40StudeDude
10-28-2005, 10:15 PM
THERE’S AN E-BAY SUCKER BORN EVERYDAY!
or
MURDER ON DIRT ROAD!
A fictional, satirical and sometimes humorous look at e-bay, those that talk the shit, those that walk the shit, those that ain’t got a clue and those that play the game!
By R.A. Jetter (aka 40StudeDude)
Watching porn flix in the dark, E.Bayman was dejected. He thot about suicide cuz no one cared, didn’t need him at e-bay. He was ready, willing and able to help…but no one needed him…anymore, people were honest, trustworthy…e-bay had changed.
Wait, I’m getting ahead…or is that behind?
E.Bayman, first name’s Evan. Evan? Ethan…maybe. Everett sometimes, Ed’s OK, but Evan? Reminds me of that bottled water available in 7-11’s. Anyway, E.Bayman knew, when he was very small, he would be THE watchdog for a new electronic auction service, kept running around the house yelling “caveat emptor, caveat emptor, scrawling the words in crayon on the walls.” His parents weren’t fooled, they knew no one could ever concoct such an auction house, besides, computers weren’t even invented when Evan was a youngster.
Didn’t deter him one bit…those people are called psychic cuz they can see into the future…yeah, he was shunned…an outsider, shunned cuz he was a little left of center, always working on his trike when it didn’t need work, swapping parts with trike owners, not carrying a full load of bricks, a cupcake short of package…you know, all those clichés.
He grew up, and for the past few years, E.Bayman has been Champion of the underdog, keeper of the honesty flame, and scourge to non do-gooders everywhere. His motto: “You’re gonna get yours pal and I’m gonna be the giver!”
Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, his pal, Fiddy-Four, a junior wannabe detective in my squad, shot Polaroids of body parts and evidence notes attached to items around the room, to be scoured for clues later. Each flash a shocking memory, capturing the carnage. Ejected photos broke the unnerving silence. The Coroner picked up pieces, tossed them into a black body bag and zipped it closed.
A bloody meat cleaver - the murder weapon, stuck upright in the cutting board and a mottled footprint the only clues. The overfilled sink dripped onto yellow linoleum, creating a crimson stream trickling down the hall. I flipped the disposal switch. Metal teeth chewed potato peel and beef fat as a whirlpool drained the sink. A hand, with the middle digit extended, swirled in murky water, defiant to the end. The acrid reek of dishwater filled the kitchen. It was welcome from the stench of body parts scattered around.
My name is ChopRods, I’m a dick…ehrrrr-raaa…a detective, and a damned good one, ask anyone. Some think I’m an asshole (I really am) but 40StudeDude has that wrapped up. No matter, I kinda figure everyone’ll either get over it…or die angry! I ‘d been walking my Beagle, Fur Biscuit, for about fifteen minutes, in that time things had changed forever. He’d gotten fidgety as we strolled by Squablow’s house. The dog knew something was amiss. I couldn’t get it to stop whining … even coercing it with nine hot dogs from the street vendor didn’t help. Funny how things fall into place, especially when you’re a dick with a critical eye (I’m blind in the right eye, but that don’t matter, I see things better’n the average Katatonic Mike!)…I noticed Squablow’s front door open…out of place for a guy that hadn’t been outside his home for years, was always busy building something in that narrow five-foot enclosure he called a garage. But we kept walking, I’d check later.
Fur Biscuit whimpered. Dogs have an uncanny sense of knowing things -- unusual behavior, skittish jumps, random barking -- disregarded by humans. "Fur Biscuit is seeing Bigfoot again," my wife would comment when the dog jumped on the overstuffed chair, barking at the old growth forest out the window. ‘Course, twelve foot hairy creatures I do not believe in, but Fur Biscuit had been going out of his doggy mind, almost if someone shadowed us that evening as we walked. I’d never seen the dog so agitated. Yet, thinking back on it, I blame myself, we should have stopped when I noticed the door ajar (and that’s unusual, didn’t know how Squablow turned it into a jar). I'd made it habit over the years to check in on Squablow. I’d befriended him…and Fur Biscuit, of course, loved that old man, always had hot dogs cooking. Squablow was close to ninety, told him he needed someone to look after him, make sure everything was OK but he’d simply grunt and look at me strangely while holding that Monkey wrench over the hood of his ’53 Ford, one of his recent acquisitions. Had no idea he was trying to chop it with that wrench…strange old fart. He’d say: "I swear officer, it was running just yesterday! Yes, that one over there also,” even tho I hadn’t said a thing about his non-running cars. Oh well, guess he’ll figure out it can’t be done with that wrench. With no living relatives, he’d been alone too many years. No one I knew in this town would hurt Squablow. But we didn't stop that nite. Now I wouldn't have to. Somehow, I felt responsible.
It passed.
Rocket303 had been by yesterday, saw his rusted hulk of a bondo bucket in the driveway…pieces falling off…he left a trial into the driveway and then emptied the ash tray right there at the curb…Man, that pissed me off! If I’da caught him, he’da got a littering ticket. Squablow mumbled to me a few days earlier that Rocket303 bought a ‘61 Chevy station wagon on e-bay, also said Rocket303 was known as BIGWORM and south of the border he’s known as Gusano Grande. I didn’t understand that and let it pass. He went on to explain Rocket303 had pix of the car, vague, description brief and wasn’t happy with the car…or having to spend money for a genuine eastern POS. But, thru e-mails and phone calls, the seller told Rocket303 he could drive the wagon to his home in Cali, from New York. Instead, he consigned a shipper and dropped it off at Rocket’s work, rust fell out as it was unloaded. Damned thing wouldn't even start, had to jump-start it and wouldn't move half a block. Oil dumped out…the racket the valve train made was deafening. Rocket had it towed home.
I tried to change the conversation, but Squabbie continued, said the seller commented there wasn't any rust “he knew of”— in other words “rust free.” I reminded Squablow when you live in Cali, “rust-free” is normal, but anyone that’s halfway intelligent knows vehicles from the east coast are rust-buckets! He added, “the entire lower half of the wagon is bondo, belt line down, the undercarriage is worse. Yep, no rust, all bondo! He said Rocket asked the seller -- "how is the paint, is it original?" Squabbie said the paint looked like a $99.00 spray job rubbed out with steel wool. Wonder where those $99.00 jobs are? Around here Maaco starts at $299.00. I chuckled and asked if Rocket303 wanted congratulations?
Tonite, walking past his house, the wagon gone, I’d hoped he’d gotten things straightened out with the seller and e-bay. Fur Biscuit smelled the ciggie butts, marked them and kept going.
The call came just as we’d walked in the house. Told the Homocide Bureau I’d be right there. I put Fur Biscuit out back to chase the cat, yeah, yeah, I know a dope trailer is no place for a kitty, but the dog likes it! I trotted the fifteen blocks back to Squablow’s garage. Dreaded going in. I noticed the roof had been removed from the ’53, didn’t know how tho, the Monkey wrench was bent and someone had scrawled across the roof -- The only stupid question is the one you just asked. That was perplexing, but I had other things to worry about. After spending too much time in the kitchen surveying the bloody scene, I went to headquarters to sort out a senseless murder. It’s not an easy thing when crime turns ugly. Uglier yet with no clues.
The scariest part was that Squablow wasn’t the only one, his death was the fourth in four weeks. The M.O. matched. Someone was killing helpless old hot rodders. The murderer was psycho, elusive and left few clues. In fact, once each crime scene had been scoured; each drop of blood, each microfilament lifted and scrutinized by experts in forensic technology, there was nothing conclusive, except that lone footprint...one near-perfect, bloody footprint. Surprisingly, left at all four places, almost like the killer purposely placed it. The boot-print, according to experts, was a basic steel-toed Wolverine. The killer took precious minutes to press size fourteens into a pool of blood.
That bothered me…why would a boot-print be deliberately placed? Seventy-five point 9 percent of the men in this dirty little town wore Wolverines, including me, and there were a few women, manly women driving forklifts, doing men’s job, that wore fourteens. That alone didn’t help. Yet, there’s one other thing that bothered me, no one else noticed…I did. Squablow hadn’t had dinner. Neither had Dragrcr50 and Colorado51. The first victim, RacerRick, was apparently cruising the computer when he was murdered…told me each knew the murderer and trusted him to come into their homes. Snacks were scattered across coffee tables, including two brands of Corn Flakes. Shoulda known there was something strange going on…who eats Corn Flakes? That told me two people were surfing the internet. It’s a real shame, four ancient old men wouldn’t bother anyone… were simply following some unfolding drama on the HAMB…about e-bay, magazines, rusty east coast cars or trying to explain to HAMB ‘youngsters’ what “caveat emptor” meant. Couldn’t have been more serious than that, besides, life is too important to be taken seriously. I surmised it was a male that murdered them. Women aren’t that physical, and they don’t hang out on the HAMB as much as those old guys did.
PING! It hit me, the chimes in my brain were working. So was that old tune I never lose: I likesmoke and lightnin', heavy metal thunder, racin' with the wind- and the feelin' that I'm under. You know, that one by John Kay/Goldy McJohn in the band called Steppenwolf, way back in 1968? Oh, never heard it, eh?Too bad, wish I didn’t, I hear it all the time, I think the fillings in my back teeth pick it up from Oklahoma…or New York.Anyway,I pushed back from my desk, grabbed car keys, and rushed down the stairs. Couldn’t believe I missed it. I almost ran over my partner, Brush, as I flew through the headquarter’s door.
“Whoa, ChopRods, where you going?” he yelled, regaining his balance.
