*
*
CHAPTER 5

Ten to nine the following morning - Friday, December 9th.

The small trailer park eight miles south of Goldsboro fell quiet once more after the school bus had been by to pick up young Renee Tooley. Only a few sounds were heard, and most of those came from the home of Diego Benitez.

Always a passionate hunter, Diego had been up before the crack of dawn to teach his new dog Freddie - previously known as the Hellbeast Of Rattler Gulch - the ins and outs of hunting in the desert. The large and somewhat slow Rottweiler wasn't a natural hunter despite the origins of its breed, and it also needed to rebuild its confidence with regards to being around humans after being beaten and left for dead by its previous owners.

In the trailer shared by Wynne Donohue and Mandy Jalinski, the breakfast table had been set to the nines. Wynne, who wore flip-flops and a neutral sweatsuit rather than her Last Original Cowpoke garb for a change, whimseyed about finding the butter and the quality strawberry jam; the plastic jar of coffee creamer came next. Once all those items were lined up on their living room table, she prepared the coffee machine and four whole-wheat buns so they were ready to go into the toaster oven whenever Mandy felt like getting out of bed.

Wynne hadn't waited up for her partner to come home as such, but she'd had a fitful sleep until she heard the inner door being unlocked at half past two in the morning. The time wasn't right for verbal communication so neither had attempted any; instead, Wynne had helped the exhausted Mandy undress and brush her teeth before they had gone to bed. They had instinctively moved into a spoon where they remained all night - and Wynne finally slept like a baby.

Out in the hallway, Blackie and Goldie stirred in their doggy-basket. The black German Shepherd nudged her muzzle against her companion's golden fur a couple of times to say good morning. The greeting was rewarded when Goldie leaned over and replied with a little shoulder-on-shoulder rub.

Wynne crouched down and reached out to give her canine friends some morning attention. "Howdy, mah bayoo-ta-ful dawggies," she said in a whisper. "Y'all need-a be a li'l quiet this he' mornin', yuh?"

Blackie and Goldie both nodded; Blackie got up and ran over to the inner door that she scratched with her paw.

"Sure thing, Blackie. One open do'ah comin' right up," Wynne continued in the same whispered tones. Getting up, she winced at the cracks and pops her knees made. "Lawrdie, I be gettin' ol'. Durn… aw, it done happens ta even da best. An' I reckon I be da best Wynne Donnah-hew who evah wus!"

Goldie shook her head at the odd snickers that came from her owner. She was in just as much of a hurry to get out to the really big bathroom as Blackie, but she just couldn't be bothered to get up ahead of time. The situation changed the moment her owner unlocked and opened the door to freedom - then she took off at high speed so she could avoid any accidents in her basket or on the kitchen floor.

As the dogs frolicked in the dunes, Wynne tip-toed around the living area to finish setting up the big morning surprise. She did a little here and a little there until everything was in tip-top order. Grinning, she left the trailer to get the day's newspapers from their mailboxes out at the gravel road.

---

Wynne had only just come back when the sliding door to the sleeping area rolled to the side. The bleary-eyed look wasn't a good one for Mandy Jalinski - who wore loose-fitting sleeping boxers and an oversized T-shirt - but it proved she remained in a state of fatigue even after the six and a bit hours she had spent in bed.

They subscribed to the MacLean County Courier and the Nevada Today tabloid - for its unrivaled sports section - so Wynne literally held an armful of headlines. In addition to the regular newspapers, a free promotional circular that listed all the best special offers in Barton City's three shopping malls was always distributed on Fridays to tempt the weak-minded into forking out their cash.

The three newspapers were quickly dumped on the kitchen table before Wynne closed the distance between herself and her yawning partner. "Howdy an' good mornin', darlin'. Aw, ya still look shitty." To make everything a little better, she leaned down to place a fair-sized kiss on Mandy's lips.

"Well, I feel shitty. I think I'll need to sit down and shower today," Mandy said and let out a tired laugh.

"C'mon, put on mah mornin' robe… it be real nice an comfy an' all. Yuh, there ain't no point in y'all catchin' a cold or nuttin' this close ta Chriss-mas an' da New Year. We got a lotta things planned, 'membah?"

"Yeah… I don't feel like showering right now, anyway. Is breakfast ready?"

Grinning, Wynne hurried into the sleeping area to grab her morning robe that carried large H.E. Fenwyck logos on its front and back. She threw the robe over Mandy's shoulders and helped her find the sleeves. "Naw, but it gonn' be in a-cuppel-a minnits' time. Watch this, darlin'!"

Moving with surprising speed and grace, Wynne slid over to the kitchen table and flicked the on-switches on the toaster oven and the coffee machine. "Y'all jus' go inta the livin' room an' check out them newspapahs. I'mma-gonn' pampah ya like a sweet, li'l princess taday… or at least until y'all need-a drive ta work. Yuh?  Now git!"

Mandy chuckled as she pulled the far-too-large robe around her upper body and shuffled into the living area. Smiling, Wynne turned to the toaster oven to keep track of the whole-wheat buns that were developing well inside it.

'Say… Wynne?'

"Whazzat?"

'Do you expect us to drink the coffee straight out of the pot, or…?'

"Naw!  Them mugs 'r on that there table there… right in front o' ya, darlin'!" Wynne said with a grin.

'No.'

"Sure they is."

'I'm afraid not.'

Wynne furrowed her brow and let out a "Come again?  That ain't right…"

'Well, it is. There aren't any mugs.'

Groaning, Wynne moved over to stand in the doorway so she could take a look at her fully dressed breakfast table - 'fully dressed' save for the mugs they always used in the morning. "Awwww-shoot!  Wait a minnit… naw, I didden ferget nuttin'!  I took 'em off the shelf, but wheredahell did I put those darn things?"

Shaking her head, she went back into the kitchenette where she spent the next ninety seconds searching high, low and everywhere in between. She finally found the mugs sitting pretty on their regular shelf inside the regular cabinet. "Okeh… that be weird. Perdy dang weird. Real Goldsborah kinda weird!  Lawrdie, that musta been some othah day, then… I be gettin' old…"

An electronic Ding! from the toaster oven brought her back to reality. After snatching their mugs, she hurried over to the oven and rescued their four buns before they would turn black and nasty.

The steaming-hot buns were soon halved and put on two plates. Grabbing the coffee pot, Wynne zipped into the living area and put everything on the table. "Lookie he' whut I done brought y'all, darlin'!  Aw… crap!  Da mugs!  Why, Wynne Donnah-hew, ya big ol' lug!  Dang-blasted, I wanted it ta be purr-fect an' now I be screwin' up the whole dad-gummit' thing like some rookie takin' her first lap at Daytoh-nah… dang-it!  Hold 'em hosses, pardnah… I be right back!"

Twenty seconds later, Wynne bumped down onto the couch; a further two seconds after that point, Mandy poured plenty of coffee into her mug to get some much-needed caffeine into her system.

Wynne chuckled despite messing up the five-star breakfast. She shook her head at herself as she applied plenty of butter and strawberry jam on her first toasted bun and began to chew on it. "Haw, y'all wanna watch the mornin' show or som'tin?"

"No. I just want to sit here and do nothing but enjoy the breakfast and the company," Mandy said and offered Wynne a tired smile as she took another sip of her coffee.

"Yuh. I heah ya, darlin'. I reckon y'all oughttah call in sick taday. I guess ya can't, but I sure wish ya could. Anyhows, jus' lean back an' let ol' Wynne take care o' bizzness. Yes, Ma'am!"

Mandy leaned across the narrow gap between them to put a kiss on Wynne's face. "Thank you. I appreciate it. The buns are certainly nice and crunchy."

"They sure is!" Wynne said with a grin before she created a loud Crunch! by taking a large bite out of her bun.

-*-*-*-

A quarter to eleven the same morning, Wynne brought her matte-black Chevrolet Silverado to a halt outside Grant Lafferty's famous Beer & Liquor Imports store on Goldsboro's Main Street. Back in her Last Original Cowpoke duds, she put her mirrored shades in the appropriate tray before she took a piece of paper from the passenger seat.

She looked at some of the questions and general notes she had tried to compile the night before. Although she had considered them solid at the time, she found them to be worthless in the harsh light of day.

"Mercy Sakes, I might as well not ha' bothah'd with this dang thing. Waste o' time," she mumbled to herself as she crumpled up the piece of paper she had used. She let out a sigh as she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel; a gentle thump on the rim soon acted as the closing exclamation point. "Naw, I'mma-gonn' hafta do whut I do best… or som'tin. Yessirree, I'mma-gonn' imprah-vise. Aw, I dunno whaddahell I be so worried 'bout… it ain't like I be askin' em ta come to them there Academy Awards or nuttin'. They be friendly folks…"

In the back, Blackie and Goldie shared a long look - it was clear they didn't fully grasp their owner's concerns. A Woof! and a Yap! seemed to brighten the denim-clad woman's mood, so the first barks were followed by a few more to keep everything on the positive side of the scorecard.

"Much obliged, girls. Lawrdie, y'all know that the Grant-Mastah don't like them dawggies in his sto'ah, so y'all gonn' hafta wait out he'. Okeh?"

Woof?

"Naw, I ain't got a clue how long it gonn' take, Blackie."

Woof…

"Yuh, I know, I know… y'all feelin' bored alreddy. Mebbe ya could-"

Goldie broke in with a merry Yap! and a small shoulder-rub on her canine companion's black fur.

"Yuh!  I wus jus' gonn' suggest that!  Okeh, girls, I be goin'," Wynne said and climbed down from the Silverado.

---

Stepping inside the well-stocked liquor store, Wynne took off her battered cowboy hat and stuffed it under an arm. As she always did when she entered the store, she stared with wide, disbelieving eyes at the hundreds upon hundreds of bottles that lined every square inch of the store's walls.

The central part of the floor saw nearly a dozen cardboard standees promoting all kinds of domestic and foreign beers and spirits - the largest of which was the one from H.E. Fenwyck Brewery Co. Wynne broke out in a wide grin as she clapped eyes on it. Considering the amount of cash she had added to the brewery's coffers, she considered it a missed opportunity that they had never called to ask if she wanted to have her likeness on them.

The spotlights in the ceiling made sure to illuminate the countless bottles without shining directly onto any of them and thus ruining the contents. The light had a golden sheen to it that suited the store's parquet floor and the noble-wood panels and shelves perfectly.

An unintrusive blend of aromas permeated the store's air-conditioned climate: there were hints of orange peel, cinnamon and tea leaves. The scents had been painstakingly selected to create a cozy, homey environment for the customers - or as the owner of the store preferred to call them, clients - as they browsed the many shelves in awestruck silence.

Grant Lafferty was down at the far end of the store. The tenderfooted gentleman used a feather duster to sweep off the grayish particles that would inevitably land on the bottles and shelves each night.

"Howdy, Grant-Mastah!" Wynne said and offered her lifeline to the Fenwyck products a small wave. To help her friend, she strolled through the store so he didn't have to hobble all the way back to the counter near the main entrance.

"Good morning, Wynne," Grant said and returned the wave. The man in his mid-sixties wore his usual pair of tweed slippers as well as pale-gray, high-waisted pants, a dark-blue shirt and a brownish, knitted cardigan. His square spectacles were perched low on his nose as always, but - unusually - he didn't wear his regular, dark-brown toupee which offered an unhindered view of the peak of Mount Grant. "We might as well get started. Last evening, you said you wanted to write something that I could use when talking to with the actors' representatives… right?"

"Well, Yuh, I did… but it didden turn out that way."

"Oh?"

"Naw. Long story," Wynne said with a shrug. "Okeh, lemme give y'all the low-down so we all be on da same page an' all. Mah Westurhn's about ta be released on them there DVDs. Someboddah tole Abe Rosenthal from the mooh-vie theatah, an' he phoah-ned me ta ask if it wudden be fun ta bah them rights fer a-cupple-a showin's on da silvah screen an' all-"

"Wynne-"

"Well, I wussen too hawt on that no-shun, but it done got me thinkin'. Mebbe we could turn it inta a big, ol' Westuhrn event, yuh?  Featurin' all the old-fas-shunned things like hosses and carts an' the whole kit an' caboodle."

"Wynne, you-"

"An' then I thunk, why not try ta get in touch with them folks who done played them dif'rent parts in da mooh-vie?  Like Rogah Kennedy an' Rob Steele-"

"Wynne!"

"Uhhh… yuh?"

"You already told me all that yesterday evening over at Moira's," Grant said with a smile - the fellow with the encyclopedic knowledge of beer and spirits had spent enough time around Wynne Donohue to know she'd get to the point eventually, even if she took the long and winding scenic route there.

Wynne furrowed her brow as she thought back to the previous day - little by little, the conversation she had already had with Grant Lafferty peeked through the proverbial curtain. "Haw… shoot, I did, didden I?"

"Yes."

"Okeh… nevah mind, then. Yestahday sure was weird an' all, but… shoot, I really be gettin' ol'. But anyhows, I tried writin' som'tin las'night, but I coudden string enuff words tagethah ta make any kinda sense. So… an' he' be whut I be askin' o' y'all… wouldya mind lookin' up them agencies again so we could mebbe find some kind o' phoah-ne numbah or some such so I can call 'em an' speak ta 'em directly?  I ain't good with them letters, but I sure know how ta tawk."

Grant smiled again and began hobbling over toward the counter. "No problem, Wynne. I just need my telephone."

"Haw, lemme get it fer ya… it be on da countah?"

"Actually on a shelf below it."

"Okeh, won't be but a second, friend," Wynne said and hurried back to the counter. Grant's smartphone was soon found next to his pipe and a pouch of tobacco that had been prepared for later in the afternoon - he only lit up after three PM. The double-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun that Grant kept under the counter to deter criminal elements from even thinking about robbing the store caught her eye, and she let out a dark grunt.

"He' ya go, Grant-Mastah," she said as she handed over the telephone.

"Thank you. I saved the bookmarks so we can continue where we left off last night. You decided to forget about Simon DeLane, right?"

"Yuh, I guess. Didden like him an' I sure ain't got no spe-shul urge ta see 'im again. Yuh, ferget 'im."

Grant nodded as he tapped, tapped, swiped and tapped a little more. "All right. Roger Kennedy's contact info isn't listed directly on the Boretz, Warfield and Britton agency's website, but there's a web address for his agent. Let's try that."

Wynne chuckled as she looked at the display over Grant's shoulder. "Ya know, friend… I ain't nevah gonn' undahstand howdahell y'all be such a wizard when it comes ta these he' things. Mercy Sakes, it done took me three months aftah I got mah new phoah-ne jus' ta find some o' the basic apps an' stuff. I cheered a whole, dang-blasted day when Brendah done showed me where da video playah wus an' how ta transfah some o' mah Nascah-r video files onta it."

A chuckle escaped Grant as he paused his actions. "I bought my first home computer in nineteen-eighty-six, Wynne."

"Lawwwwwr-die… no wondah y'all know wotcha doin', then. I done had plentah o' othah things on mah mind in eighty-six… I wus… holy smokes… fifteen an' caught slam-bang in da middle o' puberty. An' I wus still on heavy medica-shun aftah mah accident, too. I done had no time fer computahs or nuttin'."

On the smartphone, the website for Roger Kennedy's agent had already finished loading, so Grant tapped on the Contact Info bar to see what would be shown. "Here's the number for the agent's office. Do you want me to-"

"Naw, naw, I got it," Wynne said and retrieved her own phone from her pocket. The listed number was soon punched in. "It be ringin'… still ringin'… okeh, he' we go. Howdy, Mizz, mah name is Wynne Donnah-hew. Lissen, I ain't got no appointment or nuttin', but I be callin' from Goldsborah, Nevada, an' I need-a tawk ta…"

"Angela Boretz," Grant whispered, pointing at his own phone.

"Mizz Angela Boretz," Wynne continued. "She in or som'tin?  Yuh, it kinda be impahrtant. Naw, I ain't no agent or nuttin'. Naw again, I ain't tryin' ta sell no script or nuttin'. I jus' wanna tawk ta Mizz Angela 'cos she be representin' Rogah Kennedy an' I wus gonn' ask 'bout… yuh, Rogah Kennedy. Yuh, from Harvey's Beat. Okeh?  Yuh, okeh… yuh, I can hold, awright. Much obliged."

"Everyone still remembers Harvey's Beat," Grant said with a smile.

