey, issued a warning growl as I tried to get a look inside the truck cab. No one knows why Harvey was named Harvey and no one ever asks Harvey. He is, perhaps, the World’s ugliest and meanest looking dog.
Anyway, all I got to see in the truck was the “juice can” where Julius spits his tobacco, the faded pair of fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror, and the pair of panties hanging from the visor. The panties obviously didn’t belong to Julius’ wife. From their size I suspected they might have come from Lulu Belle. God, he must have been drunk.
Julius is known as the county’s leading marijuana producer. I’ve never been able to find his big patches, but that may be because I don’t hanker to go traipsing through the woods. I hate poison ivy and the damned chiggers and ticks eat me alive. Anyway, Julius always tips me off to a small patch just before election time. It’s worth a few votes.
I took Dweezel into the bar with me because I knew Lulu Belle would get pissed off and she did.
“Sheriff,” she said, “Get that mangy damned hound out of here.”
“Can’t do it,” I said, “he’s been deputized and we’re here on official business.”
I turned to Julius and said, “Hypothetically, if something was eating your marijuana patch, what would you do?”
“If a hypothetical something was eating my hypothetical marijuana,” he said, “I’d get the hypothetical 12 gauge out of my truck and put a double barreled charge of double ought buck up it’s hypothetical ass.”
His answer seemed genuine and pretty well ensured that he didn’t murder the Martian.
“Where were you at three AM,” I said.
“You’d have to ask Lulu Belle,” he replied. “She knows where I woke up this morning.”
“Is that right, Lulu?” She smiled a bit and nodded a “yes.”
I turned to Julius and said, “Did she think you were a PBR bull rider or a NASCAR driver?”
Julius started laughing and Lulu snapped out a crisp, “Fuck you, sheriff!” Lulu Belle had a thing for bull riders and NASCAR drivers. She also had a fondness for professional wrestlers. One, or several of them, figured in most of her sexual fantasies.
“And get your fucking hound off my new pool table.”
I called Dweezel and we headed for my office. Dweezel seemed positively disappointed that I didn’t give the magic “piss” command. “Maybe next time,” I said. “Maybe next time.
I arrived at my office just in time to see Dawg clocking out. “Morning,” he said without mentioning the kangaroo.
My dispatcher greeted me with a cheery, “Good Morning.”
“Morning, Lacey, is there anything to report?”
“Only a couple of barking dogs and a dead kangaroo. Nothing unusual.”
She didn’t even smile.
“Anything else?” I said.
“Sheriff,” she said, “Do you think this County would consider electing a young, black lesbian as sheriff?”
“Why not? This is the only county in Oklahoma with an old, pink, liberal atheist as sheriff.”
“But, no one ran against you.”
“You sound like you’re planning to run against me in next election. Well, you got my vote.”
“Really,” she said, “That’s sweet.”
I’ve known for months that she planned to run against me in the next election.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Lacey said, “The professor is waiting to speak to you.”
The professor looked like a light load for a Shetland pony and the round, gold framed lenses of his glasses made him look a bit like an owl, not wise, but only blinded by the light.
“Morning, Professor,” I said
“Oh, Oh,” he stuttered, “I’m not a professor. Only a grad student.”
“I know,” I said, “but everyone is already calling you, ”Professor”, so you’re stuck with it.”
“Oh dear,” he said, “I don’t want to misrepresent myself. I even sent a letter to the Chamber of Commerce.”
I explained to the Professor that Coyote County doesn't have a Chamber of Commerce. Letters addressed to the Chamber are given to Maylene, who runs the Chatterbox. We depend upon Maylene to get the word out and she does. Everyone in the County knows about the Professor and his study.
“I understand you’re going to study cultural conflicts between our Native American and Scotch-Irish forebears and their relationship to contemporary society.”
“Yes Sir,” he said, “I was hoping you could give me a few introductions and a few tips about the County.”
“I’ll take you over to the Chatterbox to get acquainted. Most folks hereabouts are pretty decent. Just be polite and you’ll get along.”
We arrived at the Chatterbox just in time for mid-morning coffee with the gang. Dawg had been on the phone and the old-timers were ready.