“Morning Brush. Jump in. I’ll explain on the way.”
Brush fell into the passenger seat of the cruiser, struggled with the seat belt, knees up around his ears. He was the epitome of a small town cop, albeit awkward…ex all-star high school quarterback, pro football running back standout that blew out his knees three years into the game, ruining any chance of retiring famous and wealthy. At 34, he was big and strong, retired and broke. Muscles built lugging V8 engines at a summer job for his father remained. “What the hell is going on, Chop?”
“Missed something.”
“What? Missed what?”
“Not missed. Didn’t look.” I slid the 5-speed into low, laid a patch away from the curb and almost nailed Squirrel, the meter maid, ticket book went flying…I knew that “favor” would be returned when I got back! “At all four murders the computers were still on, so was the television. No one bothered to check what was the last thing they were looking at, right?” I grabbed second and tossed gravel all over Curious Rash’s ’59 as he came roaring up behind me. Ouch… that’s gonna leave a mark. I’d apologize later.
“So, who cares if the television was on?”
“No one. Except we’ve got to determine what site they were watching.”
“Site? What you goin’ on about, Chop?”
“Car parts, the internet. You’re slow today, Brush. Head hurt? Forget the TV. Look, Squablow was always selling something.” I slid the shifter into third, squawked the tires and continued. “If I’m correct, he and the other victims would be perusing e-bay, you understand that word: ‘perusing’? Have to check their computers, too.” I hit fourth and the sedan slid sideways, I whipped the wheel, straightened it out, tire smoke filled the interior. Brush coughed, pulled his seat belts tighter and bent forward to grab the bottom of the dash, hit his head on the windshield. “Thinking ahead, I venture the person they invited in to share snacks stole parts from them and will pawn the ill-gotten booty. When that happens, I’ll be ready.” Brush looked confused, I sighed. “I’ll to try to explain later, after your Canadian tea.”
Banging a tire/rim on the curb at road’s edge, and bending the damned thing…third one this week, I slammed the DiChrome.com topped gearshift into reverse, jumped out of the cruiser and bounded over the ditch, missed the pile of doggy doo, tho. Brush got out his lighter, I knew he was about to set it on fire. I yelled “Don’t!” Now, if I were the murderer, I’d go out Squablow’s screen-less back door with my priceless stuff, wrapped in garage rags. Hopefully, there’d be a missed clue back there. I again yelled at Brush, “Go inside, see if there’s car parts on the living room table.”
I scoured the back yard. Walked the fence line like a drill sergeant eyeing his men. Scanned nook and cranny. Every square inch got the once over from my laser-repaired eye…nothing propped against the fence, no tire tracks leading out the back gate thru the shadows of yesterday’s snow… no new clues. I surmised those car parts could be buried for later retrieval. We needed a metal detector.
“They’re missing!” Brush yelled as he rounded the house…instead of going thru it.
“All of it?”
“He had an e-bay list: one ’38 Ford truck grille shell, a three-piece hood, one 16 inch rim. An 24 stud flattie, an SBC three-pot manifold, an un-dropped axle, and one set of T taillights.”
“Hot damn, I’m right.”The way I see it is the way it is.
“The killer’s taken enuff stuff for someone to get a good start on a hot rod, but why?” Brush asked.
Duh! To sell on e-bay, that’d bring good money. “Brush, you got a metal detector?” I asked.
“Sorta, but RoadDevil13’s got it. I can bring it tomorrow. Have to go to the ranch…an’ that’s thirty-five miles of switchbacks from here.”
That wasn’t going to work, we needed to find those parts today, tomorrow there may be another victim. “Brush, we’re going to see old PeteJoe. Is your gun loaded?”
The Chief considered Brush his own personal affliction, his own inept Barney Fife of Mayberry fame. He didn’t let Brush have bullets…he’d shot at many things plunging through the woods surrounding our town way too many times. The citizenship complained someone was going to get shot serious-like. Brush swore he was only protecting the town from Sasquatch. I figured he saw ghosts -- old car guys crushed by a failing bumper jack placed stupidly, an errant fan blade or killed in some freak car accident. This town was full of those stories.
Nevertheless, I’ve got a bigger riddle to solve and thankfully, Brush didn’t have bullets. PeteJoe disliked him intently…and I wasn’t real sure why Porknbeaner, the Chief, hired Brush in the first place, probably felt sorry for him.
“PeteJoe will have a metal detector in his shop,” I said. Brush snorted. We crunched through the snow-covered yard toward the car knowing if you can make it fast, make it loud. Brush shivered. I fired the engine, flipped the heater on. Brush’s blak T-shirt wasn’t warm enuff, thot he was so tuff…didn’t need a coat! I wondered who hit him in the head so many times. Oh yeah -- football player.
I got lost in thought as I manhandled my old sedan down the potholed street. Four murders. Boot-prints for a clue. Stolen, rusted, car parts. Three other victim’s parts missing. Rocket303 buying junk when he knows he shouldn’t have. Brush shooting at Yeti. Porknbeaner being the chief…bizarre, all of it, including that damned Steppenwolf song racing thru me head!
PeteJoe’s 69, a gruff old guy, always believed in if it don't make ya dirty it ain’t yours. He’s the local repairman, fixes anything – wishbones to headers, in his two-room alley shack. He’d have whatever working right as rain before you could say Waxahachie Wallbanger. There was another reason to see him. He’s the local Bigfoot expert. No one knew Sasquatch like PeteJoe…and I was starting to get strange ideas about that…and always trusted my hunches.
I parked under a sign that stated Bring your friend and dress slutty." (Evel, Pileup #4). No idea what that meant. Brush stood and stared at the erotic “Bettie’ illustration on it. I yelled hello and walked in. Brush followed, cautiously, like an orphaned puppy-dog, kept looking back at the sign. PeteJoe nodded hello, the scowl on his face giving away his disposition for the day. I asked about the metal detector and was met with a word barrage the likes I hadn’t heard in a long time. Guess PeteJoe hadn’t bawled out anyone lately. ‘Course, one never knows if he’s serious. He was, and eventually got around to yelling -- “someone stole my brand new size fourteen Wolverine work boots off’n my front porch three weeks ago” and “I had a pair of Buick finned drums sitting there, too, they’re gone,” and he’d “called the station but Shiftymutt, that derelict desk sergeant of yours, told me stolen boots, or car parts weren’t priority” and “I’m tired of waiting” and “ ‘bout damn time you got here. You gotta get them back. Right now!”
Whew! I backed up a bit, his breath was terrible, he hadn’t had a bath in a month of Sundays, no, make that two months and I almost tripped over Brush, cowering behind an old gas pump.
“I’d swear it was that damned OIL*CAN*HARRY just down the road.” PeteJoe pointed his crooked finger south toward the gravel road. “He said someone swiped his a while ago. Seen him yest’day with bran’ new boots.”
Interesting as that was, I wasn’t about to do a boot search. “Not a lot I can do about it, PeteJoe. How about that detector? Need to use it.”
“LukeJivetalker borried it. Had it for better’n a month now, can’t find that Model A he buried for safekeeping.” PeteJoe followed that with a few more expletives, and pointed back down the dirt road again. “I’m gonna get that damned OIL*CAN*HARRY.”
I warned PeteJoe about taking law into his own hands, then Brush and I loaded ourselves into the cruiser. In and out, in and out, I was beginning to hate a channeled car. “Brush, we’re overlooking something, and, crazy as it sounds, a murdering Sasquatch roaming the county isn’t very convincing.”
PING! The photos of the boot-print. There was something weird about them. And mixed in with that was that damned Steppenwolf song again! Hard to sort it out, I struggled and drove on.
Back at headquarters, I laid three photos on my desk, well, OK, four -- Brush had given me a shot of his latest acquisition, a ‘32 Ford. Why he thot I needed it was something I couldn’t answer. Neither could he. I picked up the three important photos from my desk -- I was right. Couldn’t believe I missed it. “Brush, what do you see?”
“You, holding three photos.”
“Well, yeah, that’s correct, but what’s in the photos?”
“Turn ‘em around so I can see them…uhm…bloody boot-prints.”
“Uhmmmm, OK….lookey here, in front of the print. Hair would make marks like this?”
“Maybe, but LukeJivetalker doesn’t have any hair left…he’s bald as a que ball. So’s PeteJoe!”
I sighed. Sometime Brush just doesn’t keep up. Make that most time. The football injuries to his head were taking their toll. And he’s still a young man. No wonder the Chief doesn’t let him carry a loaded gun.
“B’sides, Chop, if PeteJoe’s Wolverines were stolen, shouldn’t we go after OIL*CAN*HARRY?” Brush argued. “PeteJoe said he had a new pair. That’s pretty conclusive.”
“Maybe, Brush, but suspicion isn’t enough to arrest.” I studied the photos. It DID look like hair but Sasquatch couldn’t don work boots and murder. At least now I’ve got a couple of possible suspects: LukeJivetalker and OIL*CAN*HARRY. Don’t know about PeteJoe just yet.
Someone had confused both of us, Brush worse than I…and thus far had done a good job. The bloody boot-prints definitely looked like Sasquatch had cut the toes out of a pair of Wolverines and squeezed in its feet, toes extended 6 inches out of size fourteen boots. That just didn’t fit… literally. These elusive creatures hadn’t decided to come out of years of hiding to murder and pillage. And what in hell would they use car parts for anyway? It was time to do a little snooping around OIL*CAN*HARRY’s place.