"Yuh. Wus a good show. Not a trend-settah, but a rock-solid, ol'-school cop drama. Yuh. Caught an episode on Channel Forty-seven the othah week, ack-chew-ly. It wus still-" Wynne said before her attention was snatched away by a voice speaking into her ear.

"Yuh!" Wynne said and stood up straight. "Howdy, mah name is Wynne Donnah-hew from Goldsborah- haw?  Yuh, the same Donnah-hew who done acted in Cowpokes versus Da Undead Vampyre Ghoul, that sure ain't no lie!  Yuh… okeh, I wus wonderin' if Mista Kennedy wus available fer a personal appearance he' in town on Decembah seven'eenth an' eighteenth?  Yuh, the mooh-vie's been released an' we be holdin' a li'l Westurhn event an' showin' the mooh-vie in da theatah an'- haw?  Y'all need-a look it up first?  Okeh. Yuh, I'mma-gonn' hold."

Although no Muzak started, Wynne still moved the telephone away from her ear so she could give it a rest. She grinned and sent a thumbs-up at Grant who had gone back to dust off the bottles on display.

"Yuh, I still be he', Mizz Angela," Wynne said after the voice had come back. "He's available?  Why, that be awesome news right there, yes Ma'am!  Whazzat?  Okeh… yuh, we know he ain't doin' it fer nuttin'. Jus' name the price an'- haw?  I coulda sworn y'all said five bottles o' bourbon?  Y'all did say five bottles o' bourbon!  Uh… yuh, we sure can delivah on that, yes Ma'am. Why, I be tawkin' to ya from a liquor sto'ah he' in Goldsborah!  Whazzat?  Naw… naw, it ain't the only phoah-ne in town 'cos dem sheriff's de-per-ties got one as well. Yuh. Aw, y'all wus jokin'?  Okeh… anyhows. Sounds mighty fine an' all, Mizz Angela. Yuh, I'mma-gonn' get in touch with y'all once we done get them plans a li'l mo' solid. Yuh. Bah-bah, Mizz Angela."

"The only phone in town," Grant said and let out a loud guffaw.

"Yuh, but she wus jokin'. Y'all know them folks from Californi-O. They always be crackin' jokes about us rural bum'kins," Wynne said as she slipped her telephone into her pocket. "Anyhows, that wus a go. Rogah is available an' his price is five bottles o' sour mash. That oughttah be feasi-bell, yuh?"

Grant turned around and made a sweeping gesture at a certain section of the shelves. "Well, of course it is. Which brand?  I have products from fourteen different distilleries ranging from bargain-basement to top-of-the-line."

"Mizz Angela didden specifah. Mebbe y'all could jus' pick a pop'lah one?"

"I'll look at my sales statistics to find a good average. Don't worry about that part."

"Okeh!  So… onta Rob Steele. I sure be hopin' the big fella got time in his bizzy schedule ta swing bah. I betcha he got a hundred anecdotes an' stuff ta tell… an' he wus such a lively fella. Aw, he gonn' be a hit fer sure."

While Wynne spoke, Grant accessed the web site of the Association Of American Stunt Performers. He scrolled through a long list of male and female athletes who all had near-endless lists of television shows, movies and stage productions they had been involved in.

The name of Steele, Rob was soon found and tapped upon. "All right… that's certainly a handsome gentleman," Grant said and showed Wynne the profile picture Rob had on his subpage: in it, the powerfully built African-American lounged on a wicker chair wearing a cobalt-blue business suit and a blinding smile.

"Yuh, he sure is."

"He's six-foot-eight?!"

Chuckling, Wynne peeked over Grant's shoulder to look at the various features and skills that were listed below the picture. "Yuh, he could barely fit in da makeup trailah. Aw!  Dang-blasted, it done says he be filmin' in Canada in Decembah!  Snakes Alive… anyhows, there's his telephoa-hne numbah. Mebbe we be lucky fer a change…"

Wynne punched in the number on her own telephone. A frown developed between her eyebrows when she only got Rob's voice mail. "Durn… that wus his answerin' service," she said as she closed the connection.

"Couldn't you just leave him a message?  It says he's filming, so I guess he'll have his phone turned off during the scenes."

"Yuh… but I ain't so good with them short mess-itches. I tend ta run outta time befo' I be done finished speakin'," Wynne said and scratched her neck. "Aw, but I'mma-gonn' try anyhows. Mebbe I be lucky this time."

As she accessed the number again, she tried forcing her brain to come up with a short version of the message she was trying to deliver - it didn't really work, but she had a general notion of what she was trying to accomplish.

She let out a brief grunt when she only got the voice mail once more, but she took a deep breath in the hope it would make her speak faster: "Howdy, Rob!  This he' be Wynne Donnah-hew from Goldsborah, Nevada. We done worked tagethah last summah. I be plannin' a Westurhn event where we be showin' the mooh-vie in the theatah, an' I wus wonderin' if y'all had time fer a personal appearance he' in town on da seven'eenth an' eighteenth o' this month?  Okeh?  Call me."

Shrugging, she closed the connection and put the telephone into her pocket. "Haw. That wus that… les'see whut done comes outta it. Thanks a whole bunch, Grant-Mastah. Y'all been a great help so far," she said and put out her hand.

"You're welcome," Grant said with a smile as he shook the hand of one of his best and most faithful customers. "I'll look into the bourbon for Roger Kennedy. I'll get back to you on that one."

"A-yup!  Much obliged!" - Wynne put her cowboy hat on so she could tip it like a proper Cowpoke.

---

Not two minutes later, Wynne used a great deal of stealth to sneak a peek through the windows of the sheriff's office. Her mission: to gauge the level of mayhem in general and the mood among the deputies in particular. Everything seemed quiet, so she strolled over to the door and held it open for Blackie and Goldie.

The dogs flew over to their blanket where a water bowl waited for them - unfortunately, it was empty. Goldie let the world know by breaking out in a sad, little Yap… that went unnoticed by any of the Humans.

"Howdy, de-per-ties!  Y'all got the one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew he'!  How y'all been since the last time we done spoke?" Wynne said and waved her cowboy hat high in the air.

Barry Simms responded by grinning, waving and coughing. Back from sick leave, he sat at the watch desk producing enough cigarette smoke to rival the notorious fog rolling into San Francisco Bay. As on most mornings, his uniform was pristine and his hair had been wet-combed and looking much nicer than usual; his permanent, sickly-amber complexion was beyond salvation.

The ashtray on the watch desk had been empty when he had shown up for work, but the early signs of the familiar cone of ash had already been formed in it - it wouldn't be long before it would turn into a mess all over again.

Much to the sheriff's chagrin, Barry had presented her with a note from his Aunt Mildred where the elderly lady complained about Exploiting the poor child to such a degree that he couldn't even get out of bed the following morning until I made him a glass of warm milk and honey to go with his breakfast bagels. The note had been put in a prominent spot on the watch desk so his colleagues could see that he hadn't faked the extent of his injuries at all - cleaning the Durangos had put a terrible strain on his weak frame.

Beatrice Reilly sat at the third desk sorting large wads of old case files. The deputy looked up and locked eyes with Wynne for several seconds. Then she let out a brief: "Hello, Miss Donohue," that wasn't as curt or brisk as such a greeting would have been earlier in the year. Before Wynne could answer, Beatrice focused on the paperwork once more.

Wynne chuckled as she moved over to the sheriff's desk and placed a buttock on the corner. "Rodolfoh out patrollin'?" she said after a short while of silence.

With Beatrice having filled her quota of words she would say to Wynne on any given day, Barry took over: "Yes, he's over in the new part of town."

"Okeh. Have y'all had much ta do taday?"

"Not compared to yesterday!" Barry said and broke out in a laugh that turned into a coughing fit almost at once. After a moment, he clenched his fist and slammed it against his chest to get the clot of mucus to release.

Beatrice let out a growl as she pinned her coughing colleague to the spot with a dark glare. "And how the hell would you know, Barry?  I didn't see you here. Some of us needed to pull an extra shift to cover for you." - A dismissive wave and an exaggerated pointing at the note from his Aunt Mildred was all Barry had in his arsenal while coughing.

"Yuh, okeh… whutevah," Wynne said and scratched her neck. "Anyhows. Would ya happen to know where Sheriff Mandy is at?"

"She's in the crew room, Miss Donohue," Beatrice said, visibly annoyed that she'd had to address Wynne more than once a day.

"Why, I sure be thankin' y'all, De-per-ty Quick Draw," Wynne said and slid off the edge of the desk.

---

A quick knock-knock-knock on the inner door preceded Wynne poking her head inside to see if Mandy would have time for her. When she spotted the sheriff sitting at the round table in front of the electronic typewriter while holding the inch-thick instruction guide, she broke out in a grin and stepped into the small room.

As always, the crew room held a faint whiff of fried chicken and French fries. Whenever the deputies were forced to pull a late-late shift, they used the crew room rather than the outer office to eat one of the fine products made by the Chicky Kingz takeout parlor - by doing it that way, they were able to avoid direct contact with the citizens walking past out on Main Street who rarely seemed to understand that even the greatest hero couldn't do much without food or drink.

The nine metal lockers lining the walls were old but functional. Each member of the Goldsboro office of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department used theirs to keep a spare uniform as well as various personal items.

Beatrice, being such a stickler for the dress code, the General Code Of Conduct Among Deputy Sheriffs and every other rule and regulation ever committed to paper, kept two complete uniforms in her locker just to be on the safe side in case of excessive perspiration or incidents involving coffee. Barry, being less of a stickler for anything, used the shelves to store his crossword puzzles and sudoku magazines as well as the Sally Swackhamer pulp paperbacks he bought from second-hand book stores online.

While Rodolfo's locker saw more hair-care products and other types of beautification accessories and utilities than the bathroom cabinets of his steady girlfriend Dolores de la Vega, Mandy's locker was a far more muted affair with a single spare uniform, a single hairbrush, a spare coffee mug, a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste for the late-night shifts.

The high number of lockers compared to the low number of current deputies proved that the Town Council had been far more willing to pay the required wages to maintain a full roster back in the day - of course, that had been in the darkest days of Goldsboro when Senior Deputy, later Sheriff, Arthur 'Artie' Rains and his loyal crew of semi-shady, semi-corrupt cronies had ruled the town and the surrounding territory with an iron fist and an open palm for any greasing that might come their way.

The round table in the crew room had even had a starring role as it had been used for Rains' notorious all-night, high-stakes poker games that involved plenty of alcohol and even the occasional prostitute. Perhaps worse, the room had seen more than one severe beating of long-haired, fuzzy-bearded hitch-hikers and drifters who had been held on possession of marihuana or similar charges - all that evil business had been consigned to the history books when Mandy Jalinski took the reins, but the crew room continued to hold echoes of what had taken place there in the past.

Mandy looked up from the typewriter's dreary user's manual with a bored look on her face. A smile soon replaced the frown as she watched Wynne walk in.

"Howdy, darlin'!  Lawrdie, y'all still look tired!" Wynne said and pulled over one of the spare chairs so she could be close by.

Mandy thumped the thick book against the table's top. "Hi, hon… please… rescue me from this misery!" she said in a voice that held an exaggerated tone of high-strung histrionics.

"Okeh," Wynne said and resolutely grabbed the guide. In one second flat, it had been thrown into the trash can that stood next to the round table. "There. Mah job is done… an' y'all need a kiss."

Chuckling, Mandy leaned over to make sure her lips were close to Wynne's. After the sweet interaction had been fulfilled, she reached into the trash can to retrieve the heavy guide. "I'm afraid throwing it out isn't an option. I need to learn how to use this damn thing. If Beatrice decides to transfer out one day, we'll be up the creek. Rodolfo and I have only ever used manual typewriters… and I doubt the circuit boards could withstand Barry's ash, so he's out of the picture as well."

"Haw, say no mo', darlin'. Yuh, progress ain't always fun. Why, I still 'membah how long it done took me ta get used ta da Cah-r O' Tomorrah in Nascah-r back then. 'Spe-shually 'cos it done replaced them awesome Genera-shun Four shapes an' all. Ugh, an' don't get me started on that there rear wing horrah. Stock cah-rs need old-fas-shunned spoilahs, yes Ma'am."

Mandy managed to keep a straight face even if Wynne's comparison was for the nerdy-minded only. To add a punctuation mark to the brief speech, she leaned over to deliver another kiss. "How's your Western project coming along?"

"Aw, perdy good. I spoke ta Rogah Kennedy's agent. She reckoned he'd agree to show up. An' she done tole me he usually gets paid in bourbon."

"Hmmm!"

"Yuh… also, I done left a mess-itch on Rob Steele's answerin' thing. That there profile there done said he wus workin' up north in Canada in Decembah, but mebbe we be lucky. Yuh… it's bound ta happen one day. I hope."

Nodding, Mandy opened the instruction guide to the section she had reached before Wynne had entered the crew room. "I'm crossing my fingers for you, hon. Oh, I better get back to this thing. Tell you what…"

"Whazzat, darlin'?"

"Could I tempt you to come over with some of the good coffee and a few pastries at half past two?" Mandy said with a rare fluttering of her eyelashes.

Wynne leaned her head back to let out a loud laugh. "Aw!  Ya betcha!" she said, leaning over to steal the final kiss before she had to get on with her own program. "Yes, Ma'am, the coffee express gonn' swing bah at two thirty… an' there be donuts an' pastries an' mebbe some li'l secret, too!  How zat?"

"Very nice. See you then."

"Ya betcha. Bah-bah fer now, darlin'," Wynne said and got up from the chair. The door to the front office beckoned, but there was plenty of time for a few winks and a little kissy before she left.

---

Out in the office, she nearly collided with Rodolfo who made a beeline for the bathroom at the far end. "Haw!  Comin' thru' an' there ain't no holdin' back!" she said with a grin as she took a hasty step to the side. The Senior Deputy only had time for a brief wave before he disappeared into the restroom.

Wynne chuckled as she went on her merry way over to the watch desk; coming to a sudden stop, she hurriedly took a pair of long, sliding steps backward when she realized that Barry was busy hacking up a lung, blowing his nose and smoking his foul-smelling, home-rolled cigarettes - and that he was doing all three things at once.

"Lawrdie… there be way, way, way too many Barry-germs ovah yondah fer this he' Cowpoke. Mercy Sakes," she mumbled as she changed her plans and moved over to the doggy-blanket inside the door instead. Crouching down, she noticed the water bowl had been filled. "Haw!  Much obliged whoevah done took care o' mah dawggies."

"You're welcome, Miss Donohue," Beatrice said; her lips even creased into something that could be interpreted as a smile.

Wynne smiled back before she concentrated on the dogs by handing out a little fur-rubbing. "Girls, ya wanna stay he' or come with me?  I ain't doin' nuttin' in particular… I be waitin' fer a call but I ain't too sure when it might happen. Or if at all, fer that mattah."

Blackie and Goldie looked at each other; a definite Woof! from the German Shepherd meant 'There might be bad Humans or critters to gnaw on… let's go!' A typically less enthusiastic Yap… from the Golden Retriever showed her more cautious mindset. She remained on her tummy on the blanket even as Blackie jumped to her paws. The dogs exchanged a few woofs and yaps before Goldie got up as well and trundled over to the glass door.

Wynne had already opened her mouth to greet the deputies a hearty bah-bah when one of Barry's legendary explosive coughing fits burst onto the scene from one second to the next - he even needed to put down the cigarette he smoked so he could thump a fist against his chest, and that was a rare occurrence. The noises of hacking, coughing and rattling turned a little too gross for that time of the day, so Wynne and the dogs soon exited stage left to get out of earshot.

---

An hour later, Wynne sat on one of the white benches that lined Main Street. A bored Blackie sat on her left while a happier Goldie nestled across the denim-clad lap. Nothing much happened save for the infrequent drive-bys of field tractors and other agricultural vehicles.

She waved Howdy to Septic Sammi 'The Sewer Gal' when the independent contractor drove past in her custom Ford F350 Dually that had a large septic tank occupying the entire back-half of the cutaway chassis - as always, the tank carried Sammi's slogan that read You Dump It, I Pump It; a moment later, Wynne needed to use her cowboy hat to fan her nose as the typical whiff spread in the truck's wake.

Main Street fell quiet once more until a black RAM truck rumbled past five minutes later. Then everything fell quiet again save for Blackie's yawns and Goldie's happy panting.

Wynne had wanted to talk to Dorothy Tyler, the owner of the Yarn Spinners knitting store, to ask if she knew of any companies that rented out reproductions of period costumes on short notice, but the store was closed for the day - a card sticky-taped onto the door informed any potential customers that Dorothy would be back the following day at noon.