OIL*CAN*HARRY lived 3.8 miles south of PeteJoe’s alley shack, on a narrow, rutted gravel road appropriately named “Dirt Road.” He was a recluse. Pedaled his bicycle cart into town once a month to the UPS store to send out stuff he collected in the woods and get more boxes. Most of it junk, but it sold like lottery tickets in the local Main Street grocery store/gas station/bowling alley. I thot about going bowling tonite with my g/f but reminded myself I needed gas and it was damned expensive these days, hated to buy more than five gallons at a time, decided I couldn’t afford her…or bowling…and I was still getting that Steppenwolf tune, drowning out other thots. OIL*CAN*HARRY liked to do pencil drawings…could be of Bigfoot, a concept car, a ’cutaway’ or a pinstriped panel, I didn’t know which, never could make it out, but he peddled them. Sasquatch footprint castings, locks of hair he claimed were real sold fast. I decided I needed a closer look at the locks of hair.
I parked in the driveway, in front of a hand lettered sign: "I hope you leave here and walk out and say, 'What did he say?'" —George W. Bush, Beaverton, Oregon, Aug. 13, 2004.” Strange as that was, the “No Trespassing, Visitors Will Be Eaten” sign was nailed to the door. I wasn’t worried, OIL*CAN*HARRY was a vegetarian. There was no answer at OIL*CAN*HARRY’s door, but the new Wolverine boots PeteJoe complained about were sitting on the front porch, last night’s snow lingered in the boot’s shadows. I motioned for Brush to get out of the cruiser, but he shook his head no. I motioned again -- go around back. He wouldn’t leave the car’s warmth. Something’s very strange about that boy. Guess I’ll have a talk with the Chief about him when I’m done with this investigation. “OK, fine Brush,” I mouthed, stuck my tongue out at him and decided to go it alone. Peering through the house’s dirty side window, I spied a propane torch on the table, pliers, some large liquid-filled cans, strange misshapen pieces of metal and a couple small piles of…hair? Naw, more like well-worn wigs. Could this be OIL*CAN*HARRY’s genuine “Sasquatch” locks of hair? And the metal…new car parts…shiny, too.
I hurried around to the back porch. The first thing that caught my eye was a large deep freezer. Old. Big. Freezers, ‘round here, store deer and elk meat, and as far as I knew, OIL*CAN*HARRY didn’t hunt. Sensing danger, I drew my piece and approached the porch. All sorts of discarded junk littered the rotted decking -- headlight buckets, broken car seats, a half rusted ’32 Ford door, busted wishbones and a bent red grille shell of unknown vintage. I moved Jack Daniels whiskey bottles and empty restaurant-sized canned beans boxes off the freezer quietly. I slowly opened it.
Ya know, I’d been a skeptic all my life, but there it was, in all its glory…uhmmm, ex-glory. I stared directly into the face of a frozen ape-man. It was huge, filled the 8-foot long freezer. I could see where OIL*CAN*HARRY’d trimmed hair off its chest, but the most shocking thing was its lack of feet. The creature’s were missing. Hard to believe Brush is correct, Sasquatch does exist. My hands started shaking as I remembered feeling something shadow Fur Biscuit and I while we were walking…then wondered if he’d caught that cat yet. Quietly closing the lid, I made my way through the maze of derelict car parts to the door. .38 snub-nose handy, I was going in.
If OIL*CAN*HARRY were in the house, he could be napping…or waiting. Have I found the old hot rodder killer? If he’s capable of trapping and killing Sasquatch, then four old men surely couldn’t put up any fight. Still, why would he murder them? Perhaps the hairy boot-print was OIL*CAN*HARRY’s attempt at throwing us off the trail. If he got away with those murders, I speculated he’d eventually skin Sasquatch and wear it for his next cereal…ehhhrrrr…serial killing, weren’t many old hot rodders left in this town now and the weather ‘round here has been known to do strange things to a man’s mind. The whole rust-free west would be in an uproar over a murdering ape-man…talk about a witch-hunt. But…being from British Columbia, OIL*CAN*HARRY was a strange one and wouldn’t allow himself to be caught this easily.
Shots rang out!
Damn, OIL*CAN*HARRY musta went out the front door, shot Brush. Wait, that sounded more like a cannon. Brush’s got bullets? Where in hell’d he get ‘em? He came flying around the house, Colt Python smoking, pointing towards the woods.
“Did you see it, ChopRods? I shot it! It’s limping. Come on. Hurry.”
Seeing Brush in such a frantic state definitely caught me by surprise, but watching him run full speed was pro football poetry in motion. Despite his “supposed” bad knees, he was as graceful as the L.A Ram’s Eric Dickerson, hurtling old sedan bodies, pumpkin-less rear ends and the sapling fence like fallen linebackers. I debated for a minute whether to enter the house, get OIL*CAN*HARRY or follow Brush across the snow-covered yard. A loud growl, like a wounded lion, bellowed from the brush and ended my indecision. I leaped from the porch and chased after Brush.
PING! My head chimed again. This could be huge, tourism in our little town just got a boost…Steppenwolf exploded again, that raucous guitar hurt…I couldn’t think…Oh, yeah…Sasquatch…. uhmmmm…does exist and there’s one in OIL*CAN*HARRY’s freezer! Wow! Need to figure out how to get some of that tourism money, get this damned song out of my head.
Brush waved his .357 and yelled like a just graduated artist. I was about to shout “where’d you get bullets?” when I saw that hairy, at least twelve feet tall, close to 586 1/4 pounds monster, crashing through the brush like an out of control AA truk The swath it knocked down made a great path, but Brush was losing steam and I wasn’t used to such a chase thru the brush (isn’t this confusing, ‘brush’ and Brush?). The creature leapt over logs and boulders with ease, leaving us panting. Brush stopped and squeezed off several shots at the brush. I was out of breath. “Brush, where’d you get bullets?”
“Get the Chief on the radio. Tell him to get deputies up to East Humptulips River, near Devil’s Slide Lake. We need to corral that thing.”
That didn’t sound like the Brush I knew. There’s more to his story then anyone can imagine. I was awestruck. Brush wasn’t as adle-brained as he let on. I holstered my pea-shooter. That thing certainly wasn’t OIL*CAN*HARRY skee-daddling from the house…and if he was still in there, OIL*CAN*HARRY knew we were coming for him.
We stopped for a minute, listened to the dying sound of Bigfoot crashing through brush, its pained roars echoing in the distance.
“Man, that thing’s fast,” Brush said, doubled over, hands on knees. “Hit it couple’a times.”
I nodded, gasped into the microphone of my shoulder-mounted radio and relayed the situation to Porknbeaner, the Chief. I requested backup at OIL*CAN*HARRY’s and a search party mobilized for Devil’s Slide Lake. It took some convincing, but the Chief finally agreed. I guess he deemed the information reliable coming from me and not Brush. I concurred, signed off and yelled, “That was unreal Brush, I doubted you all these years. Let’s head back, get outta this brush, gotta get OIL*CAN*HARRY. Got more bullets?”
We moved toward the house. Breaking tree line, I saw another cruiser parked behind mine. I motioned Cosmo and Flt-blk around back, figured a two-way breach. Brush covered the front door, from behind the cruiser’s body and not shivering any more, his blak t-shirt hung over my iron cross rear view mirror. I yelled, “OIL*CAN*HARRY, come on out.”
“OIL*CAN*HARRY’s dead,” a voice called out.
“Then you’d better step out with your arms raised and nothing in your hands,” I yelled.
“OK, this first.” An ancient double-barreled shotgun slid out of the ripped screen-door, butt first. The gray bearded, bald old man eased out of the doorway, hands raised.
“PeteJoe? What the hell? Whose shotgun? Where’s OIL*CAN*HARRY?”
“Sasquatch got him,” PeteJoe grinned ear to ear, holding his new Wolverine boots. “Tol’ ya he stole my boots…and the shotgun’s mine.”
“You stealing them boots back?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“I don’t steal nothin’,” PeteJoe shouted. “Just taking them back where they rightfully belong, found my finned drums soaking in the bathtub, too.” Squatting on the porch step, he pulled off his worn-out boots. “Got here just before you two did. Hid in the kitchen, saw the ape-man go out the front door. It ripped OIL*CAN*HARRY’s head clean off.” He slipped his new boots on and rubbed at fresh blood spotting them. “Guess ol’ Sasquatch was jus’ getting even. OIL*CAN*HARRY killed his mate, ya know? Wondered why they were hanging around here so much.”
“Hanging around?” I asked. “Whatchu mean?”
“Them Sasquatches been ‘round Dirt Road for the last month or so. Hear ‘em at night.” PeteJoe finished tying his boots, stood and pointed that crooked finger toward the door. “Ya’ll need to get in there and check out OIL*CAN*HARRY, he’s a mess.”
“You stay here, PeteJoe. Got more talking to do.”
I stepped inside. Brush followed, his t-shirt in one hand and gun in the other. Sure enough, OIL*CAN*HARRY was deader‘n a rod poked out the side of an SBC, lying what would have been face down…if his head were still attached. “Where’s his head?” I asked, spying a bloody trail lead out the front door.
“Bigfoot,” Brush shook his head, wiped his forehead with the t. “Saw it when I hid behind the cruiser. Didn’t realize it at first, but it carried OIL*CAN*HARRY’s head…jus’ like a football, better’n me. Man, that creature runs faster’n I ever could.”
“Call the Coroner. Can’t leave him like that.”
Brush picked up the phone in the living room. I headed for the kitchen, heard him ask the Coroner to come out, then made my way to the table wanting to investigate the metal stuff I saw. I needed to make sure our killer really was OIL*CAN*HARRY.
After examining the objects on the table, and the chemicals in all the cans, I was convinced OIL*CAN*HARRY was indeed the “hot rodder killer,” but, it appeared he had an accomplice. One piece of Squablow’s missing parts had been partially changed, chemically dipped to make it appear rusty and holes drilled so it’d appear like it’d rusted for years. Several parts belonging to Colorado51 and Dragrcr50 lay nearby, except they were still shiny new. The chemical rusting never finished. Slipped under one Olds Rocket valve cover was a scrawled note: OIL*CAN*HARRY, quit selling this stuff on e-bay. This is not antique stuff. It’s not worth millions. I’ll take it to Seattle to the swap meet and sell it. We’ll share -- 85% for me and 25% for you. The handwriting looked familiar, but in the kitchen’s dim light I couldn’t tell if it was LukeJivetalker’s, PeteJoe’s, OIL*CAN*HARRY’s, the Chief’s…or Brush’s.
I slipped the note into my money clip, which only held two bux, and stuffed it in my pocket. I know…major Faux Pas, but someone close was an accomplice to a crime that extended beyond simple theft. I had no idea who to trust any more and had to get to headquarters, compare handwriting samples.
Slipping past the coroner zipping OIL*CAN*HARRY into a fresh body bag, I stepped onto the sagging front porch, handed PeteJoe my notebook, told him to write down his version of what just happened. I had two reasons. One, I needed a sample of his handwriting and two, really didn’t think PeteJoe did it. He wouldn’t know where the swap meet was anyway, and don’t think he’s ever been out of the county, much less to all the way to Seattle. I do know this, someone is very nervous. I told Brush to stay and beat feet for the station…worse part was I was almost out of gas, damned Firedome Hemi, I’d have to stop and spend my last two bux -- half a gallon of gas.
The press, by now, had heard it on the scanner and would be all over the frozen Sasquatch. I shuddered thinking about questions I’d have to endure.
“Chief PnB,” I said over the radio, “pick up LukeJivetalker. Meet me at the station.” I surmised that should throw suspicion off PeteJoe. In the meantime, I’d stop at the courthouse, grab the handwritten copy of the Chief’s acceptance speech and Brush’s hand-written entrance exam papers. I was determined to nail the killer of four old men...and Sasquatch.
I needn’t have worried about it. As I came out of the courthouse, the Chief called me on the radio. “ChopRods? ChopRods? Dammit-to-hell, get your ass back to OIL*CAN*HARRY’s. Hurry. PeteJoe called, said he’d been shot.”
“Bring Jivetalker.” I ordered, climbing back into my car. Here I was, Bangin’ Gears into low, left twenty-eight and 1/3 feet of double black rubber marks in front of the courthouse. Squirrel’s gonna get me for that one too -- defacing public property. He knew it wasn’t a good day for Bustin’ Heads.
Driving with my knees, I compared samples of PeteJoe’s handwriting, and the Chief’s, to the note. Neither was a match. In disgust, I flung them. Hurled them toward the passenger’s side window, which, fortunately was closed. I thot it was awfully dark in the car, damned tinted windows…and I was gonna turn on the headlights. I rolled down the windows and the samples fluttered onto the floorboard. I noticed Brush’s notebook laying there. Straining to stay on the road, foot on the gas, hand on the necker knob, I stretched to grab it. I opened it and put the yellowed note from OIL*CAN*HARRY’s place next to a page. Perfect match. Damn, I should have known. Brush played for the Seahawks, has relatives in Seattle, and all six of his ex-wives live there. I hailed the Chief on the radio. “Send more backup to OIL*CAN*HARRY’s.”
As I bounced the Coker bias-plies into OIL*CAN*HARRY’s driveway, banging into the fence-post, the distant sound of approaching sirens wailed. To my surprise, Brush was still there. Sitting on the front stoop, his head in his hands like a redneck version of Auguste Rodin’s “The Thinker.” The chopped sedan door squeaked open. “Damn, I gotta oil those one of these days.” Brush looked up and said, “Figured you’d be back for me.”
Approaching slowly, I noticed a revolver filled his hand. Had a feeling this wasn’t going to end well. “Brush, why?” I asked, crouching behind the safety of the bias-plies as he raised the pistol. He sobbed uncontrollably, quite a sight for a former football star, hadda be all the head injuries.
“It just got out of hand,” he yelled. “No one was supposed to get hurt…not even OIL*CAN*HARRY.”
The revolver crept higher.
“OIL*CAN*HARRY never had much…” he said, “all he wanted was an e-bay storefront to sell chemically altered car parts. I only wanted to help him…and get myself more money than this damned deputy job pays.”
He waved the revolver in the air.
“Where’s PeteJoe?” I asked.
“In the john…again.”
“He OK?” I countered.
“ ’Course he is, why?”
“Just wondering.” I felt…relieved. Apparently PeteJoe wanted us back here in a hurry before Brush did something really stupid. “C’mon, Brush. Let’s go.”
“When I’m done explaining. Them old men all had great car parts… real stuff. OIL*CAN*HARRY needed it, but they wouldn’t share, wouldn’t give him any help, said all of it was for e-bay suckers.” Brush sobbed. “And my ex-wives are bleeding me dry, I’m broker one of them Nigerian e-bay scammers. The first old man was an accident. I swear.”
I knew Brush was playing his trump card, but chopping up Squablow simply wasn’t an accident. It was frustration, Squabbie didn’t keep any really valuable car parts around his place, he had safe deposit boxes…full, too. I knew one of us wasn’t going to walk away from this. I raised up from behind the bias-plies hoping I wouldn’t have to shoot.
“Hold on, Chop, I ain’t done, squat back down! The second old man wouldn’t hand over his stuff and he pulled a knife. The third I cut up after he called me Marsha, his wife’s name, gave me a big ol’ sloppy kiss and told me he was getting even by poisoning snacks…he fed me her corn flakes! Do I look like a woman? He was a wacko. Understand? I got real scared, spent most of that morning in the john, checking things out!”
I walked slowly toward Brush. “It’s over, pal. Give me the gun.”
“Can’t,” he said, sticking the barrel in his mouth. I stopped, wasn’t close enough to do anything. I turned my face away just as he pulled the trigger, heard the hammer clik…
Laughter erupted behind Brush. I turned. Several rolls of toilet paper came flying out the screen door, unrolled and bounced down the porch steps. “You’re the shits, Brush, here’s the TP,” PeteJoe laffed and kicked open the door. Brush’s gun hadn’t gone off. He seemed bewildered. I was, too.
PeteJoe chuckled. “Brush laid his gun on the table when he phoned the Coroner.” Holding out his hand, open palm up. “I swiped his bullets.”
“How?” I asked PeteJoe.
“Got suspicious of OIL*CAN*HARRY las’ week, the UPS store is next to mine, remember? Brush always showed up when OIL*CAN shipped stuff. Heard ‘em arguin’ ‘bout e-bay last week and money and him confessin’ just now…ain’t rocket-science, ya know?”
Brush was arraigned the next week on four counts of murder and we buried OIL*CAN*HARRY. The television and news media barrage was like nothing our little town had seen. Fur Biscuit had gotten the cat and befriended all of the media, even went Sasquatch hunting with them…that dog was in seventh heaven. Bigfoot hunters from around the world filled our lone hotel to capacity for months, the frozen Sasquatch disappeared and weeks later I’d heard the Smithsonian paid a cool $17.4 million for it and OIL*CAN*HARRY’s freezer. They denied it, of course, but sources tell me the Sasquatch is in a vacuum-sealed glass case and a team of scientists pore over it inch by inch. Still haven’t figured out who got the money, wasn’t me, or the town, even tho OIL*CAN*HARRY didn’t have any relatives. I suspected Brush got it but don’t know how he would have finagled it. And Sasquatch’s feet are still missing.
Worse part of all this, I found out, is, Brush is a big disappointment. I had bad luck befall me, I lost a fellow detective. He’d been masquerading as Evan Bayman all this time…he confessed, but Jeff’s his real name. He was supposed to help Rocket303 and all those people that got ripped off on e-bay get their money back and protect them from liars, cheats, Nigerian scammers and dishonest sellers, which run rampant in this country. Brush got caught up in the easy money too…there’s just way too many people out there that believe everyone in the world is totally honest. How’d that old PT Barnum line go: There’s an e-bay sucker born every minute? Yeah, that’s it.
Some weeks after Brush’s trial, he got off with an insanity plea, BTW, his defense included these lines: In my old age...grant me the senility to forget the people I never liked...the good fortune to run into the ones I do...and the eyesight to tell the difference.Guess it worked. I understand they locked on a Martha Stewart ankle bracelet and shipped him back to Ontario to live out his days sequestered in an art studio. He’s got OIL*CAN*HARRY’s drawings tacked on his wall, too!
The Institute for Advanced Studies released a paper some time after that stating Sasquatch is a mutant branch of the evolutionary chain descending from Cro-Magnon and Lucy. Hmmmm, they musta been a real pair back in the day! Days after it appeared, that report was denied. I don’t know what to believe, not even sure I believe everything on the HAMB anymore. I know what I saw and no one, so far, has found Bigfoot’s lair. There’ve been reports they’re still around the area, sometimes seen at dusk…and I still wonder where OIL*CAN*HARRY’s head is. Late at night, I imagine them creatures in caves near Devil’s Slide Lake dancing around a huge bonfire, holding a long branch with OIL*CAN*HARRY’s head prominently displayed atop it. Maybe I’ll go hunting for it…someday…when I don’t have another hot rod to build. I may owe that to OIL*CAN*HARRY.