Sighing, Wynne reached into a jacket pocket for her telephone and something to drink. The latter - a can of Double-Zero - was put on the bench next to her while she checked to see if she had missed Rob returning her call. The telephone remained inactive.

A disappointed "Mmmm," escaped her as she accessed the video player app intending to get some help from her sporting heroes to kill a little time. Unfortunately, none of the wrestling shows, NASCAR news videos or old race highlights that Brenda Travers had helped her transfer called out to her, so she slipped the telephone back into her pocket and let out a long sigh.

Her fingers touched the cold metal of the original Texas Ranger badge she had found in the old locker up in the attic of the Bed & Breakfast. She dug it out of her pocket and gave the tarnished surface a long, thoughtful look. "Texas Rangah Wynne Donnah-hew," she said in a mumble. "Yessirree, Cap'n Donnah-hew o' da Texas Rangahs. Fastest guh-n west o' the Brazos. Why, once ovah in Shallah Pond, I wus up against six outlaws… yessir, an' I only had five rounds left in mah Colt. I threw mah huntin' knife at the head honcho. Befo' he hit the dang ground, I done plugged all his henchmen, yessirree!  Yee-haw!"

Wynne broke out in a hearty chuckle as she swapped the star for the can of H.E. Fenwyck Double Zero. It was soon cracked open with a Psshhht! and enjoyed with slow, easy sips so it wouldn't go by so fast.

Blackie and Goldie looked past their owner to exchange a long, puzzled look. They each shook their heads before they settled down once more.

---

After draining the can of beer over the course of the next ten minutes - that saw no vehicular activity of any kind - Wynne turned around to cast a look at 'Friendly' Sam McCabe's gun shop that was located another thirty yards up Main Street. She scratched her neck a couple of times as she pondered her next move.

McCabe had never been a friend or even a passing acquaintance as such, but the burly fellow had put himself atop the Most Unwanted-list for good when he had flat-out refused to even listen to Mandy's campaign speech when she had run for Sheriff of Goldsboro - worse, his response had contained so much hate and vitriol it was a miracle he still had all his teeth.

With 'Friendly' Sam busy overseeing the opening of no less than three new gun shops in North Greenville, Parson Flats and Collinstown, his right-hand man J.D. Burdette had taken over the daily operations of running the original shop. Unfortunately, Burdette was even more abrasive and hostile than his boss.

"Yuh," Wynne said to herself; it caused Blackie to let out a Woof? and look around to see whom her owner could be talking to.

"But if we gonn' have a Westuhrn event, we gonn' need Westuhrn guh-ns. Can't be walkin' 'round packin' plastic watah pistols, can we?  Naw… but I sure ain't much fer tawkin' ta ol' Jay Daniel, neithah. Dang, I get da sour burps jus' thinkin' 'bout it… shoot. Whazza Cowpoke ta do?  Aw, that don't hafta be taday, anyhows."

She sucked on her teeth for a few minutes until that particular pastime lost its attraction. Then she chewed a little on her cheek. Then she reached into another pocket to find a new Double-Zero. The can was soon cracked open. She forced herself to take small, measured sips to make sure it lasted - inevitably, it didn't really work. A sigh escaped her; then another sigh. Then she emptied the can and stuffed it back into her pocket.

On either side of Wynne, her dogs had grabbed the opportunity to take a nap; she wasn't far from dozing off herself. To stay awake, she gave Main Street an extra-extra careful glance in case something exciting happened elsewhere. Yet another sigh escaped her when the only vehicle for seemingly miles in any direction was an older, blue Chevrolet Tahoe that drove into town from the north.

Wynne kept her eyes on it to be ready to tip her hat and wave at her fellow Bow Tie driver, but Lady Luck deserted her all over again when the Tahoe turned off Main Street and onto the forecourt of the Bang 'n Beatin' Body shop - the gas pumps beckoned. When the driver had finished gassing it up, he or she drove back north and thus deprived Wynne of any hat-waving contact.

She was finally given something to do when her telephone rang. Whipping it up, she stared at the caller-ID and soon let out a resounding "Yeeee-haw!" that stirred Blackie and Goldie awake. She had added Rob Steele's number to the registry just to be certain she wouldn't miss his call, and the ID did in fact say Rob St.

The bar was tapped upon at once; then she put the telephone to her ear. "Howdy, Mistah Steele!  Y'all got the one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew he', yessirree!"

'Hello, Wynne… how are you?' Rob said in a silky-smooth voice that belied his huge, brawny exterior.

"Aw, I be jus' fine, thanks. Lissen, I ain't sure if y'all done heard, but that there monstah Westuhrn that we done filmed he' in Goldsborah has been released-"

'Yes, I heard. I'm looking forward to the residuals.'

Wynne scrunched up her face while she tried to figure out what the strange word could mean, but she soon gave up the unequal struggle. "Haw, that sure be nice an' all. I ain't got a clue whut that is, but nevah mind now. Me an' Abe Rosenthal from that there mooh-vie theatah done bought or rented… or whutevah, ain't too sure wotcha do ta them things… anyhows, we done got them rights from that there produc-shun comp'ny, yuh?  An' we gonn' be showin' it twice-"

'Oh!  On the silver screen?  In a proper movie theater?'

"Yessir!  Once on Satahrday the seven'eenth as a big, ol' evenin' premiere an' then an aftahnoon matinee on Sunday the eighteenth. We gonn' be makin' one helluva Westurhn event outta it, an' Lawrdie, I sure be hopin' y'all can attend as one o' da guests o' hon'ah. We alreddy got Rogah Kennedy onboard."

'That definitely sounds like a lot of fun, Wynne, but I'm filming a cannibal horror movie up here in the wilderness of the great, untamed Pacific Northwest. I'm on location with the second unit, and that isn't scheduled to wrap until the thirteenth. The weather's been pretty rainy throughout the shoot, so there's a risk it might run long-'

"Awwwww-dang-blasted!" Wynne croaked, smacking a hand across her eyes - the surprise exclamation made Blackie jump off the bench and move into her favorite offensive stance; she bared her fierce canines to show any critter who happened to be nearby that it would be best for everyone if they either stayed away or made sure they had signed their life insurance policy to benefit their next of monster-kin.

Goldie just curled herself up into a golden ball of fur and began to whimper.

"Crap, crap an' mo' crap!" Wynne continued at the same volume as her earlier exclamation. "I jus' knew it wus gonn' get all screwed up-"

Down on the sidewalk, Blackie spun around several times to see where the critters were. When it dawned on her they were alone, she relaxed her stance and shot her owner a long, puzzled look.

'No, wait a minute!  Wait a minute, Wynne. Even if it does go over schedule, I still have two to three days to get from British Columbia and down to your neck of the woods… or neck of the desert. I'm an hour's drive north of Vancouver so it ought to be feasible to get down to you in that time.'

"Haw… yuh, but… yuh. I guess," Wynne said and leaned back on the bench. She took off her cowboy hat to rub her brow.

'It's actually the best possible moment for your event. I have the entire week off after the current movie has wrapped, and that means I don't have to zip in and zip out. I can actually spend a little time in your town. The following week, I'll be acting and doing some practical stunts in a zombie movie on a backlot in Culver City-'

"Come again?  The following week?  Y'all be workin' ovah Chriss-mas?!"

'More or less. But then we get New Year's Eve off.'

Wynne let out an amused chuckle at the oddities of the film industry - she had already experienced some of it when she had traveled to Hollywood to film the interior scenes for Cowpokes vs The Undead Vampyre Ghoul. "Haw… yuh. Okeh. So… when will ya know if that there mooh-vie y'all is filmin' right now is gonn' go ovah schedule?"

'I'm afraid it's hard to say, but I promise I'll keep you posted on what's going on up here.'

"Okeh. Much obliged," Wynne said and scrunched up her face all over again. She was about to continue when Rob beat her to it:

'It's a low-budget remake of an Arturo Ignacio B-movie from 'seventy-four. Have you ever heard of the Donner Pass party?'

"Aw, sure… them folks got trapped on a trail in mid-winter and nearly done froze ta death… so they decided ta eat each othah instead, like ya would… obvis'ly," Wynne said with a laugh. "But okeh, Rob… them plans o' ours gonn' go ahead so- Aw!  Hold 'em hosses, pardner!  We didden get to tawk 'bout what y'all be lookin' fer on a finan-shual level."

'If you cover my travel expenses, I'll be satisfied.'

"Y'all got yerself a deal, there, pardner. Yessirree!  It wus great ta heah yer voice again, friend. Keep me posted, yuh?  I sure be hopin' we gonn' be able ta work som'tin out he'."

'I'm sure we will. Goodbye, Wynne. Talk to you later.'

"Bah-bah, Mista Steele," Wynne said and closed the connection. Blackie had jumped back up onto the bench in the meantime, and Wynne reached around the German Shepherd to pull her into a sideways hug. "Yuh, now we bettah be crossin' our fingahs an' toes an' paws and whutnot that Rob's mooh-vie gonn' wrap on time. An' speakin' o' which… it sure be time ta be wettin' mah whissel, yessirree!"

A can of Summer Dreamz Sporty Red was soon retrieved, cracked open and enjoyed. Although the sports-refresher wasn't as tasty as her favorite apricot-flavored GoFasterLonger, an "Ahhhhh…" escaped her as she leaned back on the bench; the satisfied smile that spread over her face proved she was in a far better mood than earlier.

"Haw, girls… we got plenty o' time befo' we done promised Sheriff Mandy ta swing bah with some coah-ffee an' deli-shuss pastries, so how 'bout we done meandered down ta Moira's an' got bizzy at that there pool table?  An' mebbe some-"

Woof!  Woof-woof-woof-woof!

"Yuh, I wus 'bout ta come ta that point, Blackie. Some spicy jerky for all y'all wondahful dawggies!  Haw… we gonn' have a good time arrangin' this he' event. Sure iz. It gonn' be tuff an' there gonn' be some long days an' short nights ahead, ain't no doubt 'bout that, but… yuh. It gonn' be one helluva gig, I be tellin' ya. One fer the rekkerd books, yessirree. Haw, it gonn' be da coolest event evah in da history o' Goldsborah. Okeh, les'go."

Getting up from the bench, Wynne pulled her cowboy hat down low across her brow so it gave her an edge of cool sexiness - a moment later, a cheesy grin spread over her face as she pushed the hat back to where it usually sat.

She got her dogs' attention by whistling, patting her thigh and pointing southward on Main Street. The trio soon set off in a typical pattern with Blackie running ahead to clear any supernatural blockages, Wynne following along at her own pace, and Goldie staying within touching distance of her owner's decorated cowboy boots and denim-clad legs so she could avoid the worst of the scary stuff they were guaranteed to run into.

*
*
CHAPTER 6

Saturday, December 17th - a quarter past ten in the morning.

Main Street was no longer a monochrome picture of desolation but a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds. Close to five hundred visitors had flocked to Goldsboro to see the hastily arranged Grand Western Parade, and the general hustle and bustle rivaled any of the Fourth Of July events the town had seen over the past few decades.

A pioneer-like wagon train of full-sized prairie schooners, elegant two-seater gigs and buggies, rough buckboards and covered wagons, utilitarian stagecoaches and hearses - and even an authentic prison wagon on loan from the Barton City Police Museum - rumbled north on the busy street. Once the many beasts of burden and the wagons they pulled reached the northern city limits sign, they turned around and drove south all over again to make sure everyone would get to see them.

Tons of hay had been spread over the street to protect the hooves of the horses, mules and oxen pulling the wagons, and the inevitable droppings were taken care of by minders who all wore period-correct costumes and used period-correct scoopers.

The prison wagon held a full contingent of scowling, fierce-looking convicts in striped fatigues. The prisoners drew a lot of booing and general heckling from the spectators wherever the wagon went, but everyone behind the metal bars gave as good as they got by shouting various low-down comments at their hecklers - it was all made in jest, and the fact that the prisoners were all members of the group of retired law enforcement officers who ran the Police Museum only added to the fun.

Sitting on wooden benches installed on one of the open freight wagons, the members of a club of Western re-enactors from Brandford Ridge, Jarrod City and North Greenville acted out the age-old conflict between the men-about-town and the mostly female Temperance Society by holding hand-painted banners that said Free Whisky For Everyone! and Reject The Devil's Advances! respectively.

Some of Goldsboro's teens had been transformed into street urchins who ran alongside the many wagons to beg for crumbs or simply to make fun of the bonnet-wearing girls. The urchins were chased away at regular intervals by the local sheriff and his bandy-legged deputies, but they always returned much to the delight of the spectators.

The intersection at Main and Second Street had been blocked off to have room for the musical accompaniment in the shape of The Big Bad Brass 'n Jazz. The fifteen-strong band - who employed traditional jazz instruments as well as a marching-band-style horn section - was perhaps not entirely period-correct, but nobody cared as the lively musicians were on top form and played the classic Western movie themes that everyone knew and loved.

The vast number of pictures taken and the hours of video clips filmed by the spectators as the grand, colorful parade cruised along Main Street proved it had been, and continued to be, a smashing success. The only one among the hundreds of people present who didn't seem to have a great time was Wynne Donohue.

Her complexion had turned grayer than old concrete from working day and night for ten days straight. For the first time in over thirty years, she needed a daily intake of medicine to keep her going; if she didn't, headaches and general fatigue would render her unable to do much more than lie in bed and look at the inside of her eyelids - and even then, sleep would refuse to come more often than not. Worse, being on medication had forced her to lay off the beers as the two didn't mix.

Drained of energy, Wynne sat still and silent on one of the white benches amid the sea of cheerful humanity. The level of the noise surrounding her was constant and massive which only piled new truckloads of stress onto her already weakened system.

The costume she had rented through Dorothy Tyler and her Yarn Spinners store saw her play a traveling woman of the law complete with silver spurs on her boots, leather chaps atop her blue-jeans, prop weapons on a low-hanging gun belt, a large belt buckle, a double-breasted shirt and a denim jacket in an authentic cut from the 1880s - she obviously still wore her beloved, battered cowboy hat though it was anything but a ten-gallon Stetson. The Texas Ranger badge had been placed on the left side of the jacket like in the photograph taken of Winston Drummond, the real Ranger who had visited Goldsboro in 1889.

Mandy's inquiries into the identity of the mysterious Ranger whose star Wynne had found in the locker had come to a dead end - so few official records existed from that period that it was impossible to say whether or not the star belonged to Winston Drummond, or even what a Texas Ranger was doing a thousand miles from home.

Despite extensive, near-archaeological expeditions into the Goldsboro Town Museum's own archives as well as those in Barton City and Cavanaugh Creek, not even Tabitha Hayward had been able to discover if Drummond had stayed in town, moved on, or perhaps been gunned down in an ambush by the dead highwayman's brothers-in-crime.

Such a juicy mystery should have lit the proverbial fire under Wynne to dig deeper, but the constant, faint dizziness she had experienced for most of the past week had meant she just didn't have the energy required to do so. All she was capable of doing was to sit there and watch the parade file past, so that's exactly what she did.

She snapped back to somewhere close to the present when she realized she had been spoken to. "Haw?  Whazzat?" she said and looked around in a daze.

The gangly Richard 'Ritchie' Lee held up his telephone while his best pal Kevin Tobin was busy eyeing a pair of young ladies walking past the bench - the young men were among those playing the street urchins and thus wore straw hats and costumes made to resemble simple rags.

Ritchie tried again: "I said, would you mind if I got a selfie with you?"

"Naw. Naw, 'course not, Ritchie. Lemme get on mah feet he'," Wynne said and rose from the white bench so she could comply with the request. To ensure the faint dizziness wouldn't grow worse, she needed to put a hand on the armrest and draw several deep breaths for the first few moments after getting to her feet. Her balance had soon been regained, but it was far from smooth sailing for The Last Original Cowpoke.

"Awesome!" Ritchie said and hurried over to stand next to the cool-looking Texas Ranger. After fiddling with his camera's settings, he held it up and broke out in a wide, toothy grin as it took a series of pictures.

Wynne smiled to the best of her abilities, but there was so little gas left in her proverbial tank that it only turned into a faint creasing of her lips - it actually helped the photographs because the expression she wore was a hard-edged, stern one that befitted a fierce Texas Ranger.

Another utterance of "Awesome!  Thanks a whole bunch!" was heard from Ritchie as he checked the quality of the photograph.