Copyright 10-20-05, R.A. Jetter/Aden Rush
or
MURDER ON DIRT ROAD!
A fictional, satirical and sometimes humorous look at e-bay, those that talk the shit, those that walk the shit, those that ain’t got a clue and those that play the game!
By R.A. Jetter (aka 40StudeDude)
Watching porn flix in the dark, E.Bayman was dejected. He thot about suicide cuz no one cared, didn’t need him at e-bay. He was ready, willing and able to help…but no one needed him…anymore, people were honest, trustworthy…e-bay had changed.
Wait, I’m getting ahead…or is that behind?
E.Bayman, first name’s Evan. Evan? Ethan…maybe. Everett sometimes, Ed’s OK, but Evan? Reminds me of that bottled water available in 7-11’s. Anyway, E.Bayman knew, when he was very small, he would be THE watchdog for a new electronic auction service, kept running around the house yelling “caveat emptor, caveat emptor, scrawling the words in crayon on the walls.” His parents weren’t fooled, they knew no one could ever concoct such an auction house, besides, computers weren’t even invented when Evan was a youngster.
Didn’t deter him one bit…those people are called psychic cuz they can see into the future…yeah, he was shunned…an outsider, shunned cuz he was a little left of center, always working on his trike when it didn’t need work, swapping parts with trike owners, not carrying a full load of bricks, a cupcake short of package…you know, all those clichés.
He grew up, and for the past few years, E.Bayman has been Champion of the underdog, keeper of the honesty flame, and scourge to non do-gooders everywhere. His motto: “You’re gonna get yours pal and I’m gonna be the giver!”
Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, his pal, Fiddy-Four, a junior wannabe detective in my squad, shot Polaroids of body parts and evidence notes attached to items around the room, to be scoured for clues later. Each flash a shocking memory, capturing the carnage. Ejected photos broke the unnerving silence. The Coroner picked up pieces, tossed them into a black body bag and zipped it closed.
A bloody meat cleaver - the murder weapon, stuck upright in the cutting board and a mottled footprint the only clues. The overfilled sink dripped onto yellow linoleum, creating a crimson stream trickling down the hall. I flipped the disposal switch. Metal teeth chewed potato peel and beef fat as a whirlpool drained the sink. A hand, with the middle digit extended, swirled in murky water, defiant to the end. The acrid reek of dishwater filled the kitchen. It was welcome from the stench of body parts scattered around.
My name is ChopRods, I’m a dick…ehrrrr-raaa…a detective, and a damned good one, ask anyone. Some think I’m an asshole (I really am) but 40StudeDude has that wrapped up. No matter, I kinda figure everyone’ll either get over it…or die angry! I ‘d been walking my Beagle, Fur Biscuit, for about fifteen minutes, in that time things had changed forever. He’d gotten fidgety as we strolled by Squablow’s house. The dog knew something was amiss. I couldn’t get it to stop whining … even coercing it with nine hot dogs from the street vendor didn’t help. Funny how things fall into place, especially when you’re a dick with a critical eye (I’m blind in the right eye, but that don’t matter, I see things better’n the average Katatonic Mike!)…I noticed Squablow’s front door open…out of place for a guy that hadn’t been outside his home for years, was always busy building something in that narrow five-foot enclosure he called a garage. But we kept walking, I’d check later.
Fur Biscuit whimpered. Dogs have an uncanny sense of knowing things -- unusual behavior, skittish jumps, random barking -- disregarded by humans. "Fur Biscuit is seeing Bigfoot again," my wife would comment when the dog jumped on the overstuffed chair, barking at the old growth forest out the window. ‘Course, twelve foot hairy creatures I do not believe in, but Fur Biscuit had been going out of his doggy mind, almost if someone shadowed us that evening as we walked. I’d never seen the dog so agitated. Yet, thinking back on it, I blame myself, we should have stopped when I noticed the door ajar (and that’s unusual, didn’t know how Squablow turned it into a jar). I'd made it habit over the years to check in on Squablow. I’d befriended him…and Fur Biscuit, of course, loved that old man, always had hot dogs cooking. Squablow was close to ninety, told him he needed someone to look after him, make sure everything was OK but he’d simply grunt and look at me strangely while holding that Monkey wrench over the hood of his ’53 Ford, one of his recent acquisitions. Had no idea he was trying to chop it with that wrench…strange old fart. He’d say: "I swear officer, it was running just yesterday! Yes, that one over there also,” even tho I hadn’t said a thing about his non-running cars. Oh well, guess he’ll figure out it can’t be done with that wrench. With no living relatives, he’d been alone too many years. No one I knew in this town would hurt Squablow. But we didn't stop that nite. Now I wouldn't have to. Somehow, I felt responsible.
It passed.
Rocket303 had been by yesterday, saw his rusted hulk of a bondo bucket in the driveway…pieces falling off…he left a trial into the driveway and then emptied the ash tray right there at the curb…Man, that pissed me off! If I’da caught him, he’da got a littering ticket. Squablow mumbled to me a few days earlier that Rocket303 bought a ‘61 Chevy station wagon on e-bay, also said Rocket303 was known as BIGWORM and south of the border he’s known as Gusano Grande. I didn’t understand that and let it pass. He went on to explain Rocket303 had pix of the car, vague, description brief and wasn’t happy with the car…or having to spend money for a genuine eastern POS. But, thru e-mails and phone calls, the seller told Rocket303 he could drive the wagon to his home in Cali, from New York. Instead, he consigned a shipper and dropped it off at Rocket’s work, rust fell out as it was unloaded. Damned thing wouldn't even start, had to jump-start it and wouldn't move half a block. Oil dumped out…the racket the valve train made was deafening. Rocket had it towed home.
I tried to change the conversation, but Squabbie continued, said the seller commented there wasn't any rust “he knew of”— in other words “rust free.” I reminded Squablow when you live in Cali, “rust-free” is normal, but anyone that’s halfway intelligent knows vehicles from the east coast are rust-buckets! He added, “the entire lower half of the wagon is bondo, belt line down, the undercarriage is worse. Yep, no rust, all bondo! He said Rocket asked the seller -- "how is the paint, is it original?" Squabbie said the paint looked like a $99.00 spray job rubbed out with steel wool. Wonder where those $99.00 jobs are? Around here Maaco starts at $299.00. I chuckled and asked if Rocket303 wanted congratulations?
Tonite, walking past his house, the wagon gone, I’d hoped he’d gotten things straightened out with the seller and e-bay. Fur Biscuit smelled the ciggie butts, marked them and kept going.
The call came just as we’d walked in the house. Told the Homocide Bureau I’d be right there. I put Fur Biscuit out back to chase the cat, yeah, yeah, I know a dope trailer is no place for a kitty, but the dog likes it! I trotted the fifteen blocks back to Squablow’s garage. Dreaded going in. I noticed the roof had been removed from the ’53, didn’t know how tho, the Monkey wrench was bent and someone had scrawled across the roof -- The only stupid question is the one you just asked. That was perplexing, but I had other things to worry about. After spending too much time in the kitchen surveying the bloody scene, I went to headquarters to sort out a senseless murder. It’s not an easy thing when crime turns ugly. Uglier yet with no clues.
The scariest part was that Squablow wasn’t the only one, his death was the fourth in four weeks. The M.O. matched. Someone was killing helpless old hot rodders. The murderer was psycho, elusive and left few clues. In fact, once each crime scene had been scoured; each drop of blood, each microfilament lifted and scrutinized by experts in forensic technology, there was nothing conclusive, except that lone footprint...one near-perfect, bloody footprint. Surprisingly, left at all four places, almost like the killer purposely placed it. The boot-print, according to experts, was a basic steel-toed Wolverine. The killer took precious minutes to press size fourteens into a pool of blood.
That bothered me…why would a boot-print be deliberately placed? Seventy-five point 9 percent of the men in this dirty little town wore Wolverines, including me, and there were a few women, manly women driving forklifts, doing men’s job, that wore fourteens. That alone didn’t help. Yet, there’s one other thing that bothered me, no one else noticed…I did. Squablow hadn’t had dinner. Neither had Dragrcr50 and Colorado51. The first victim, RacerRick, was apparently cruising the computer when he was murdered…told me each knew the murderer and trusted him to come into their homes. Snacks were scattered across coffee tables, including two brands of Corn Flakes. Shoulda known there was something strange going on…who eats Corn Flakes? That told me two people were surfing the internet. It’s a real shame, four ancient old men wouldn’t bother anyone… were simply following some unfolding drama on the HAMB…about e-bay, magazines, rusty east coast cars or trying to explain to HAMB ‘youngsters’ what “caveat emptor” meant. Couldn’t have been more serious than that, besides, life is too important to be taken seriously. I surmised it was a male that murdered them. Women aren’t that physical, and they don’t hang out on the HAMB as much as those old guys did.
PING! It hit me, the chimes in my brain were working. So was that old tune I never lose: I likesmoke and lightnin', heavy metal thunder, racin' with the wind- and the feelin' that I'm under. You know, that one by John Kay/Goldy McJohn in the band called Steppenwolf, way back in 1968? Oh, never heard it, eh?Too bad, wish I didn’t, I hear it all the time, I think the fillings in my back teeth pick it up from Oklahoma…or New York.Anyway,I pushed back from my desk, grabbed car keys, and rushed down the stairs. Couldn’t believe I missed it. I almost ran over my partner, Brush, as I flew through the headquarter’s door.
“Whoa, ChopRods, where you going?” he yelled, regaining his balance.
“Morning Brush. Jump in. I’ll explain on the way.”