Although he did in fact show Wynne one of the images, it was done at such a speed that she didn't have time to see anything beyond a pair of colored shapes that weren't even recognizable as human beings. She let out a croaked "Haw, wait a minnit!  I didden getta see nuttin'…" but Ritchie and Kevin had already moved on. "Yuh… okeh… them kids these days," she mumbled and scratched her neck.

---

Twenty minutes later, Wynne sat next to the horse wrangler atop the prison wagon holding a prop double-barreled twelve-gauge over her arm like the real shotgun riders had done back in the old days. The prop Winchester she had used until then rested down in the footwell so it wouldn't get in the way.

Her strong need not to let anyone down if she could help it had made her accept the request by the chairman of the re-enactors, but she regretted saying yes ten seconds after doing so. She regretted it even more once the show had literally gotten on the road as a trio of maladies struck her at once: the close proximity of the pair of large beasts of burden sent an unpleasant shiver through her nervous system that didn't do her headache any favors. The clumps of hay covering the asphalt made it a bone-rattling ride, and the prison wagon's constant swaying and the vibrations from the wooden wheels carried out an unbeatable commando raid on her spine, neck and brain that she was unable to deal with for any length of time.

The fierce scowl the scene called for came unprompted as the heavy wagon rumbled all along Main Street to a series of loud cheers from the visitors; as the small convoy reached Doctor Gibbs' practice on the return trip, she leaned over toward the driver who sat on the right to control the long brake lever with his boot. "Lissen, Mista… much obliged fer the ride an' all, but this is whe' I get off, yuh?  Lawrdie, this he' rollahcoastah gonn' turn mah brain inta mush if it ain't done so alreddy…"

Once the prison wagon had come to a stop, Wynne climbed down in a hurry, grabbed the prop Winchester rifle and made a beeline for the closest of the white benches. She posed for several pictures along the way but soon sat down with a bump and a sigh.

At least everything seemed to follow the plan she had spent so much time and energy drawing up. Apart from the inevitable oopsies and minor dramas that always happened whenever so many people were gathered - a dropped can of beer or soda here; a forgotten pair of sunglasses there - Goldsboro's First Annual Grand Western Parade had been spared the type of glitches, fumbles or dramas that had given the town its nickname of Calamity Central.

The rocking-and-rolling prison wagon and the unsettling experience of being so close to her number-one phobia - large animals - had made Wynne's complexion even grayer; she leaned against the backrest and just sat there breathing.

The prop Winchester rested across her lap so it would be ready to deal with any bandits, highwaymen or general rowdies who might challenge her to a duel. Some of the members of the Brandford Ridge, Jarrod City & North Greenville Western Re-Enactment Club were in fact dressed as swarthy outlaws, but they kept to themselves for the most part to remain in character.

From one moment to the next, an enormous shadow fell over the bench. Wynne stared onto the ground in wide-eyed disbelief as the shadow seemed to spread out its arms to pull her into a potentially lethal crunch. She let out a croaking "Hawwwww-shittt!" just as the shadow closed in on her.

"Hiya, Wynne!" Rob Steele said in his trademark silky-smooth voice. The tall and brawny stunt performer leaned down and put his hands on Wynne's shoulders to gave them a gentle shaking. "I've been looking all over for you. I must have asked thirty people if they'd seen you… not even Sheriff Jalinski knew where you were. I'm glad I finally caught up with you!"

"Howdy, Rob!  Why, it sure be good ta see ya an' all!  Lawrdie, y'all ain't grown shortah since the las'time we done saw each othah, haw?" Wynne said and broke out in a genuine smile. She moved to get up, but Rob had already put his huge frame next to her before she could get her leaden rear-end off the bench.

Unlike the countless monsters, ghouls, zombies, inbred cannibals and assorted other homicidal maniacs he had played in his long career, Rob Steele wore regular clothes for his appearance: Black shoes and a classy leisure suit that consisted of dark-gray pants and a blazer jacket in a paler shade of gray - the jacket covered a white shirt and a black necktie held in place by a gold tie-clip.

His hair was more voluminous than it had been for the Western to give the makeup people more to work with for the extensions he had worn in his latest film. A bruise on the left side of his chin proved he had been a little too close to the action at some point of the shoot.

"No. Six-foot-eight in socks. Pretty much the same without 'em," Rob said with a grin that soon turned into a mask of concern as he noticed Wynne's paleness and dull, red eyes. "Whoa… someone stick a fork in you… you're done, Wynne."

"Yuh, tell me 'bout it. I done bit off mo' than I could chew on this he' gig," Wynne said and rubbed her brow. "I feel jus' as crappy as if I done chugged down a crate o' them there Extra Strongs. But I didden. I ain't hadda drop all dang week 'cos I be needin' ta swill that there dang-blasted headache powdah an' some othah med'cine instead. Anyhows, when didya get he'?"

"Oh, at eleven last night," Rob said and stretched out his mile-long legs to get a little more comfortable on the white bench. "I'm staying in your bed and breakfast. Miss MacKay gave me room number twenty-one because it has an extra-long bed. And it does… my feet don't stick out at the far end like they did in the hotel we used up north," he continued before he broke out in a laugh.

Wynne tried to smile but it soon faded. "So… y'all done with yer Donnah Pass mooh-vie, then?"

"Yes. The damn thing ran over just like I expected it to. The main director was young and inexperienced. That meant the second unit and my stunt crew had to wait, wait, wait and then wait a little more before we could do our jobs. And when we were given the call to get ready, it started raining. Back to square one… and wait, wait, wait."  Rob looked up toward the sky. "No chance of that here, huh?"

"Naw, I don't reckon."

"That's all right because I've seen enough rain in the past weeks to last a fair while. The entire schedule was turned upside-down and inside-out about five times before the movie wrapped. But get this…"

"Yuh?"

Rob grinned and reached over to give Wynne's arm a little slap. "I won the day!  Or the big, bad cannibal did, anyway. Yep, my final shot was a great zoom-in on me gnawing on the last survivor's arm. I had a blood-bag in my mouth, so when I bit into the prop arm, the bag burst and sent a torrent of chunky tomato soup all over my chin and my costume. It was great fun."

Wynne blinked a couple of times before a horrified expression fell over her face. "Aw, much obliged fer that charmin' image, son!  Lawrdie, I ain't gonn' be eatin' no hawt-dawgs anytime soon… nosirree…"

"Oh, it's all just make-believe."

"Mebbe so… but still… Mercy Sakes. Betcha don't get ta win like that too offen!"

"No, I think I've been killed in about fifty different ways," Rob said and let out a chuckle. "My favorite exit scene was probably in Graveyard Shift. I only had a two-minute part in that as a night watchman… I was the first to get killed, but it was the one that set the tone for the movie so the stunt team had pulled out all the stops. A couple of guys in full zombie get-up dragged me into an open grave. I wrestled with them for a short while before they tore me
apart limb by limb… blood and guts and prosthetics flying everywhere. Great fun!  Did you ever see that one?"

"Oh-hell, naw!  I ain't too hawt on them horrah mooh-vies, Rob… Lawrdie… I only done this he' mooh-vie 'cos it wus a Westurhn an' all… an' I hadda close mah eyes a-cuppel-a times when I done watched it on DVD when that there big ol' monstah fellah done champed on them cowpokes there…"

Chuckling, Rob leaned back on the bench to watch the parade for a short while. "Well, in any case, you looked fabulous and had a ton of presence. The fact they remodeled it to give you a larger part proves that without a doubt."

"Aw… much obliged, Rob. I sure ain't no proffes-shunnal actor or nuttin', but I did have a perdy dog-gone good time filmin' them new interiah scenes I wus involved in ovah in Hollywood. That also be the reason why I reached out ta Rogah Kennedy fer this he' parah-de… he done tole me a buncha tips an' tricks ta make them scenes be mo' natural. Yessir."

Before Rob could ask about Wynne's experiences in the movie industry, the spectators nearby parted like the Red Sea for Moses. Instead of a religious figure appearing in a golden shimmer, a rather more earth-bound Junior Deputy Beatrice Reilly strode through the gap on a beeline for the white bench.

Wynne let out a groan at the sight of the annoyed look on the deputy's face - something had happened, that much was clear. To get the first piece of bad news out of the way, she leaned the prop rifle against the bench and got to her feet. "Howdy, De-per-ty Quick Draw. Y'all look like y'all got som'tin nasty ta tell me…"

"Roger Kennedy's here," Beatrice said; as she spoke, she had a hard time tearing her eyes away from Rob Steele's imposing figure.

"Okeh… but izzat a reason for wearin' such a frown?"

"Senior Deputy Gonzalez pulled him over at the southern City Limits sign. Mr. Kennedy missed the first exit out on the Interstate so he had to double back along the State Route. He's drunk-"

"Awwwww-shit!  Dang-blasted, that wus all we needed…" Wynne croaked as she clapped a hand over her eyes and shook her throbbing head - she regretted it a moment later when reality seemed to continue to tilt even after she had stopped moving her head.

Beatrice nodded. "His rental car has a smashed headlight cover and a dented fender, so it appears he's been in an accident somewhere along the way. The Senior Deputy didn't even need to breathalyze him, it was that obvious. We put Mr. Kennedy in Holding Cell One if you wish to speak to him."

Wynne let out a deep sigh. Putting her hands on her hips, she just stood there like a gray marble statue. After several seconds, she sighed again and let out a croaking: "Yuh. Okeh. Much obliged, Bea. I guess I hafta tawk ta him an' all. Where's Sheriff Mandy at?"

"The sheriff's on foot patrol, Miss Donohue. I don't know exactly where she is at this moment," Beatrice said before she reached down to pat the portable radio she carried on her belt, "but I can call her and ask if you'd like her to be there-"

"Naw… naw. There ain't nuttin' mah darlin' Mandy can do 'bout it now, anyhows. Okeh. Thanks a bunch, De-per-ty."

Beatrice nodded once more; then she disappeared into the crowd of spectators to resume her own foot patrol of Goldsboro's bustling streets.

Wynne let out yet another of those sighs that came from the bottom of her soul. She took off her cowboy hat to wipe her brow on her sleeve as she turned back to face Rob Steele. "Aw-hell, it wus too dang good ta last. I dunno whydahell I bothah'd doin' this he' thing in da first place… I shoulda known it wus gonn' turn ta shit soonah or latah. Dag-nabbit, I need som'tin sugary ta drink. I be runnin' on fumes alreddy an' we ain't even a third o' the way thru' this he' gig."

Getting up from the bench, Rob adjusted his blazer so it sat right - the spectators nearest to the elegant gentleman came to a stop which put the proverbial cork in the flow along the sidewalk. Others nearly tripped over their feet as they gawked at, or snapped photos of, his immense height and breadth. "Do you want me to escort you down to the jail, Wynne?"

"Haw, mebbe ya oughtta… yuh, whydahell not," Wynne said and wiped her clammy brow on the sleeve of her denim jacket all over again. "But I need-a stop at Moira's first fer a Coke or som'tin. Yuh. Haw, wouldya mind handin' me that 'chester there?"

Rob grinned as he took the light-weight prop Winchester and threw it to Wynne. She caught it far more deftly than expected which made him break out in applause. "Cool!  That's how a Texas Ranger would catch it," he said before he let his clapping hands do the talking.

"Yuh, haw?  Well, I got da badge ta prove it an' everythin'," Wynne said and puffed out her chest so the star came into prominence. "Okeh, pardnah. Les'go down ta dat dere jailhow-se," she said in an even thicker Texas drawl than usual.

-*-*-*-

At any other time in the history of Goldsboro, a stagecoach held up at gunpoint in the middle of Main Street would have sent the sheriff and the deputies into overdrive to form a posse and bring the bandits responsible for the dastardly deed to justice - but during the Grand Western Parade, it was one of the highlights of the entire event.

Out on foot patrol, Sheriff Mandy Jalinski first knew something exciting was taking place on the street when the visitors nearest her stopped moving and began gawking, yakking and snapping pictures.

The sounds typically associated with a hold-up soon filtered through the crowd to reach the real sheriff. Mandy stopped to listen to tough, crude voices that barked orders at the driver of the stagecoach. A female voice let out a shriek inside the coach. More shouting by the crude voices. A loud thump when the strongbox was flung down onto the hay-covered street. The sound of a cap gun being fired to blow the padlock apart.

The many visitors let out various utterances of Oooohs and Ahhhhhs all through the re-enactment; a particularly enthusiastic Ohhhhh! made even Mandy curious enough to maneuver through the four-deep wall of spectators to see rather than hear the action.

She eventually reached a spot at the curb that gave her a great view of the hold-up in progress. Unlike most everyone around her, she wore her regular, modern uniform - black boots, dark-gray pants with a pale-gray stripe on the outside of the legs, a black shirt with pale-gray highlights, a dark-gray, lined jacket and a gray Mountie hat - so people who needed urgent help knew exactly who to turn to.

The Polka-Dotted Bandit, thus named for the design of his bandanna, and his gang of highwaymen had put a log across the hay-covered Main Street to block the stage's path. The Bandit used his Colt to keep the driver and the shotgun rider in check while his masked henchmen took care of the strongbox. The loud Ohhhhh! that had drawn Mandy's attention had come from the fact that the strongbox only contained worthless mail rather than cash, gemstones or bags of gold dust.

Out of nowhere, Marshal Yosemite Johnston and a posse of deputies and citizens rode in guns a-blazing. Intent to rid the county of the varmints responsible for the countless hold-ups, they had soon plugged the Bandit's henchmen full of lead.

Another excited cry of Oooooooh! rippled through the crowd of enraptured spectators when the Marshal tore the polka-dotted bandanna off the Bandit's face and revealed him to be none other than Deputy Mayor Jimmy-Bob Wholesome whom everyone in town considered such a nice young man. Jimmy-Bob was soon handcuffed and led away; a few members of the posse removed the log so the stagecoach could carry on toward its next stop.

Once the driver let out a "Yahhhhhh!" and slapped the reins, the spectators broke out in unrestrained applause and cheering for another classy re-enactment by the team from Brandford Ridge and two other cities west of Goldsboro.

Chuckling at the simplicity of the Olden Days, Mandy resumed her foot patrol by walking toward the northern end of town. As she went past the final store before the open forecourt of the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop, she noticed a new sign in the storefront window. It read, 'Keshawn's Second-Hand Treasures - Opening Jan. 15th!  Proprietor: Keshawn Williams.'

The brick store had been empty for a few years, and it was obvious by the poor condition of the woodwork framing the boarded-up windows and main entrance that a great deal of work would have to be done to it before it could open for trade of any kind - and not just on the interior of the store, but on the actual building as well: the upper rain gutter of the flat-topped roof was bent and only held on by the last clamp, and a great deal of mortar had fallen out of the gaps between the bricks leaving deep canyons behind that were exposed to Mother Nature's relentless onslaught.

Mandy let out a "Mmmmm," before she reached down to take her portable radio off her utility belt. "Mobile Unit One to base. Mobile Unit One to base. Who's at the watch desk at the moment?  Over."

'Base receiving. That would be me, Sheriff,' Bessie Robinson said. The senior citizen, who had worked as the sheriff's office radio dispatcher for a lifetime under no less than four sheriffs, spoke with a croak in her voice - the passionate knitter had developed an illness in her throat that had made her announce that it would be the last time she would be able to fill-in on the busy days.

A wistful smile spread over Mandy's face; she had listened to Bessie's voice literally since the first day of her tenure at the Goldsboro branch of the MacLean County Sheriff's Office - it would be strange not to hear the elderly lady responding to a call, even if her advancing years had made her prone to the occasional mistake.

Beyond the emotional aspects of Bessie's retirement, the thought of the battle lying ahead to convince the Town Council to allow the Sheriff's Department to hire a new and possibly permanent dispatcher was enough to give Mandy heartburn.

She snapped back to the present to say: "I'm at the northern end of town. There's nothing to report here. I'll begin the return trip in a moment. Has anyone called?  Over."

'Yes, but only a few minor things, Sheriff. No real dramas as of yet… quite remarkable considering the number of spectators in town. Over.'

"Ten-roger, base. Mobile Unit One out."

Mandy slid the portable radio back onto her belt before she crossed over the hay-covered Main Street to resume her patrol. When she reached the movie theater, she nodded a hello to a harried-looking Abraham Rosenthal who, highly unusually, worked alongside his staff to add all the traditional elements associated with a big movie premiere, like rolling out the red carpet, putting up flagpoles and attaching several strings carrying colorful paper flags that were guaranteed to flutter in the breeze.

Though she didn't wear a period costume, she was asked for selfies nearly a dozen times on her way south on Main Street. Making sure that the public at large was satisfied with how things were run in Goldsboro was always close to the top of her agenda - even if the public in question weren't locals but visitors - so she held babbling babies, participated in all the selfies she was asked for and shook hands with all and sundry.

The high point came when she was interviewed by an online video blogger who did a live stream show from the Grand Western Parade; the low point was undoubtedly getting a lollipop stuck onto her uniform shirt when the kid it belonged to thought it would be the most hilarious thing ever to see whether or not the red-and-white sugary horror would stick to the black fabric.

Three minutes after the lolli-tastrophe - and with no time to reach the office to change into her clean shirt - her radio crackled to life: 'Mobile Unit Three to Mobile Unit One. Mobile Unit Three to Mobile Unit One. Sheriff Jalinski, are you on this frequency?  Over.'

Hearing the urgency in Beatrice Reilly's voice, Mandy let out a grunt as she reached for the portable radio once more. "Mobile Unit One receiving. Go ahead, Deputy," she said after depressing the transmit key.

'There's an issue developing at Derrike Iverson's bar. I'm afraid it needs your attention, Ma'am. Over.'

Mandy let out a deep sigh - the relative peace and quiet had been too good to be true. The news that it involved Derrike Iverson's notorious dive came as no surprise as the establishment had become a gathering place for those whose sole purpose in life was to challenge the authorities.

"Very well, Deputy. ETA less than a minute. Sheriff Jalinski out," Mandy said and put the radio back on her belt. A dark mask tainted her fair features as she strode ahead. Twenty paces into her journey, she upped her tempo to a jog - there were rarely any small issues at Derrike's, so the sooner she got there the better.

---

Arriving at the bar just over a minute later, it only took Mandy a split second to realize that her day had gone from being a generally positive affair to a typical Goldsborian mess.

Beatrice Reilly tended to a tourist who sat on the sidewalk leaning against the bar's wall; the young man had several napkins pressed to his face to stop a nosebleed that had already caused a fair amount of crimson droplets to fall onto his windbreaker and pants.

The late-fifties-something former light-heavyweight prizefighter Derrike Iverson - whose beer-barrel-shaped body wasn't exactly in fighting form as he clocked in at 275 lbs. - soon joined the scene on the sidewalk.

As always, the tall and rather wide owner of the establishment wore loafers, pale-gray, high-waisted pants and a short-sleeved shirt that had the upper three buttons undone to let his graying chest hair out to play. He glared at the bleeding tourist as if he was at the root of the disturbance.

Mandy knew better than to take anything Derrike Iverson said or did at face value, so she slammed her hands onto her hips and let out a: "From the top, Deputy," to get the story from a more trustworthy source.

"Sheriff, this is Mr. Dennis Hart," Beatrice said as she put a gentle hand on the tourist's shoulder in a continued effort to calm him down. "He was assaulted by an unnamed patron inside Mr. Iverson's bar-"

Before she could go on, Dennis added his two cents' worth to the conversation: "All I wanted was to buy a stinking beer!  And then that piece of shit claimed I had taken his spot at the counter… how the hell should I know?  I've never been to this shithole town before!  He yanked me away and punched me in the face."

"All right. Thank you, Mr. Hart," Mandy said; she turned to Derrike. "Do you have anything to add, Mr. Iverson?"

Derrike snorted and shot Mandy a disdainful look. "No. It's being taken care of."

"Meaning what, exactly?"

"That it's being taken care of."

Tension suddenly exploded between the people on the sidewalk. The spectators closest to the scene sensed the unfolding drama and made sure to give everyone involved an extra-wide berth - that the open wagon carrying the men-about-town and the female Temperance Society happened to drive past on the street was one of those bizarre coincidences that could only happen in Goldsboro, Nevada.

Mandy drew a breath to ask for a few more details from the unusually taciturn bar owner; she only made it as far as opening her mouth when the door to the establishment was kicked open from the inside.

The question she had lined up on the tip of her tongue was transformed into a long, pained sigh as she clapped eyes on the two men who stepped onto the sidewalk: Arthur 'Artie' Rains and one of the regular barflies - the latter's face looked as if it had been introduced to the business end of a 1980s Mack Superliner eighteen-wheeler.

The disgraced former sheriff of Goldsboro appeared to have spent most of the morning in Derrike's place imbibing to his heart's delight - he had undoubtedly chugged down plenty of his favorite liquor while smoking stinky cigars and playing cards with his like-minded cronies.

A four-day stubble covered his wobbly triple-chins while his beady eyes held a wicked gleam that proved he enjoyed taking center stage once more. His weight loss over the summer months had been fully negated, and he weighed in at 300 lbs. once more. The clothes he wore - Polyester from top to toe - were surprisingly clean, but his pants drooped and his shirt was strained to breaking point across his considerable belly.

The months he had spent behind bars following his conviction of assault and trespassing had failed to provide him with enough insight to change his ways; he remained a case study in abrasiveness and barely hidden aggression, in blinkered self-pride and a general distrust in all authorities though he had worn the sheriff's uniform for countless years.

Rains let out a nasty chuckle at the sight of the current sheriff of Goldsboro. "Well, if it ain't my old pal Manly," he said in a voice that, although slurred, continued to hold plenty of venom. "Still needin' others to do the dirty work for ya… that ain't never gonna change, is it?  Here ya go. Merry Christmas," he said as he gave the barfly such a violent shove in the back that the battered and bruised man was flung down onto the sidewalk.

The former sheriff pretended to dust off his hands before he crossed his fat arms over his chest. "Signed, sealed and delivered. Do you think you can process him all by yourself, Manly?"

Mandy ignored the tired, old barbs to concentrate on the barfly whose palms had been scraped upon landing on the sidewalk. It was obvious from his grungy clothes and shabby looks that he wasn't a member of society's upper echelon. His face was raw and swollen as if he had just been pummeled by someone who knew to dish out pain. A quick glance at Artie Rains and the evil grin he sported provided a solid clue as to the identity of the assailant.

Once more, Artie beat her to it: "He fell. I helped him up. He fell again. I helped him up again. I'm just that kind of guy. I guess he ain't too steady on his feet, Manly. Some men just can't hold their liquor. A sad tale."

Derrike nodded and grunted in the affirmative. "A very sad tale."

Mandy ignored their put-upon Abbott & Costello act and crouched down next to the pummeled barfly. Although he was confirmed as the guilty party in an assault case, performing an umprompted search of his pockets for a wallet or other kind of ID would violate his civic rights, so she did the next best thing by asking instead: "Sir… sir, what's your name?"

"Go to hell," the man said in a slurred voice. He spat out a glob of blood that immediately stained the sidewalk.

"Do you wish to press charges against anyone?"

"I said, go to hell, you stupid bitch!"

The crude comments made the peanut gallery - Rains and Iverson - break out in an "Oooooh!" followed by plenty of coarse, derisive laughter.

A sigh escaped Mandy as she got back on her feet. To get on with the program, she moved over to Beatrice Reilly and the tourist. "Sir, I'll ask you the same question. Do you wish to press charges-"

"You bet your ass I will!" Dennis Hart said; his eyes shot fire as he glared at the barfly. "That son of a bitch is gonna pay for sucker punching me like that!  And then I'm gonna sue this piece of shit bar right here!"

The news made the hecklers in the peanut gallery let out identical grunts of annoyance; the men soon moved back inside and slammed the door shut behind them.

Thankful for the respite, Mandy moved away from the bleeding tourist to grab hold of the pummeled barfly. Though he let out plenty of profane protest, she had his hands cuffed behind his back in no time flat. "Very well. Deputy Reilly, please see to it that Mr. Hart's injury is treated. I'll throw this one into the free holding cell."

"Yes, Sheriff," Beatrice said before she took another napkin to stem the tide of blood that continued to seep from the tourist's nose.

-*-*-*-

A short while later, Mandy accessed the intercom panel on the door to the jailhouse to announce herself and the prisoner who wouldn't stop complaining about this, that and everything else. She made sure to stand in a certain spot on the sidewalk so the security camera installed on the front of the building could pick her up.

The door was soon buzzed open, and she grabbed hold of the mouthy barfly's arm to drag him inside. She gave the reluctant prisoner a shove to make him go over to the processing desk manned by another of their regular temps, Deputy Don Woodward, who had come over from Jarrod City to fill out their roster on what would undoubtedly be a busy weekend.

"Deputy, meet John Doe," Mandy said as she unlocked the handcuffs so the prisoner could have his prints taken. "I've seen him in town before, but he isn't a resident. I have a feeling he might live in the Old Boys' Haven trailer park a couple of miles north of here."

The experienced deputy sheriff eyed the man's scruffy appearance as he found the proper forms and put them on the table. "Sir, it would be a lot easier for you to just state your name and addr-"

When a slurred "Why dontcha screw yourself, asshole?" was the only thing Don and Mandy were able to get out of the prisoner, the Deputy Sheriff shrugged and carried out the regular procedure for harvesting fingerprints.

Mandy kept close by while her colleague completed the task of getting the ten prints onto the sheet. As he inserted the form into their trusty, old manual typewriter and aligned it to add the man's approximate height and age as well as his physical characteristics, Mandy took a firm grip around the barfly's arm and pulled him over to Holding Cell Two. "Deputy Woodward, I'll dig around a little. Once we have our John Doe's real name, I want you to contact HQ up in Barton City and have them run him through the NCIC databases."

"Will do, Sheriff," Don said as he pulled the form out of the typewriter and added the date, time and his signature to the foot of the page.

---

Once Mandy had secured the heavy door to Holding Cell Two, she applied plenty of liquid sanitizer onto her hands and the handcuffs so no germs would be transferred onto herself or the next prisoner. Movement over by the door to Main Street made her look in that direction; a chuckle escaped her as she caught a glimpse of a familiar-looking Texas Ranger and an oversized human being in an elegant leisure suit.

'Howdy, y'all!' Wynne said into the microphone on the intercom panel. 'This he' be da one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew an' da awesome stunt fella Rob Steele, dontchaknow!  Haw, we be kinda lookin' ta come in if we may!'

Grinning at the unusual sight, Don Woodward buzzed the door open - Wynne and Rob soon swarmed in.

"Why, if it ain't mah darlin' Sheriff Mandy!" Wynne cried and tipped her cowboy hat the moment she clapped eyes on her partner. The opportunity was too good to pass over, so she closed the distance between them in a matter of a split second or two. Instead of a boring, old interdepartmental handshake, the County Sheriff and the Texas Ranger let their lips do the talking. "Haw, did all y'all have trubbel since ya bein' in he' an' not out there?"

"Not really. A barfly got into a scuffle up at Iverson's. Nothing to write home about in the grander scheme of things. Hello, Mr. Steele. Nice to see you again," Mandy said and strode over to Rob to shake his hand. Because of the fifteen-inch difference in height between them, she needed to lean her head back to even look at his face.

"Hello, Sheriff. Your big parade is a fantastic event. Really well-run and exciting," Rob said with a grin. "I've been watching some of the re-enactors, and let me tell you, those part-time guys and gals are better than ninety percent of the paid actors I've worked with. It's their passion for the subject shining through."

"Oh, I'm sure it is, Mr. Steele. Wynne needs to get all the credit, though," Mandy said and put an arm around her partner's waist. "She's worked very hard over the past ten days to ensure that everything will go to plan today and tomorrow. Too hard, perhaps. Mmmm?"

Wynne broke out in a wide smile and a shrug at the praise; her gray complexion and dull eyes proved that she had in fact worked a little too hard. "Aw-shucks, darlin'… I done hadda blast. Mostly. Speakin' o' bein' blasted… whut's the status on ol' Mista Rogah Kennedy?"

Mandy's professional game face soon replaced the smile on her features as the topic turned to more serious matters. "Well, there's no mistaking that he's far beyond the legal limit. We've taken a blood sample to verify the exact level of intoxication. The breathalyzer went clean off the scale when Senior Deputy Gonzalez pulled Mr. Kennedy over down by the southern city limits sign."

"Ouch," Rob Steele said.

"Indeed. Doctor Gibbs is analyzing the sample as we speak," Mandy continued. "Although he's the town veterinarian, he has the proper equipment for the task."

Wynne took off her cowboy hat to have room to scratch her scalp. Since Cowpokes rarely wear their hat indoors, she stuffed the battered old thing under her arm. "So… I be guessin' ol Rogah be lookin' at one helluva fine?  Mebbe even a suspended license or some such?"

"There's no doubt he'll lose his license," Mandy said in a somber tone. "And worse, his rental car showed signs of having been in an accident. The Senior Deputy is calling the rental company's office in Las Vegas to ask if the damage could have been present on the car when Mr. Kennedy rented it at the airport. It's highly improbable, but not impossible."

"Yuh…"

Mandy's face turned even more glum. "And if Mr. Kennedy has caused the damage at some point on his road trip from Las Vegas to here, he'll most likely be charged with a hit-and-run as well. In that case, he'll need a top-class attorney to beat jail time."

"Awwwww, dang-it… that wussen whut wus sapposed ta happen!" Wynne said as she gave her brow a severe rubbing. "If Rogah had done called ahead when he got ta that there airport an' done tole us he wus drunk offa his buhhh-tt, I woudda jumped in mah Silveradah an' driven ovah ta Vegas and-"

"A three-hundred mile round trip in your present state of fatigue, Wynne?  No. End of discussion," Mandy said in a strong voice that left no room for misinterpretation.

Wynne paused for a moment before she broke out in a shrug. "Yuh, I heah ya, Sheriff Mandy… that woudda been dumb. But somebodda coulda gone ovah there ta pick 'im up. Haw, it be too late fer that now. Lissen, whut are the chances o' ol' Rogah gettin' an evenin' pass fer da big premiere?  Whut if me an' big Rob he' promise ta keep our eyes on 'im the whole, dang time?"

Mandy put her hands on her hips and fell silent. Still without uttering but a single word, she moved over to the jailhouse's processing desk where Don Woodward wheeled his swivel-chair to the side so the sheriff had room to work.

She pressed a button on the black-and-white monitor that was hooked up to the surveillance cameras inside the holding cells - the plasticky Click! switched the view from the newly incarcerated barfly to Roger Kennedy. At present, the former TV-star was flat on his back on the bunk bed. He had an arm across his eyes to block out the light produced by the fixture in the ceiling. Whether or not the amount of alcohol in his blood had caused him to fall asleep was impossible to determine from a distance.

"I can't say yet, Wynne," Mandy said after nearly a minute of silence. "It depends on Mr. Kennedy and on what happens the rest of the day. If a major incident develops, we'll need the holding cell. If not, I'll make a judgment call based on his behavior over the next few hours. The premiere's at eight, right?"

"It sure is, darlin'."

"All right. If nothing happens, I'll make my decision at seven o'clock at the latest," Mandy said and moved away from the processing desk. "If I decide to release him, he'll have time to shower and shave so he won't look like a bum in front of all those people."

"Yuh, okeh… doin' it like that would deffa-nete-ly be fair bizzness. Wudden ya say so, Rob?"

The stuntman nodded. "Very much so. I guess the rumors were true… there have been whispers in the industry about Mr. Kennedy's problem for years now. I don't listen to gossip if I can help it, but it's been said that he has a long history of drinking himself into oblivion on a regular basis. Even back during his heyday."

"Haw… no shit?"

"No."

"Shoot, I didden know," Wynne said and scratched her neck. "When I done worked with him down in Silvah Creek an' then ovah in them Hollywood sound stages, he wus purr-haps a li'l buzzed, but ain't nuttin' at all like… ya know, blotto. Dang-blasted… Lawrdie, an' his goin' price fer this he' personal appearance an' all wus five bottles o' bourbon that the ol' Grant-Mastah alreddy done bought!"

Mandy made her presence felt with an emphatic: "I can't allow that, Wynne. Mr. Kennedy needs to accept being paid in cash or a check. I'll contact Mr. Lafferty at once to make sure he knows as well."

"Yuh… yuh, that sure be a wise thing ta do, Sheriff Mandy. Haw, we bettah call them folks who be representin' ol' Rog as well. Boretz, Somebodda an' Somebodda. Dag-nabbit, jus' when everythin' wus goin' really great an' all… ugh. Howdy Goldsboro, bah-bah happiness," Wynne said and plonked her cowboy hat onto her dark locks. "Aw, ain't nuttin' we can do 'bout that now, anyhows. C'mon, Rob… lemme intra-dooce ya ta a-cuppel-a folks who done helped us 'round town with this he' parah-de. Yuh?"