Brush fell into the passenger seat of the cruiser, struggled with the seat belt, knees up around his ears. He was the epitome of a small town cop, albeit awkward…ex all-star high school quarterback, pro football running back standout that blew out his knees three years into the game, ruining any chance of retiring famous and wealthy. At 34, he was big and strong, retired and broke. Muscles built lugging V8 engines at a summer job for his father remained. “What the hell is going on, Chop?”
“Missed something.”
“What? Missed what?”
“Not missed. Didn’t look.” I slid the 5-speed into low, laid a patch away from the curb and almost nailed Squirrel, the meter maid, ticket book went flying…I knew that “favor” would be returned when I got back! “At all four murders the computers were still on, so was the television. No one bothered to check what was the last thing they were looking at, right?” I grabbed second and tossed gravel all over Curious Rash’s ’59 as he came roaring up behind me. Ouch… that’s gonna leave a mark. I’d apologize later.
“So, who cares if the television was on?”
“No one. Except we’ve got to determine what site they were watching.”
“Site? What you goin’ on about, Chop?”
“Car parts, the internet. You’re slow today, Brush. Head hurt? Forget the TV. Look, Squablow was always selling something.” I slid the shifter into third, squawked the tires and continued. “If I’m correct, he and the other victims would be perusing e-bay, you understand that word: ‘perusing’? Have to check their computers, too.” I hit fourth and the sedan slid sideways, I whipped the wheel, straightened it out, tire smoke filled the interior. Brush coughed, pulled his seat belts tighter and bent forward to grab the bottom of the dash, hit his head on the windshield. “Thinking ahead, I venture the person they invited in to share snacks stole parts from them and will pawn the ill-gotten booty. When that happens, I’ll be ready.” Brush looked confused, I sighed. “I’ll to try to explain later, after your Canadian tea.”
Banging a tire/rim on the curb at road’s edge, and bending the damned thing…third one this week, I slammed the DiChrome.com topped gearshift into reverse, jumped out of the cruiser and bounded over the ditch, missed the pile of doggy doo, tho. Brush got out his lighter, I knew he was about to set it on fire. I yelled “Don’t!” Now, if I were the murderer, I’d go out Squablow’s screen-less back door with my priceless stuff, wrapped in garage rags. Hopefully, there’d be a missed clue back there. I again yelled at Brush, “Go inside, see if there’s car parts on the living room table.”
I scoured the back yard. Walked the fence line like a drill sergeant eyeing his men. Scanned nook and cranny. Every square inch got the once over from my laser-repaired eye…nothing propped against the fence, no tire tracks leading out the back gate thru the shadows of yesterday’s snow… no new clues. I surmised those car parts could be buried for later retrieval. We needed a metal detector.
“They’re missing!” Brush yelled as he rounded the house…instead of going thru it.
“All of it?”
“He had an e-bay list: one ’38 Ford truck grille shell, a three-piece hood, one 16 inch rim. An 24 stud flattie, an SBC three-pot manifold, an un-dropped axle, and one set of T taillights.”
“Hot damn, I’m right.”The way I see it is the way it is.
“The killer’s taken enuff stuff for someone to get a good start on a hot rod, but why?” Brush asked.
Duh! To sell on e-bay, that’d bring good money. “Brush, you got a metal detector?” I asked.
“Sorta, but RoadDevil13’s got it. I can bring it tomorrow. Have to go to the ranch…an’ that’s thirty-five miles of switchbacks from here.”
That wasn’t going to work, we needed to find those parts today, tomorrow there may be another victim. “Brush, we’re going to see old PeteJoe. Is your gun loaded?”
The Chief considered Brush his own personal affliction, his own inept Barney Fife of Mayberry fame. He didn’t let Brush have bullets…he’d shot at many things plunging through the woods surrounding our town way too many times. The citizenship complained someone was going to get shot serious-like. Brush swore he was only protecting the town from Sasquatch. I figured he saw ghosts -- old car guys crushed by a failing bumper jack placed stupidly, an errant fan blade or killed in some freak car accident. This town was full of those stories.
Nevertheless, I’ve got a bigger riddle to solve and thankfully, Brush didn’t have bullets. PeteJoe disliked him intently…and I wasn’t real sure why Porknbeaner, the Chief, hired Brush in the first place, probably felt sorry for him.
“PeteJoe will have a metal detector in his shop,” I said. Brush snorted. We crunched through the snow-covered yard toward the car knowing if you can make it fast, make it loud. Brush shivered. I fired the engine, flipped the heater on. Brush’s blak T-shirt wasn’t warm enuff, thot he was so tuff…didn’t need a coat! I wondered who hit him in the head so many times. Oh yeah -- football player.
I got lost in thought as I manhandled my old sedan down the potholed street. Four murders. Boot-prints for a clue. Stolen, rusted, car parts. Three other victim’s parts missing. Rocket303 buying junk when he knows he shouldn’t have. Brush shooting at Yeti. Porknbeaner being the chief…bizarre, all of it, including that damned Steppenwolf song racing thru me head!
PeteJoe’s 69, a gruff old guy, always believed in if it don't make ya dirty it ain’t yours. He’s the local repairman, fixes anything – wishbones to headers, in his two-room alley shack. He’d have whatever working right as rain before you could say Waxahachie Wallbanger. There was another reason to see him. He’s the local Bigfoot expert. No one knew Sasquatch like PeteJoe…and I was starting to get strange ideas about that…and always trusted my hunches.
I parked under a sign that stated Bring your friend and dress slutty." (Evel, Pileup #4). No idea what that meant. Brush stood and stared at the erotic “Bettie’ illustration on it. I yelled hello and walked in. Brush followed, cautiously, like an orphaned puppy-dog, kept looking back at the sign. PeteJoe nodded hello, the scowl on his face giving away his disposition for the day. I asked about the metal detector and was met with a word barrage the likes I hadn’t heard in a long time. Guess PeteJoe hadn’t bawled out anyone lately. ‘Course, one never knows if he’s serious. He was, and eventually got around to yelling -- “someone stole my brand new size fourteen Wolverine work boots off’n my front porch three weeks ago” and “I had a pair of Buick finned drums sitting there, too, they’re gone,” and he’d “called the station but Shiftymutt, that derelict desk sergeant of yours, told me stolen boots, or car parts weren’t priority” and “I’m tired of waiting” and “ ‘bout damn time you got here. You gotta get them back. Right now!”
Whew! I backed up a bit, his breath was terrible, he hadn’t had a bath in a month of Sundays, no, make that two months and I almost tripped over Brush, cowering behind an old gas pump.
“I’d swear it was that damned OIL*CAN*HARRY just down the road.” PeteJoe pointed his crooked finger south toward the gravel road. “He said someone swiped his a while ago. Seen him yest’day with bran’ new boots.”
Interesting as that was, I wasn’t about to do a boot search. “Not a lot I can do about it, PeteJoe. How about that detector? Need to use it.”
“LukeJivetalker borried it. Had it for better’n a month now, can’t find that Model A he buried for safekeeping.” PeteJoe followed that with a few more expletives, and pointed back down the dirt road again. “I’m gonna get that damned OIL*CAN*HARRY.”
I warned PeteJoe about taking law into his own hands, then Brush and I loaded ourselves into the cruiser. In and out, in and out, I was beginning to hate a channeled car. “Brush, we’re overlooking something, and, crazy as it sounds, a murdering Sasquatch roaming the county isn’t very convincing.”
PING! The photos of the boot-print. There was something weird about them. And mixed in with that was that damned Steppenwolf song again! Hard to sort it out, I struggled and drove on.
Back at headquarters, I laid three photos on my desk, well, OK, four -- Brush had given me a shot of his latest acquisition, a ‘32 Ford. Why he thot I needed it was something I couldn’t answer. Neither could he. I picked up the three important photos from my desk -- I was right. Couldn’t believe I missed it. “Brush, what do you see?”
“You, holding three photos.”
“Well, yeah, that’s correct, but what’s in the photos?”
“Turn ‘em around so I can see them…uhm…bloody boot-prints.”
“Uhmmmm, OK….lookey here, in front of the print. Hair would make marks like this?”
“Maybe, but LukeJivetalker doesn’t have any hair left…he’s bald as a que ball. So’s PeteJoe!”
I sighed. Sometime Brush just doesn’t keep up. Make that most time. The football injuries to his head were taking their toll. And he’s still a young man. No wonder the Chief doesn’t let him carry a loaded gun.
“B’sides, Chop, if PeteJoe’s Wolverines were stolen, shouldn’t we go after OIL*CAN*HARRY?” Brush argued. “PeteJoe said he had a new pair. That’s pretty conclusive.”
“Maybe, Brush, but suspicion isn’t enough to arrest.” I studied the photos. It DID look like hair but Sasquatch couldn’t don work boots and murder. At least now I’ve got a couple of possible suspects: LukeJivetalker and OIL*CAN*HARRY. Don’t know about PeteJoe just yet.
Someone had confused both of us, Brush worse than I…and thus far had done a good job. The bloody boot-prints definitely looked like Sasquatch had cut the toes out of a pair of Wolverines and squeezed in its feet, toes extended 6 inches out of size fourteen boots. That just didn’t fit… literally. These elusive creatures hadn’t decided to come out of years of hiding to murder and pillage. And what in hell would they use car parts for anyway? It was time to do a little snooping around OIL*CAN*HARRY’s place.