"Sounds like a plan," Rob said and put out his hand. "Goodbye for now, Sheriff. I'll see you later tonight." - Once he had shaken Mandy's hand, he moved over to perform the same task with Don Woodward.

"Plenty o' mass, plenty o' class!" Wynne said and broke out in a tired grin. "See ya, Don… bah-bah, Sheriff Mandy. I'mma-gonn' catch ya on da flip-flop, yuh?  This is Wynne Donnah-hew signin' off… we be gone!"

-*-*-*-

An hour later, the tireless and hard-working re-enactors temporarily left the street-sized stage for their well-earned afternoon break. Moira MacKay had everyone seated in the Bar & Grill itself as well as the picnic area out back - thus, swarthy outlaws sat side by side with squeaky-clean Marshals, brave young deputies and sharp-tongued members of the Temperance Society while enjoying their burgers, steaks, frankfurters and tofu salads.

The re-enactors' spot on Main Street had been taken by The Big Bad Brass 'n Jazz who had been joined by The Henshaw Hi-Liters - the all-girl marching and performance band from Barton City's top engineering college - to form a loud and certainly colorful parade of their own. The Hi-Liters marched up front and performed all their regular baton-twirling, flag-throwing and high-jumping antics to the cheerful delight of the spectators.

Wynne and Rob Steele waited patiently for the marching band and their brassy support to move past so they could cross Main Street. Rob's six-foot-eight frame garnered plenty of attention among the visitors to Goldsboro, but few dared to approach him. To appear a little more accessible, the big fellow grinned and waved to all he came across, but his trunk-like arms and huge hands torpedoed his good intentions by scaring several small children and even startling a few of the more sensitive adults.

When the proverbial coast was clear, Wynne and Rob strolled across the street en route to a group of people who all wore elaborate Western costumes. As they got closer, it became evident the people they were about to meet were Brenda Travers and her husband Vaughn, Estelle Tooley and her daughter Renee, and last-but-not-least Diego Benitez.

Most of them were dressed to the nines: Brenda's lady-like, off-white dress was thoroughly prim and proper by reaching from the sidewalk and all the way up to just below her chin. The dress was equipped with huge, puffy sleeves that seemed large enough to hide a chubby tabby cat, and her natural hair was supported by a partial wig that featured scores of curls. She wore a necklace that had been created by a master jeweler; it featured several silver charms as well as a hand-carved figurine of an elephant in a material meant to resemble ivory.

The bearded Vaughn was altogether more subdued, but he did resemble the popular image of a cowboy down to the decorated boots, stone-washed jeans, double-breasted shirt and a four-pocket leather vest. His cowboy hat was squeaky clean and thus free of any dents, stains or patches - that part alone detracted from the overall image he tried to convey. Worse, it was a little too large for his head which meant that his ears acted as doorstops. Not only did it look silly, it made him come across as a seven-year-old pretending to be an adult by wearing his dad's hat.

Estelle and Renee Tooley only wore plain dresses, but they had spent many hours at the sewing machine to add authentic-looking accessories to them - like flounces, double-rows of buttons and even small patches of pale-brown leather at the elbows. The end result of all their work resembled the clothes worn by the folks who couldn't afford the real, expensive Frontierswoman's outfits back in the day.

Diego Benitez had contacted the wardrobe department of Distant Horizons Film Group to hear if he could buy the exceptional Caballero costume he had worn in the movie, but he had been told it was part of their rental stock and thus not for sale.

Undaunted, he and Dorothy Tyler of the Yarn Spinners store had created a brand-new and much more resistant version of the costume: long-legged suede boots that were equally at home on a thousand-mile cattle drive as on the dance floor at the Governor's Ball. The britches were black and straight-cut and featured decorative needlework down the outside of each pantleg. Further up, he wore a bright-white tunic with a small but elegant collar, and a black bolero jacket that had plenty of silvery needlework highlights. A scarlet scarf with a single tassel hanging down from its left side was tied around his waist. His hat was a modified Boss Of The Plains that had been dyed black and equipped with twenty-six miniature tassels that couldn't stop moving whenever he went from A to B.

To match the classiness of the suit, Diego had poured most of a tube of gel into his thick hair to make it slick and shiny - he had even trimmed his mustache a great deal, and that wasn't a monthly occasion.

The group managed a small booth that had been set up not too far from the Bed & Breakfast. Built to a simple but effective design, it consisted of a planed plank of wood that had been draped in forest-green cloth, a pair of poles that had a hand-painted banner suspended between them, and finally two support-struts that protruded at a ninety-degree angle to provide stability. All the components were connected through quick-snap latches that made assembly and disassembly a piece of cake. It had taken Diego exactly two hours to build the entire booth - and that had included sharing a pot of trail coffee and some extra-spicy burritos with Wynne.

A bright-red metal tombola in a traditional carnival-style had been placed on the green cloth so the eyes of the tourists walking past the booth would be drawn to it; it didn't appear to work too well as the only people who seemed interested were those managing the booth. Kevin Tobin and Ritchie Lee - who still wore their street urchin costumes from earlier - tried to drum up a little enthusiasm among the passers-by, but even their efforts failed.

"Howdy, mah friends!" Wynne said in a strong voice to overpower the combined efforts of The Big Bad Brass 'n Jazz and the Henshaw Hi-Liters. "Haw, all y'all sure look fine an' dandy!  Yessirree!  Okeh, this he' fella don't need no introduc-shun, but I'mma-still-gonn' do it. I want all y'all ta meet Mista Rob Steele… all-round cool gah an' one helluva good stunt performah. G'wan, put out yer paws. Ain't no need-a be shy or nuttin'… he mebbe big but he sure is real friendly like!"

Everyone shook hands or slapped high-fives with Rob, but Brenda did one better: she slid up next to him and wrapped an arm around his oak-like waist. "Now this is what I call a real man!  Vaughn, we absolutely have to buy you one of those Pro-Power exercise machines from the infomercials… you could look like this, too!"

The entire gang of friends turned to look at Vaughn whose general appearance was far better suited to a career as an elementary school librarian, an accountant or indeed a nerdish IT-developer than a hulking muscleman. He shrugged, adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses and let out a mumbled something-or-other that nobody was able to pick up.

"Haw, Brendah-darlin'… half da fun is that we all be dif'rent, yuh?" Wynne said and grinned at her friend. "Okeh, how's bizzness been goin'?  Diegoh?"

The black-clad Caballero stepped forward holding a can of beer. "Eh, not too well. We haven't seen too much action so far. Somehow, people just ain't interested."

"Okeh… durn," Wynne said and took a step back to look at the hand-painted banner suspended between the two poles - it said, 'Here's Your Chance To Win Cowpokes vs The Undead Vampyre Ghoul & Other Movies By Padded Cell Productions!'  A smaller cardboard sign on the counter itself said '$1 per spin!'

She scratched her neck. "Yuh, that ain't givin' me much confidence fer that there premiere tanight… haw, I sure hope people ain't gonn' be hecklin' da mooh-vie or nuttin'… or mebbe noboddy gonn' show up at all. Haw."

Rob Steele moved over to the booth and the colorful tombola to get a closer view of the setup. "So… how does this work?  You put down a dollar and get a chance to spin the tombola?"

"Pretty much," Diego said and moved behind the wooden plank that doubled as the booth's counter. Reaching down onto the ground, he picked up a plastic crate filled with DVDs that all had colorful, eye-catching cover art - each DVD-box had a small, round, easy-peel sticker attached to the top-left corner to identify them.

The movies had been split into three groups of unequal size: nearly 60 percent of the DVDs in the crate carried blue stickers while the rest were split 30-10 between neon-greens and bright-orange.

"Okay," Diego continued, "here's how it works… when someone puts down a dollar-"

Rob held up a meaty paw to pause the presentation. "Wait… I know I have a buck somewhere around here," he said as he patted the pockets of his leisure suit. Grinning, he produced a one-dollar bill that he put on the counter. "All right. Now what?"

"Now I'll spin the drum," Diego said and performed the task by turning a handle - he spun it five times to ensure the tickets inside had been given a thorough stirring. "And then I'll open this hatch here… okay, stick your hand inside and take one of the tickets."

Grinning, Rob stuck his large paw into the small opening. The drum contained several hundred tickets in a neutral color so it wasn't an easy task to pick a winner. After a bit of rummaging around, he took one of them and handed it to Diego.

"Congratulations, Sir!  You've won a DVD from Padded Cell Productions!" Diego said as he unfolded the ticket and looked at the coded word written inside it. "Take your pick of one of the titles marked with the blue sticker, Sir!"

Rob reached over to slap Wynne's shoulder. "Excellent!  I guess I won a blue movie, huh?" he said and broke out in a loud laugh.

The unfortunate association made Wynne scratch her neck and look at her friends. "Haw, we sure didden think o' that… mebbe… naw, that can't be why them good folks he' ain't lookin' ta be puttin' down them dollahs o' theirs… can it?  Naw… or mebbe…" - Everyone followed Wynne's precedence by scratching their necks and looking somewhat embarrassed.

Rob was too busy browsing through the DVDs in the crate to notice the awkwardness that spread between the people managing the booth: "Oh… I'm in this one… and this one… and this one!  Swamp Beast vs The Bog Monster… I had a good part in that. Oh, and here's Psycho Janitor Three, that was so much fun to make… and The Delta-Chi Sorority vs Maniac Mike!  I'm in all of these!  Hey, did you guys do this on purpose?"

"Naw!" Wynne said with a grin. "Y'all jus' been bizzy with all them horrah mooh-vies o' yers. If y'all had found one o' them bright-orange stickahs, y'all woudda won Cowpokes versus Da Undead Vampyre Ghoul. We only got a handful o' those, so they kinda be rare an' extra-spe-shul an' all."

"In any case, I'll take this one," Rob said and held up Swamp Beast vs The Bog Monster. "I remember it like it was yesterday. It was filmed in the Everglades. Hot, hot, hot… and the humidity was off the scale. The actual shoot wasn't a good experience, especially not since I had to wear a rubber costume ten hours a day for two weeks."

"Haw!  Lemme guess, y'all wus the monstah?"

"I was the Swamp Beast, you betcha!  Look, that's me right there," Rob said and pointed at the front cover that was dominated by a hideous, greenish-black creature with glowing eyes, gills, long arms and a mouth full of shark-like teeth.

He turned the cover over to look at the lurid stills on the back. After a brief moment, he let out a chuckle at the choice of promotional pictures the marketing department had selected to sell the movie. "Yeah… Padded Cell has never really followed the old belief that it's best to keep the monster's look a secret for as long as possible to build tension… they aim to sell DVDs. Monsters look cool so they're nearly always on the cover."

"Sure works fer me, pardnah," Wynne said with a grin; she offered Diego and the others a big thumbs-up. "Lawrdie, I wish y'all da best o' luck this he' aftahnoon an' all… I gotta hunch bizzness could be boomin' come three or fo'ah o'clock when them visitahs done seen the parades enuff. Okeh, catch ya latah, yuh?  I need-a show Mista Steele the mooh-vie theatah an' all befo' da big show tanight. Bah-bah!"

"See ya, Wynne… Mr. Steele," Diego said - but he was interrupted by Brenda who rushed forward and wrapped an arm around Rob all over again.

"No-no-no-no-no!  Selfie-time!" the spirited lady said before she broke out in a wide grin and held up her smartphone to snap a whole slew of selfies of herself and the rather large gentleman she stood next to.

Wynne pushed her cowboy hat back from her brow and let out a tired laugh at the sight. Soon, all the others from the trailer park decided to crash the party which only made the photographs even better.

*
*
CHAPTER 7

Wynne had always heard that it would be a near-religious experience to see one's name in lights for the first time. As she looked up at the LED letters scrolling past on the movie theater's electronic marquee, she did in fact feel light-headed - though it wasn't in any kind of good sense.

The hands of time had moved around to half past seven in the evening, so the LEDs shone brighter than ever before as they spelled out World Premiere!  Wynne Donohue - Roger Kennedy - Rob Steele starring in Cowpokes vs The Undead Vampyre Ghoul!

A tidal wave of conflicting emotions flowed over her as she read the marquee: excitement, pride, trepidation and terror all tried to gain the upper hand as they flooded every nook and cranny of her system. Already affected by the stress-related fitful sleep, headaches and irregular weak spells, it all got to be too much for Wynne.

A deep sigh escaped her. She wanted nothing more than to walk away and let the rest take care of itself, but in her heart, she knew that wasn't an option. All she could do was to put her hands on her hips and just stand there as an inactive automaton.

She still wore the Texas Ranger costume save for the prop weapons she had carried around all day - the Winchester was too unwieldy and the Peacemaker had seemed to get heavier and heavier as the day had progressed. Never the lightest of revolvers to begin with, the six-shooter had eventually bothered her so much that she had been forced to go to Sam McCabe's gun shop just to get rid of the props. That she had to speak to J.D. Burdette to do so hadn't eased the task, but their interaction had been remarkably civil for a change.

Around her, a decent stream of people filed into the movie theater for the grand premiere. Quite a few of them were the members of the Western re-enactor club who had all received complimentary tickets, but more tourists than she had anticipated were willing to shelve out the $5 needed to get a seat.

Most of the movie-goers seemed ready to give Cowpokes vs The Undead Vampyre Ghoul the benefit of the doubt, but Wynne did hear a few derogatory comments about Padded Cell and the kind of movies they typically made. Though there might be some heckling involved from the peanut gallery, it looked as if the initial expectations set up by Abraham Rosenthal would be met.

There were only a few Goldsborians among the people walking up the red carpet that had been laid out, but Wynne didn't take it to heart - she knew that most of her friends and acquaintances would come to the Sunday matinee instead of the grand premiere on Saturday night as chances were it would be a calmer and thus more entertaining affair.

Wynne scrunched up her face as a sensation she had not experienced for years suddenly made its presence felt inside her head; it had been so long that she hadn't recognized the early warning signs. The developing dizzy spell made her take several deep breaths and begin to shuffle around on the sidewalk to have something else to focus on. She let out a string of mumbled curses that never made it past her lips.

A familiar figure striding toward the movie theater somewhere off to her right proved to be Mandy. A wide, but dead-tired, smile spread over Wynne's face as she intercepted the sheriff and pulled her into a big hug.

"Whoa!" Mandy said in a muffled voice; her Mountie hat was knocked back and her face disappeared in Wynne's Western costume. She grinned at the attention as they separated, but the smile lasted for all of one-point-seven seconds before she noticed the pained look on Wynne's face. "Hey… what's wrong?  And don't tell me nothing… you look absolutely terrible."

"Why, I feel downright shitty, Sheriff Mandy. I be so dang tired… an' I be gettin' a li'l dizzy, too. I done had it befo' but ain't fer a good, long while now. It done happened a lot back in mah youth. When them spells came, I knew I hadda take some mo' o' that there medica-shun I wus on back then-"

Mandy furrowed her brow as she took in Wynne's gray complexion and dull eyes. Reaching out by sheer instinct, she put her hands on Wynne's cheeks in a gesture of comfort and protection. "Wynne… something's definitely wrong. Your speech is sluggish. Even slurred."

Wynne blinked several times as she tried to think back to how her day had gone - although she did recall a few things here and there, most of it was a big, muddy mess resembling a pane of glass that needed to be polished. "Haw… it sure ain't from drinkin' no beer, no Ma'am!  Hell, I ain't hadda drop all dang week!  I jus' be so dang tired is all. Y'all know how I get when I be tired."

"Yes, and this is nothing like it. You said you've experienced it before?"

"Yuh… but shoot, that wus way da hell back when I wus a teenagah. I ain't had nuttin' like it fer Lawrd knows how many years now," Wynne said with a shrug. "It started aftah I done had mah accident. Aw, it ain't exactly the same, anyhows. Naw. I 'preciate the atten-shun, but I'm jus' dog-gone tired."

Mandy took a deep breath and held it for several seconds while she caressed Wynne's cheeks with her thumbs; the tired smile she earned in return only added another set of deep furrows to her brow. Although she eventually moved her hands down, the kiss they shared instead of the touch was no less loving. "I should pull rank on you for once," Mandy said in a quiet voice. "I should order you to go over to Moira's and lie down for the rest of the weekend-"

"Darlin', I can't," Wynne said and let out a long sigh. "I be in charge o' this he' gig. I ain't sayin' it gonn' collapse if I ain't he', but a lotta stuff depends on mah presence an' all."

"Dammit, I don't like it, but… all right," Mandy said and shook her head in defeat. "You better listen to me now, Wynne. Don't think for a second that I won't drag you over to Moira's and tuck you in myself if you get any worse than you are now. That's final. You hear?"

"Why, I certin'ly do. Loud an' clear, Sheriff Mandy. Yes, Ma'am!" Wynne said and saluted the Sheriff of Goldsboro. She had intended it to be a humorous exchange, but Mandy's stony face proved she didn't see the humor. "Lissen, darlin'… I promise I'mma-gonn' tell y'all the second I feel real crappy. Yuh?"

A few seconds went by before Mandy nodded; then she went up on tip-toes to place another kiss on Wynne's lips. "All right. On a happier note, Mr. Kennedy has behaved himself. I've just signed his release. He's over at the bed and breakfast to shower and shave as we speak. Deputy Woodward is escorting him just to make sure he doesn't have a relapse before the big event starts at eight."

"Haw, fih-nally some good news. Yuh," Wynne said and checked the time on her smartphone. "Shoot, wouldya look at the time… Lawrdie, it be ten to eight alreddy!  I swear, I ain't nevah gonn' undahstand howdahell it can fly past in such a fa-shun. One second, y'all reckon there be plenty o' time fer whutevah y'all be plannin' on doin'… an' then one dang-blasted minnit latah, y'all iz runnin' late!"

Almost as if on cue, two things happened at once: first, Abraham Rosenthal came out of the movie theater's glass windbreak on a mission to find Wynne. When he clapped eyes on his target, he pointed at his wristwatch and then toward the theater in a somewhat exaggerated fashion - Wynne broke out in a tired smile as she gave the fellow a thumbs-up so he could see she had understood the message.

The other thing that happened at the exact same time was that Mandy's radio crackled to life with a male voice saying 'Mobile Unit Four to Mobile Unit One. Mobile Unit Four to Mobile Unit One.'

Mandy took the radio off her belt at once and pressed the transmit button. "Mobile Unit One receiving. Go ahead, Deputy. Over."

At the other end of the crackling connection, Don Woodward continued: 'Mr. Kennedy is finishing up now. ETA at the theater is five minutes at the most. Over.'

"Very well, Deputy. Mobile Unit One out," Mandy said and put the radio back on her utility belt. She had barely moved her hand away from it before another message was announced:

'Mobile Unit Two to Mobile Unit One. Mobile Unit Two to Mobile Unit One. Urgent,' Rodolfo Gonzalez said. 'Sheriff, are you on this frequency?  We need you back at the office, over.'

Mandy rolled her eyes as she took the radio once more. "Ten-roger, Unit Two. Returning to base. Out."

"Haw!" Wynne said with a grin that didn't last as long as they usually did. "I reckon we both got somewhere ta be, yuh?  Hope yer li'l rush job there ain't gonn' take too long… I kinda need ya fer holdin' mah hand when them monstah scenes 'r playin', dontchaknow?  Lawrdie, they wus scary…"

"I'll be there if and when I can, hon," Mandy said; she reached out to give Wynne's arms a fair-sized squeeze before she took off in a jog to get back to the office.

Wynne stayed on the sidewalk for a short while to track Mandy's form fading into the mounting darkness - as the shadows fully engulfed the retreating sheriff, it almost appeared as if she had never been there at all. A deep sigh escaped The Last Original Cowpoke as she eventually turned around and shuffled inside the movie theater's lobby so she wouldn't suffer the wrath of Abraham Rosenthal for fouling up his meticulous schedule.

---

At five past eight, Wynne, Rob Steele and Roger Kennedy convened on a small dais that had been built in front of the lower edge of the silver screen. Three lawn chairs had been lined up for them to use; Rob lowered his large frame onto one of them with the greatest of care just in case it collapsed under him - though it creaked and groaned, it held up for the time being.

The mid-sixty-something Roger wore a dark-blue business suit and an open-collared white shirt that provided him with an air of being the elder statesman. Although he was clean-shaven and freshly combed, his bleary eyes and washed-out looks negated the effect of the neat suit. He made a beeline for the nearest chair and dumped himself into it with little fanfare. One of the volunteers soon hurried over with an energy drink that the former TV-star opened at once.

"Howdy, Rogah… nice ta see y'all again. Put it there, pardnah," Wynne said and extended her hand. Roger stared at it at first as if he couldn't quite remember the identity of the person it belonged to - or even what to do in such a situation - but he eventually took the offered hand and gave it a brief shaking without speaking a word.

One of the theater's regular sound guys had rigged up a microphone they were to use; the final tests were still underway though they were already running behind schedule. A brief whine produced by the theater's enormous treble and bass speakers when the jack was plugged in proved that everything was online and ready to go.

The mood lighting in the ceiling remained on which allowed the three people on the dais to see the massed ranks of spectators below and ahead of them; the 500-seat theater was split into twenty rows that each offered twenty-five armchair-like seats draped in plush, high-quality red velvet. Not all seats were in use, but it appeared that at least two-hundred people were on hand to watch the silver-screen premiere of Cowpokes vs The Undead Vampyre Ghoul.

Wynne gulped down a hard lump at the sight - not to mention the thought of having all those eyeballs on her. She tried to spot Mandy among the spectators but knew it would be an unreasonable expectation to have her be there so soon after the urgent call she had received. Giving up, Wynne went back to the last remaining lawn chair and sat down. It wasn't as uncomfortable as it looked, but it was definitely not a place where she would sit and watch one of her beloved 3 or 4-hour classic NASCAR events, either.

It was high time to get underway, so Abraham Rosenthal soon strode through the aisles to get up on the dais. The mood lighting in the ceiling faded as he came closer which added a new layer of intimacy to the proceedings. Once he got to the dais, the sound guy handed him the microphone. "Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen," Abraham said as he turned toward the spectators. "I bid you a warm welcome to the grand premiere… indeed the world premiere!  Of a motion picture filmed here in Goldsboro as well as down south at the abandoned Silver Creek mining camp."

Wynne had to let out a tired chuckle at the fact that Abraham Rosenthal didn't call the movie by its typically lurid title. Experiencing a severe hot flash though they hadn't even started yet, she undid the top button of her double-breasted shirt and loosened the dense fabric.

When it proved to be an insufficient measure, she whipped off her cowboy hat and used it to fan her face - a brief glance at the two men who sat on either side of her proved they didn't appear hot at all. She didn't want to look like a soft-boiled egg in front of so many people, so she forced herself to endure her rising inner temperature without uttering any complaints.

"- and sitting in the middle," Abraham continued, "is Goldsboro's very own Wynne Donohue!  Let's give her a hand… in fact, let's give all three a hand!  Ladies and Gentlemen, we're immensely proud to present the stars of the motion picture you are about to see… Wynne Donohue, the expert stuntman Rob Steele and the three-time TV Actor Of The Year, the Daisy-award winning Roger Kennedy!"

Cheers and a strong wave of applause spread through the spectators; although some of the cheering was delivered in an exaggerated, sarcastic fashion, most of it was genuine.

"Holy shittt!" Wynne croaked as she grabbed hold of the lawn chair's armrests to shy back from the loud clapping.

Rob grinned and leaned over to pat her arm. "Welcome to showbiz, Wynne!"

"Why, I sure be thankin' y'all, Mista Steele… Lawrdie, izzit always like this?"

"Only at the big events. The rest of the time, we just get a cold shoulder."

"Haw… I could do with a cole shouldah right 'bout now… or a cole beer, but that ain't gonn' work, dang-it…"

Abraham Rosenthal moved over to Roger Kennedy while sporting a very wide smile. Kennedy's award-winning performances in the 1980s and the scores of Movies-of-the-Week and other TV shows he had appeared in outside of his own series made him the natural starting point in the Q&A session. "Mr. Kennedy," Abraham said into the microphone, "you've obviously had a long and illustrious career, but tonight, we're talking about the motion picture you filmed here in Goldsboro. Let's start at the beginning. How did you get attached to the project?"

Once Abraham had finished speaking, he thrust the microphone in Roger's face so everyone could hear the master's words of wisdom that would inevitably follow.

Roger stared at the microphone, at the man who held it, at the audience and at his fellow panelists. Then he said: "My agent called me. Said she had a job for me. I said okay."

A few snickers spread among the spectators; Wynne scratched her neck and glanced over at Rob who grinned back at her while shaking his head.

"I see," Abraham continued. "What was it about the script that got you hooked?  Was it perhaps the chance to do a Western in an authentic location?"

Once again, Roger Kennedy stared at the emcee and the spectators before he broke out in a shrug. "I never read the entire script. I didn't even get it before I arrived at the shoot," he said into the microphone.

The comment garnered more snickers from the crowd down below.

Abraham fell quiet and scrunched up his face. A few seconds went by before he snapped out of the slump and continued: "Ah, the secrets of the film industry. Fascinating. Mr. Kennedy, you've played heroes and villains in countless movies and TV shows. In this one, you portrayed a grizzled veteran sheriff who came face to face with a horrific creature. Did that prompt you to explore a different acting style or accentuate different things compared to the times you've played a criminal, a member of the military or even a regular family man?"

"No… I showed up, said my lines, got paid and went home," Roger said with a straight face. "But I did have an RV on the location shoot… that was great."

Down below, the scattered snickers gained a strong head of steam and soon became a ripple of laughter that spread among the spectators.

Abraham Rosenthal chewed on his lips for a moment or two before he said: "Thank you very much, Mr. Kennedy. Let's hear it for Roger Kennedy, Ladies and Gentlemen!"

This time, there was no doubt that a majority of the cheering and applause that rolled up toward the dais like a tidal wave was tainted by pure, undiluted sarcasm. Wynne winced hard at the false cheering; she glanced over at Roger who didn't seem to give a fluttering fig leaf about any of it - the veteran actor just sat there, scratching his nose while looking bored and hung-over.

Undaunted by the lack of success so far, Abraham Rosenthal moved over to the other side of the trio and started over: "Mr. Steele, is it true that in your long career as a stuntman and actor, you've only 'survived' " - Abraham made air quotes - "seven times out of nearly one hundred films?"

Rob leaned his head back to let out a booming laugh. "Very true!  Yes, it's a tough world for monsters!  The poor things just want to have a big, old picnic, you know… some tenderloin here and there, maybe some innards or drumsticks. And a little blood wine, of course. But then they always get punished for being hungry!"

Abraham Rosenthal let out a sigh of relief at the animated answer. Smiling, he went back for more: "Without getting too morbid, which was your favorite death scene?"

"Oh, it has to be the one in Ancient Blood. Do any of you down there remember that movie?" - A few members of the audience shouted comments like 'Yes!' and 'It was cool!' - "Neat!  For those of you who don't know Ancient Blood, it was about a cult of fanatics up in the Rocky Mountains who performed human sacrifices because they believed they were the direct ancestors of the old Aztecs or whatever. Well, anyway, I played their high-priest who dabbled in black magic. When the heroes came to finish him off at the end, he… oh… maybe I should say spoiler!"

Another round of laughter rolled up toward the dais; this time, it was genuine.

"Yeah… so, he summoned a pack of demons to do his bidding, but they were the souls of the people they had sacrificed!  So they attacked him instead and tore him to shreds. There was some CGI to create lightning effects and the like, but it was mostly me and a group of stunt guys in monster suits who wrestled like you wouldn't believe. That was awesome to film and it looked incredible. Old-school!"

Wynne broke out in a cheesy snicker at the stuntman's enthusiasm - and as expected, the spectators rewarded the anecdote with genuine applause and a slew of whistles and cheers.

"We all know," Abraham continued, "that filming a motion picture nearly always involves mishaps of a comical nature. Gaffes, if you will. Mr. Steele, unless it's too embarrassing or painful to recall, what was the funniest blooper you've seen or been involved in?"

Rob let out a chuckle as he leaned back on the lawn chair. "Well, there have been a few occasions where things didn't go to plan, of course… wardrobe malfunctions and things like that. One happened right here in Goldsboro. Wynne might remember this one," he said and reached across to his neighbor to poke her shoulder. "The first take of my very first scene in Cowpokes versus The Undead Vampyre Ghoul saw me trip over my long cape. Yep, badass one second, face down in the sand the next. Not my best moment!  Once they snipped a couple of inches off the lower hem, I was all right for the rest of the shoot."

Wynne let out a tired chuckle; she did in fact recall the scene at the campfire set. It was filmed less than a hundred yards from the western edge of town, but because of the camera angle and computer trickery inserted in post-production, the characters appeared to be in the middle of nowhere.

After the laughter had died down, Rob continued: "The funniest… well… okay, this is one of those things that I can laugh at now, but I was mortified at the time. This was about ten years ago so pretty early on in my career. We were filming an independent sci-fi movie just east of L.A.. And yes, independent is a euphemism for a low-low-low-budget exploitation flick. I won't mention the title because it's not available anymore-"

A chorus of 'Awwwwww!' rose from the spectators.

"Maybe it's on Youtube, I don't know," Rob said with a grin. "Well, anyway, I played a nasty space alien who had come to Earth to cruise around a little and sample the local delights… not too unrealistic, right?  But the latex suit was so baking hot and uncomfortable that I needed to have the monster-head removed after each take or else I'd pass out. That ate up precious time, so at some point, someone suggested that I only wore the upper part of the costume so they could get it in the can quicker. Are you still with me?"

'Yeah!'

"So there I was, wearing Bugs Bunny boxers and half a monster suit. Okay, so far so good. We were on location at a house of a friend of a friend of a friend to one of the producers. I'm sure you know how indie films are made. Well, this fellow had a swimming pool, so the director thought it would look great if we had a bevy of bikini girls in the scene instead of just one… the person the nasty alien was meant to have his way with."

An 'Oooooooh!' rippled through the spectators.

"They asked around and soon found, yes, a bevy of local bikini girls. Okay. The director told them a few basics, like don't look at the camera and things like that. Then he yelled Action. The first thing one of the bikini girls did was to jump up from her deck chair and shove my sorry behind into the pool, Bugs Bunny boxers, monster suit and all. True story!"

A loud ripple of cheers and applause rolled up toward the dais. Wynne let out another tired chuckle at the story; she grinned at the beefy stuntman while trying to imagine how it had looked.

"Wait, it gets worse…" Rob continued, "because two seconds later, the latex suit flooded which meant I went downstairs fast… and then my Bugs Bunny boxers parted company with the rest of me and made a mad dash for the surface!"

As an even louder roar of approval rose from the spectators, Wynne had to let out a loud laugh at the real-life horror story and the way Rob Steele told it. "Hawww-shoot, Mista Steele… I sure ain't cut out fer da mooh-vie bizzness, nosirree… Mercy Sakes, I don't even weah no boxahs!"

Abraham Rosenthal had only caught the tail-end of Wynne's comment, and the scandalized glare he sent in her direction could have been used to strip paint off old wood.

"Haw, I didden mean that I didden weah nuttin'… aw, fer cryin' out loud!  Nevah mind, Abe!"

The emcee continued to glare at Wynne for several long moments before he turned the microphone back on and moved over to her lawn chair. "Miss Donohue, your only acting credit is in this motion picture, but you did in fact have a producer credit in a science-fiction movie made for television a number of years ago. Can you tell the audience a little about the difference between the two projects, and the reason for returning to the film industry after more than a decade away?"

The news made Rob Steele let out a surprised grunt; the large man shuffled around on the lawn chair so he could have a clear view of Wynne as she answered the questions.

Being reminded of the utter fiasco of the earlier film made Wynne scrunch up her face in annoyance. "Aw, that there sci-fi mooh-vie me an' Sheriff Mandy wus involved in, yuh… lemme tell all y'all whut really done happened. Them folks at The Schlock Channel done blew hot air in ou'ah eahs fer so long that we started bah-lievin' them golden promises they wus makin'. We shudden ha' 'cos them folks wus lyin' from first ta last… an' when we done forked out ou'ah cash as an investment, they wus laughin' from he' an' all da way back ta Hollyweird. The mooh-vie wus in fact made, but it wus the worst pile o' smelly bull-crap all y'all evah woulda clapped eyes on. Yuh. An' that sure ain't no lie."