OIL*CAN*HARRY lived 3.8 miles south of PeteJoe’s alley shack, on a narrow, rutted gravel road appropriately named “Dirt Road.” He was a recluse. Pedaled his bicycle cart into town once a month to the UPS store to send out stuff he collected in the woods and get more boxes. Most of it junk, but it sold like lottery tickets in the local Main Street grocery store/gas station/bowling alley. I thot about going bowling tonite with my g/f but reminded myself I needed gas and it was damned expensive these days, hated to buy more than five gallons at a time, decided I couldn’t afford her…or bowling…and I was still getting that Steppenwolf tune, drowning out other thots. OIL*CAN*HARRY liked to do pencil drawings…could be of Bigfoot, a concept car, a ’cutaway’ or a pinstriped panel, I didn’t know which, never could make it out, but he peddled them. Sasquatch footprint castings, locks of hair he claimed were real sold fast. I decided I needed a closer look at the locks of hair.
I parked in the driveway, in front of a hand lettered sign: "I hope you leave here and walk out and say, 'What did he say?'" —George W. Bush, Beaverton, Oregon, Aug. 13, 2004.” Strange as that was, the “No Trespassing, Visitors Will Be Eaten” sign was nailed to the door. I wasn’t worried, OIL*CAN*HARRY was a vegetarian. There was no answer at OIL*CAN*HARRY’s door, but the new Wolverine boots PeteJoe complained about were sitting on the front porch, last night’s snow lingered in the boot’s shadows. I motioned for Brush to get out of the cruiser, but he shook his head no. I motioned again -- go around back. He wouldn’t leave the car’s warmth. Something’s very strange about that boy. Guess I’ll have a talk with the Chief about him when I’m done with this investigation. “OK, fine Brush,” I mouthed, stuck my tongue out at him and decided to go it alone. Peering through the house’s dirty side window, I spied a propane torch on the table, pliers, some large liquid-filled cans, strange misshapen pieces of metal and a couple small piles of…hair? Naw, more like well-worn wigs. Could this be OIL*CAN*HARRY’s genuine “Sasquatch” locks of hair? And the metal…new car parts…shiny, too.
I hurried around to the back porch. The first thing that caught my eye was a large deep freezer. Old. Big. Freezers, ‘round here, store deer and elk meat, and as far as I knew, OIL*CAN*HARRY didn’t hunt. Sensing danger, I drew my piece and approached the porch. All sorts of discarded junk littered the rotted decking -- headlight buckets, broken car seats, a half rusted ’32 Ford door, busted wishbones and a bent red grille shell of unknown vintage. I moved Jack Daniels whiskey bottles and empty restaurant-sized canned beans boxes off the freezer quietly. I slowly opened it.
Ya know, I’d been a skeptic all my life, but there it was, in all its glory…uhmmm, ex-glory. I stared directly into the face of a frozen ape-man. It was huge, filled the 8-foot long freezer. I could see where OIL*CAN*HARRY’d trimmed hair off its chest, but the most shocking thing was its lack of feet. The creature’s were missing. Hard to believe Brush is correct, Sasquatch does exist. My hands started shaking as I remembered feeling something shadow Fur Biscuit and I while we were walking…then wondered if he’d caught that cat yet. Quietly closing the lid, I made my way through the maze of derelict car parts to the door. .38 snub-nose handy, I was going in.
If OIL*CAN*HARRY were in the house, he could be napping…or waiting. Have I found the old hot rodder killer? If he’s capable of trapping and killing Sasquatch, then four old men surely couldn’t put up any fight. Still, why would he murder them? Perhaps the hairy boot-print was OIL*CAN*HARRY’s attempt at throwing us off the trail. If he got away with those murders, I speculated he’d eventually skin Sasquatch and wear it for his next cereal…ehhhrrrr…serial killing, weren’t many old hot rodders left in this town now and the weather ‘round here has been known to do strange things to a man’s mind. The whole rust-free west would be in an uproar over a murdering ape-man…talk about a witch-hunt. But…being from British Columbia, OIL*CAN*HARRY was a strange one and wouldn’t allow himself to be caught this easily.
Shots rang out!
Damn, OIL*CAN*HARRY musta went out the front door, shot Brush. Wait, that sounded more like a cannon. Brush’s got bullets? Where in hell’d he get ‘em? He came flying around the house, Colt Python smoking, pointing towards the woods.
“Did you see it, ChopRods? I shot it! It’s limping. Come on. Hurry.”
Seeing Brush in such a frantic state definitely caught me by surprise, but watching him run full speed was pro football poetry in motion. Despite his “supposed” bad knees, he was as graceful as the L.A Ram’s Eric Dickerson, hurtling old sedan bodies, pumpkin-less rear ends and the sapling fence like fallen linebackers. I debated for a minute whether to enter the house, get OIL*CAN*HARRY or follow Brush across the snow-covered yard. A loud growl, like a wounded lion, bellowed from the brush and ended my indecision. I leaped from the porch and chased after Brush.
PING! My head chimed again. This could be huge, tourism in our little town just got a boost…Steppenwolf exploded again, that raucous guitar hurt…I couldn’t think…Oh, yeah…Sasquatch…. uhmmmm…does exist and there’s one in OIL*CAN*HARRY’s freezer! Wow! Need to figure out how to get some of that tourism money, get this damned song out of my head.
Brush waved his .357 and yelled like a just graduated artist. I was about to shout “where’d you get bullets?” when I saw that hairy, at least twelve feet tall, close to 586 1/4 pounds monster, crashing through the brush like an out of control AA truk The swath it knocked down made a great path, but Brush was losing steam and I wasn’t used to such a chase thru the brush (isn’t this confusing, ‘brush’ and Brush?). The creature leapt over logs and boulders with ease, leaving us panting. Brush stopped and squeezed off several shots at the brush. I was out of breath. “Brush, where’d you get bullets?”
“Get the Chief on the radio. Tell him to get deputies up to East Humptulips River, near Devil’s Slide Lake. We need to corral that thing.”
That didn’t sound like the Brush I knew. There’s more to his story then anyone can imagine. I was awestruck. Brush wasn’t as adle-brained as he let on. I holstered my pea-shooter. That thing certainly wasn’t OIL*CAN*HARRY skee-daddling from the house…and if he was still in there, OIL*CAN*HARRY knew we were coming for him.
We stopped for a minute, listened to the dying sound of Bigfoot crashing through brush, its pained roars echoing in the distance.
“Man, that thing’s fast,” Brush said, doubled over, hands on knees. “Hit it couple’a times.”
I nodded, gasped into the microphone of my shoulder-mounted radio and relayed the situation to Porknbeaner, the Chief. I requested backup at OIL*CAN*HARRY’s and a search party mobilized for Devil’s Slide Lake. It took some convincing, but the Chief finally agreed. I guess he deemed the information reliable coming from me and not Brush. I concurred, signed off and yelled, “That was unreal Brush, I doubted you all these years. Let’s head back, get outta this brush, gotta get OIL*CAN*HARRY. Got more bullets?”
We moved toward the house. Breaking tree line, I saw another cruiser parked behind mine. I motioned Cosmo and Flt-blk around back, figured a two-way breach. Brush covered the front door, from behind the cruiser’s body and not shivering any more, his blak t-shirt hung over my iron cross rear view mirror. I yelled, “OIL*CAN*HARRY, come on out.”
“OIL*CAN*HARRY’s dead,” a voice called out.
“Then you’d better step out with your arms raised and nothing in your hands,” I yelled.
“OK, this first.” An ancient double-barreled shotgun slid out of the ripped screen-door, butt first. The gray bearded, bald old man eased out of the doorway, hands raised.
“PeteJoe? What the hell? Whose shotgun? Where’s OIL*CAN*HARRY?”
“Sasquatch got him,” PeteJoe grinned ear to ear, holding his new Wolverine boots. “Tol’ ya he stole my boots…and the shotgun’s mine.”
“You stealing them boots back?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“I don’t steal nothin’,” PeteJoe shouted. “Just taking them back where they rightfully belong, found my finned drums soaking in the bathtub, too.” Squatting on the porch step, he pulled off his worn-out boots. “Got here just before you two did. Hid in the kitchen, saw the ape-man go out the front door. It ripped OIL*CAN*HARRY’s head clean off.” He slipped his new boots on and rubbed at fresh blood spotting them. “Guess ol’ Sasquatch was jus’ getting even. OIL*CAN*HARRY killed his mate, ya know? Wondered why they were hanging around here so much.”
“Hanging around?” I asked. “Whatchu mean?”
“Them Sasquatches been ‘round Dirt Road for the last month or so. Hear ‘em at night.” PeteJoe finished tying his boots, stood and pointed that crooked finger toward the door. “Ya’ll need to get in there and check out OIL*CAN*HARRY, he’s a mess.”
“You stay here, PeteJoe. Got more talking to do.”
I stepped inside. Brush followed, his t-shirt in one hand and gun in the other. Sure enough, OIL*CAN*HARRY was deader‘n a rod poked out the side of an SBC, lying what would have been face down…if his head were still attached. “Where’s his head?” I asked, spying a bloody trail lead out the front door.
“Bigfoot,” Brush shook his head, wiped his forehead with the t. “Saw it when I hid behind the cruiser. Didn’t realize it at first, but it carried OIL*CAN*HARRY’s head…jus’ like a football, better’n me. Man, that creature runs faster’n I ever could.”
“Call the Coroner. Can’t leave him like that.”
Brush picked up the phone in the living room. I headed for the kitchen, heard him ask the Coroner to come out, then made my way to the table wanting to investigate the metal stuff I saw. I needed to make sure our killer really was OIL*CAN*HARRY.
After examining the objects on the table, and the chemicals in all the cans, I was convinced OIL*CAN*HARRY was indeed the “hot rodder killer,” but, it appeared he had an accomplice. One piece of Squablow’s missing parts had been partially changed, chemically dipped to make it appear rusty and holes drilled so it’d appear like it’d rusted for years. Several parts belonging to Colorado51 and Dragrcr50 lay nearby, except they were still shiny new. The chemical rusting never finished. Slipped under one Olds Rocket valve cover was a scrawled note: OIL*CAN*HARRY, quit selling this stuff on e-bay. This is not antique stuff. It’s not worth millions. I’ll take it to Seattle to the swap meet and sell it. We’ll share -- 85% for me and 25% for you. The handwriting looked familiar, but in the kitchen’s dim light I couldn’t tell if it was LukeJivetalker’s, PeteJoe’s, OIL*CAN*HARRY’s, the Chief’s…or Brush’s.
I slipped the note into my money clip, which only held two bux, and stuffed it in my pocket. I know…major Faux Pas, but someone close was an accomplice to a crime that extended beyond simple theft. I had no idea who to trust any more and had to get to headquarters, compare handwriting samples.
Slipping past the coroner zipping OIL*CAN*HARRY into a fresh body bag, I stepped onto the sagging front porch, handed PeteJoe my notebook, told him to write down his version of what just happened. I had two reasons. One, I needed a sample of his handwriting and two, really didn’t think PeteJoe did it. He wouldn’t know where the swap meet was anyway, and don’t think he’s ever been out of the county, much less to all the way to Seattle. I do know this, someone is very nervous. I told Brush to stay and beat feet for the station…worse part was I was almost out of gas, damned Firedome Hemi, I’d have to stop and spend my last two bux -- half a gallon of gas.
The press, by now, had heard it on the scanner and would be all over the frozen Sasquatch. I shuddered thinking about questions I’d have to endure.
“Chief PnB,” I said over the radio, “pick up LukeJivetalker. Meet me at the station.” I surmised that should throw suspicion off PeteJoe. In the meantime, I’d stop at the courthouse, grab the handwritten copy of the Chief’s acceptance speech and Brush’s hand-written entrance exam papers. I was determined to nail the killer of four old men...and Sasquatch.
I needn’t have worried about it. As I came out of the courthouse, the Chief called me on the radio. “ChopRods? ChopRods? Dammit-to-hell, get your ass back to OIL*CAN*HARRY’s. Hurry. PeteJoe called, said he’d been shot.”
“Bring Jivetalker.” I ordered, climbing back into my car. Here I was, Bangin’ Gears into low, left twenty-eight and 1/3 feet of double black rubber marks in front of the courthouse. Squirrel’s gonna get me for that one too -- defacing public property. He knew it wasn’t a good day for Bustin’ Heads.
Driving with my knees, I compared samples of PeteJoe’s handwriting, and the Chief’s, to the note. Neither was a match. In disgust, I flung them. Hurled them toward the passenger’s side window, which, fortunately was closed. I thot it was awfully dark in the car, damned tinted windows…and I was gonna turn on the headlights. I rolled down the windows and the samples fluttered onto the floorboard. I noticed Brush’s notebook laying there. Straining to stay on the road, foot on the gas, hand on the necker knob, I stretched to grab it. I opened it and put the yellowed note from OIL*CAN*HARRY’s place next to a page. Perfect match. Damn, I should have known. Brush played for the Seahawks, has relatives in Seattle, and all six of his ex-wives live there. I hailed the Chief on the radio. “Send more backup to OIL*CAN*HARRY’s.”
As I bounced the Coker bias-plies into OIL*CAN*HARRY’s driveway, banging into the fence-post, the distant sound of approaching sirens wailed. To my surprise, Brush was still there. Sitting on the front stoop, his head in his hands like a redneck version of Auguste Rodin’s “The Thinker.” The chopped sedan door squeaked open. “Damn, I gotta oil those one of these days.” Brush looked up and said, “Figured you’d be back for me.”
Approaching slowly, I noticed a revolver filled his hand. Had a feeling this wasn’t going to end well. “Brush, why?” I asked, crouching behind the safety of the bias-plies as he raised the pistol. He sobbed uncontrollably, quite a sight for a former football star, hadda be all the head injuries.
“It just got out of hand,” he yelled. “No one was supposed to get hurt…not even OIL*CAN*HARRY.”
The revolver crept higher.
“OIL*CAN*HARRY never had much…” he said, “all he wanted was an e-bay storefront to sell chemically altered car parts. I only wanted to help him…and get myself more money than this damned deputy job pays.”
He waved the revolver in the air.
“Where’s PeteJoe?” I asked.
“In the john…again.”
“He OK?” I countered.
“ ’Course he is, why?”
“Just wondering.” I felt…relieved. Apparently PeteJoe wanted us back here in a hurry before Brush did something really stupid. “C’mon, Brush. Let’s go.”
“When I’m done explaining. Them old men all had great car parts… real stuff. OIL*CAN*HARRY needed it, but they wouldn’t share, wouldn’t give him any help, said all of it was for e-bay suckers.” Brush sobbed. “And my ex-wives are bleeding me dry, I’m broker one of them Nigerian e-bay scammers. The first old man was an accident. I swear.”
I knew Brush was playing his trump card, but chopping up Squablow simply wasn’t an accident. It was frustration, Squabbie didn’t keep any really valuable car parts around his place, he had safe deposit boxes…full, too. I knew one of us wasn’t going to walk away from this. I raised up from behind the bias-plies hoping I wouldn’t have to shoot.
“Hold on, Chop, I ain’t done, squat back down! The second old man wouldn’t hand over his stuff and he pulled a knife. The third I cut up after he called me Marsha, his wife’s name, gave me a big ol’ sloppy kiss and told me he was getting even by poisoning snacks…he fed me her corn flakes! Do I look like a woman? He was a wacko. Understand? I got real scared, spent most of that morning in the john, checking things out!”
I walked slowly toward Brush. “It’s over, pal. Give me the gun.”
“Can’t,” he said, sticking the barrel in his mouth. I stopped, wasn’t close enough to do anything. I turned my face away just as he pulled the trigger, heard the hammer clik…
Laughter erupted behind Brush. I turned. Several rolls of toilet paper came flying out the screen door, unrolled and bounced down the porch steps. “You’re the shits, Brush, here’s the TP,” PeteJoe laffed and kicked open the door. Brush’s gun hadn’t gone off. He seemed bewildered. I was, too.
PeteJoe chuckled. “Brush laid his gun on the table when he phoned the Coroner.” Holding out his hand, open palm up. “I swiped his bullets.”
“How?” I asked PeteJoe.
“Got suspicious of OIL*CAN*HARRY las’ week, the UPS store is next to mine, remember? Brush always showed up when OIL*CAN shipped stuff. Heard ‘em arguin’ ‘bout e-bay last week and money and him confessin’ just now…ain’t rocket-science, ya know?”
Brush was arraigned the next week on four counts of murder and we buried OIL*CAN*HARRY. The television and news media barrage was like nothing our little town had seen. Fur Biscuit had gotten the cat and befriended all of the media, even went Sasquatch hunting with them…that dog was in seventh heaven. Bigfoot hunters from around the world filled our lone hotel to capacity for months, the frozen Sasquatch disappeared and weeks later I’d heard the Smithsonian paid a cool $17.4 million for it and OIL*CAN*HARRY’s freezer. They denied it, of course, but sources tell me the Sasquatch is in a vacuum-sealed glass case and a team of scientists pore over it inch by inch. Still haven’t figured out who got the money, wasn’t me, or the town, even tho OIL*CAN*HARRY didn’t have any relatives. I suspected Brush got it but don’t know how he would have finagled it. And Sasquatch’s feet are still missing.
Worse part of all this, I found out, is, Brush is a big disappointment. I had bad luck befall me, I lost a fellow detective. He’d been masquerading as Evan Bayman all this time…he confessed, but Jeff’s his real name. He was supposed to help Rocket303 and all those people that got ripped off on e-bay get their money back and protect them from liars, cheats, Nigerian scammers and dishonest sellers, which run rampant in this country. Brush got caught up in the easy money too…there’s just way too many people out there that believe everyone in the world is totally honest. How’d that old PT Barnum line go: There’s an e-bay sucker born every minute? Yeah, that’s it.
Some weeks after Brush’s trial, he got off with an insanity plea, BTW, his defense included these lines: In my old age...grant me the senility to forget the people I never liked...the good fortune to run into the ones I do...and the eyesight to tell the difference.Guess it worked. I understand they locked on a Martha Stewart ankle bracelet and shipped him back to Ontario to live out his days sequestered in an art studio. He’s got OIL*CAN*HARRY’s drawings tacked on his wall, too!
The Institute for Advanced Studies released a paper some time after that stating Sasquatch is a mutant branch of the evolutionary chain descending from Cro-Magnon and Lucy. Hmmmm, they musta been a real pair back in the day! Days after it appeared, that report was denied. I don’t know what to believe, not even sure I believe everything on the HAMB anymore. I know what I saw and no one, so far, has found Bigfoot’s lair. There’ve been reports they’re still around the area, sometimes seen at dusk…and I still wonder where OIL*CAN*HARRY’s head is. Late at night, I imagine them creatures in caves near Devil’s Slide Lake dancing around a huge bonfire, holding a long branch with OIL*CAN*HARRY’s head prominently displayed atop it. Maybe I’ll go hunting for it…someday…when I don’t have another hot rod to build. I may owe that to OIL*CAN*HARRY.
Copyright 10-20-05, R.A. Jetter/Aden Rush