A loud roar of 'Ooooooh!' rippled through the spectators; Rob Steele shook his head and reached over to pat Wynne's arm again.

"Much obliged," Wynne said into the microphone. "But this he' mooh-vie wus done far mo' profes-shunnally, lemme tell ya. An' I love Westurhns so it sure wussen no great leap ta return ta da fryin' pan, so ta speak. Anyhows, when this he' mooh-vie gonn' start playin' in a li'l while, I want all y'all out dere ta give it a chance tho' it sure ain't The Searchers, or Stagecoach or Eldoradah, or any o' them there classics. Yuh?  Okeh, I be done tawkin' 'cos I need-a wet mah whissel," she said and got up from the lawn chair.

The spectators responded by clapping and cheering in a genuine, non-sarcastic manner - some even stomped their feet to show their appreciation.

"Man, that was a great exit line," Rob said as he, Wynne and Roger Kennedy were ushered off the dais by Abraham Rosenthal. The media liaison led them down to the third row - Wynne had insisted that was the only row she would sit on as she needed all the luck and moral support she could get - before he left them alone.

"Ya reckon?" Wynne said with a tired smile as she waited by the plush chair. "It wussen even wrong. I gotta get som'tin ta drink or else I'mma-gonn' blow mah head gasket… an' I done that once alreddy. Wussen funny at all. Took me nearly twenty years ta recovah from."

"Well, I need to visit the restroom before it starts. Do you want me to get you a beer or something?"

Wynne bared her teeth in a grimace as she pondered the offer. It was obvious for even the casual observers near her that she would have said 'yes' at any other point during her stay in Goldsboro. "Naw, I been takin' some pills that ain't gonn' agree with no beahs or nuttin'. I need a soda pop or an energy drink. If them folks don't got an apricot Go-Fastah-Longah, perhaps y'all could look fer a Summah Dreamz Pineapple Perfec-shun or som'tin like that?"

"Sure thing," Rob said with a smile. Nodding at Roger Kennedy - who was already on the brink of falling asleep even before the lights had dimmed - the large stuntman walked out of the movie theater's main hall to enter the concession area beyond the double-doors.

Wynne wiped her damp brow on her sleeve. Sighing, she made a slow turn to take in the impressive sight of the many spectators. The one she wanted to be there wasn't, so she sat down with a bump and crossed her legs at the knee. She was ready for Cowpokes vs The Undead Vampyre Ghoul.

-*-*-*-

Five minutes later, the mood lighting in the ceiling dimmed until the theater auditorium fell into a state close to full darkness. Another minute after that, the crimson curtains moved to the sides to reveal a huge screen. Because the movie had been shot in a 1.85-to-1 aspect ratio, the curtains didn't move as far out as they would for the big superhero spectaculars that were always filmed in 2.35-to-1.

Rob Steele hurried back to his seat just as the first block of commercials commenced up on the silver screen. He carried a bucket of popcorn and two cans of soda; he held out one of the latter while leaning toward Wynne. "Go-Faster-Longer and Pineapple Perfection were both busts. I got you a Tropical Fruits Squash instead. Is that okay?  If you don't like it, I also bought a Coke-"

"Naw, a Tropical be jus' fine, Mista Steele. Much obliged," Wynne said and took the soft drink. The design of swirling green, yellow and red stripes that swept the can's curvature was eye-catching and promised an explosion of taste that befitted the tropics.

The sight of the Summer Dreamz logo made her think of her beloved H.E. Fenwyck beers - the Summer Dreamz brand belonged to the Fenwyck Brewery Co. Sighing, she cracked it open with a quick Pssshhhht! so she wouldn't disturb those sitting nearest her too much.

The first swig was refreshing so she took another at once. The strong, and perhaps somewhat artificial, taste of blood orange, mango, papaya and a few other exotic fruits filled her mouth and then her senses. As the sugar entered her bloodstream, she did in fact feel a little more lively.

The first block of commercials came to an end up on the silver screen. Just when everyone thought the movie was about to start, several FBI anti-piracy warnings were shown informing the spectators they would face federal charges and hefty fines if they recorded the movie in any kind of electronic form during the showing. Several people booed the warnings, and the boos only grew stronger when a second block of commercials began playing.

"Lawrdie," Wynne said around a mouthful of the soft drink. "Them folks sure be havin' a field day with them commer-shuals, haw?  Snakes Alive, it be jus' like watching that there rasslin'… five minnits o' fightin' an' four minnits o' commer-shuals. Anothah five minnits o' fightin' an' anothah four minnits o' commer-shuals. Shoot, enuff with them commer-shuals alreddy!"

"Yeah," Rob said before he dug his large paw into the cup of popcorn he had bought. He scooped up a handful but came to a temporary halt before he flung them into his mouth. "Damn, I forgot my manners… care for some corn?"

"Naw. I ain't good with popcorn, Mista Steele. Them darn corn shell-things get stuck ta that there weird, li'l dingleberry at da back o' mah throat. Them pork rinds or salty pretzels be mo' mah thing. Much obliged, tho'."

The pleas of Wynne and the spectators for fewer commercials and more action were finally heard when the screen faded to black and the Padded Cell Production logo appeared. After another couple of logos for the distributors and the company in charge of the special effects, the main theme started playing as the opening credits were shown.

From one second to the next, loud applause and several cheers - that unfortunately reached into the field known as 'sarcasm' - broke out inside the theater auditorium as the movie's lurid title was splashed onto the silver screen in huge letters.

A more genuine burst of cheering came from the spectators when the names of Roger Kennedy and Wynne Donohue were listed in the opening credits. Rob Steele didn't appear until much later, but he got an even greater burst of applause.

Then the first proper scene started. The wide-open desert with all its tumbleweeds and bony remains of cattle and other animals presented itself in vivid colors; the audience didn't even need to pay special attention to the skulls on the ground to see the pixelation - the CGI had been optimized for regular TVs, not a gigantic silver screen.

A pair of moving cowboy boots entered the frame on the left side and moved into the picture. The camera stopped to eventually reveal a tall figure who continued ahead undaunted. The figure wore traditional Western garb and carried a Winchester; the gently wiggling hips proved it was a woman.

"Aw… mah… Lawrd…" Wynne croaked as she squirmed in her seat. "Mah… mah… ass is ten feet wide!  I'mma-gonn' keel ovah an' die right he'… Lawrdie!"

Squirming wasn't enough to compensate for her King-Kong-sized derriere, so she sunk deeper and deeper into the plush armchair to block out the horrors; the movie went on regardless of her feelings. The first of the regular scenes soon played out.

Up on the silver screen, Wynne's character was given a close-up as she said: "Howdy, boys. Fine mornin', ain't it?  Y'all reddy fer whut we need-a do taday?"

The real Wynne squirmed even harder and let out a croaked "Lawwwwwwwr-die…" She whipped off her hat and put it across her eyes - although that action left her ears unprotected, she was fresh out of hands to plug the auditory canals.

The two cowboys who shared the scene with her replied to the questions with a grunt and a "Sure iz," respectively. Silence fell among the characters as they kept an eye on a pack of horses running around inside a corral.

Down in the plush armchair, Wynne shook her head as the sound of scattered laughter reached her ears.

---

As the scenes unfolded and the plot thickened, the CGI effects seemed to grow worse. At certain points in the narrative, the spectators roared with laughter or let out groans of frustration at how un-special the special effects were.

Wynne lowered herself further and further into the comfortable seat. She kept her cowboy hat across her face so she had zero chance of even catching a stray glimpse of the train wreck in progress up on the big screen. The only time she allowed herself to peek up at the moving pictures came during the night scene at the campfire.

It was originally meant to have been the first of only two scenes she would appear in, but the director in charge of the second-unit had liked her look and what he had seen through the camera lens when they had filmed it on location just outside Goldsboro.

During a meeting with the A-unit director - to evaluate the video dailies - he had highlighted Wynne's performance as one that may have been raw and unpolished, but certainly authentic. The movie's main director had agreed and the rest was B-movie history.

Even Wynne had to admit the scene at the campfire was well-shot and that she did in fact look the part. A faint creasing of the corners of her lips followed as she mouthed the lines she'd had in the scene. The second-unit director had succeeded in making the scene suitably creepy, and the interaction of the three cowpokes sitting around the fire wasn't too far off what she had seen a thousand times in other Westerns.

And then the monster - Rob Steele in full fright-costume - showed up to do its thing. Wynne slammed the cowboy hat across her eyes and let out a "Aw-Gawwwwwwwwwd!" at how grotesquely ridiculous it looked on the big screen. The creature had seemed adequate on her TV when she and Mandy had watched the screener copy of the DVD, but blown up to mammoth-size, it was so poor it hurt her eyes.

"All right!  There's the real star!" Rob roared before he let out a belly laugh at the whole thing.

The stuntman's comment was greeted by a similar roar of approval by the audience. Everyone broke out in wild cheers, jeers and whistles as the fake-looking monster killed one of the cowpokes and began to wrestle with the next one.

Wynne squirmed harder than ever as the cheering and jeering echoed throughout the theater auditorium. To her right, Roger Kennedy somehow managed to sleep his way through the horrors, but Rob was far more animated: the large fellow's frame shook with barely contained laughter.

Noticing Wynne's stark discomfort, Rob leaned over to speak to her ears only: "Isn't this great?  It's junk, but funny junk. Look at that awful monster suit… I don't remember it being that bad when we filmed it!"

A few incoherent, unintelligible mumbles was all Wynne could produce behind the protection of her cowboy hat. When the high-strung scene of monstrous rampage changed to a few sweeping shots of the nigh-time vista, the cheering slowly died down among the spectators.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she lowered her hat to look at the stuntman next to her. "It sure be junk, awright… dang-blasted, I nevah reckoned it would be this crappy on da big screen… I done reckoned it was kinda-sorta okeh on da teevee. Shoot, I shudden ha' said yes ta Abe's suggestion that we done showed it he'. Them folks gonn' laugh at me fer da rest o' mah life!"

"Well, maybe they will, but don't take it to heart, Wynne. You did great!  And I've worked with hundreds of different actors so I know what I'm talking about. From what I recall, your really big hero scenes don't come until later… right?"

"Yuh. Once it gets ta the town in a li'l while, that's when they done changed it ta focus mo' on mah character," Wynne said in a quiet tone. "All them interiah shots me an' Rogah Kennedy did ovah in Hollywood come in that there sec-shun o' the movie. Most o' that there big, ol' ac-shun stuff at the end wus filmed on loca-shun down in Silvah Creek, tho'."

"Can't wait!" Rob said and gave Wynne's shoulder a little thump.

Wynne let out a brief chuckle that soon died down. Up on the silver screen, the scene changed from showing the night-time vistas to seeing the monster returning to its lair with its fresh kills. The creature was a bottom-of-the-barrel, weightless and pixelated CGI monstrosity during a four-second establishing shot of it flying across the desert, but it soon changed back into Rob's familiar shape who lumbered around a table dressed to resemble an altar.

The lair-set itself was of a far higher quality than the CGI-assisted inserts. Meant to be the same mine gallery where the big showdown at the end would take place, it was lit by torches that cast flickering orange light onto the plywood background that had been painted in blacks and grays to simulate depth.

Genuinely creepy moments unfolded when Rob dumped one of the dead cowpokes onto the altar and began some kind of ritual that ended with a gruesome, bloody dismemberment. Although that part worked well, Rob's monster suit hadn't improved since the last time it had been seen; it made a few vocal spectators break out into exaggerated snickers that lasted until others shushed them.

Wynne caught the snickering and the subsequent shushing, but not the bloody goings-on up on the big screen - she kept her eyes shut and her hat firmly pressed against her face to provide herself with a double-layered shield that would hopefully stop the horrors from entering her field of vision. "Mercy Sakes," she said in a mumble, "I wish that there electrical powah would go bah-bah all ovah again or som'tin… dad-gummit!"

"Pardon?" Rob said as he leaned over toward Wynne once more.

"Aw… wussen nuttin'. Jus' a li'l mumblin' is all," Wynne said into her hat. "Yuh. Haw, this ain't gonn' have no happy end or nuttin'…"

-*-*-*-

Wynne's maximum daily dosage of raw, acute embarrassment was finally reached when someone among the spectators let out a roared 'Ooooooooh!  Sexy momma!' during one of the interior scenes that had been filmed later on.

She had been watching the past few minutes with a growing sense of confidence as the quality had gone up and the cheesiness down during the interior scenes, but the quip - that was followed by much laughter from a good portion of the spectators - torpedoed her interest for good.

A mumbled "Bull-dung…" escaped her. A few seconds went by before she added: "That there directah fella there nevah once filmed me in an objectifyin' or exploitative mannah… not once. So whaddahell them foo's be seein' is beyond me…"

"Just for the record," Rob said as he leaned in toward Wynne, "I agree with you. Compared to so many of my other movies, this isn't titillating at all. No breasts have been flashed and there haven't been any gratuitous up-the-skirt or down-the-top shots at all. Not yet, anyway."

"An' there won't be, neithah. I done watched it all the way through on DVD an' there ain't nuttin' o' that kind anywhe', nosirree. Much obliged fer the support, Mista Steele. Y'all sure know wotcha be tawkin' 'bout, so them words o' yers pack a greatah punch than those foo's behind us."

The crowd sitting behind Wynne and Rob saw it differently; someone even let out a wolf call when Wynne's character took off her jacket to splash some water in her face.

There was only so much squirming Wynne could do before she would either wear a hole in her pants or the velvet armchair's plush seat, so she plonked her cowboy hat onto her dark locks and got up. She and Rob shared a brief look before she made for the exit.

---

Outside in the lobby, she leaned against the wall and let out a deep, long, tormented sigh. There were a few people out there already, but they knew better than to approach her. She stood like that for nearly two minutes to catch her breath and get her heart rate back down before she gave herself a proverbial kick up the backside to get going.

Strong fatigue and faint dizziness fell over her like a wet blanket as she walked along the lobby's two-tone carpet. The gallery of framed movie posters that graced the walls couldn't help but catch her eye, but she was in no mood to look at any of them in spite of their colorful artwork.

She had even less interest in talking to anyone, so she ignored a call of "Miss Donohue?" that came from somewhere behind her. She kept her eyes fixed on the carpet in front of her boots all the way past the restrooms and the popcorn stand. When she reached the concession booth and the cooler box that screamed Cool Summer Dreamz! Sold Here, she made a detour to take a can of Cherry Cola that she paid for by putting a few coins on a tray on the unattended counter.

Moving on, she had soon reached the glass windbreak that separated the lobby from the sidewalk. The red carpet, the flagpoles and the fluttering paper flags all looked a little silly given how the merciless hecklers had treated the movie.

The moment her Texas Ranger costume was struck by the typically chilly evening breeze that rolled in from the wide-open desert, she broke out in a shiver that seemed to prompt her dizziness to grow stronger.

"Dang-blasted, mah Silveradah is parked all da way down at Moira's… shoot. I'mma-gonn' spend da next three weeks in bed with a double-pneumonia… or worse. Bah-bah Chriss-mas… bah-bah New Year. Bah-bah meetin' Ernie an' the Rev'rend Berna-deene," she mumbled as she glanced up and down the deserted Main Street where nothing at all happened save for the flashing traffic light suspended over the intersection at Main and Second Street - it wasn't the world's most exciting view, so she let out a despondent sigh.

"Mebbe I oughttah call mah sweet darlin' Mandy an' ask her ta come an' pick me up…" she continued in a similar mumble as she reached for her telephone; she stopped her hand halfway there. "Naw. She prolly be way busy bustin' crimmi-nals or else she woudda been he'. Dag-nabbit. An' I ain't gonn' call that there office 'cos I sure ain't got no wish ta tawk ta De-per-ty Quick Draw, neithah."

The chilly breeze persisted and soon crept through every layer of her clothes. Shivering, she left the decorated entrance behind to get to the sheltered side of Main Street and one of the white benches that seemed to call out for her. "Wynne Donnah-hew, this he' gig sure as hell wussen yer brightest evah moment… man-oh-man, I shoudden ha' lissened ta Abe an' all his ideahs. Cost us a pile o' money with nuttin' ta show fer it 'cept a belly-ache an' an earful o' hecklin'."

Sitting down with a bump, she cracked open the Cherry Cola and took a long swig. Every fiber of her being cried out an unconditional demand that she got in touch with Mandy after all, so she put the can next to her and dug into her pocket once more to get her telephone.

A wave of dizziness struck her just as she turned it on. She looked up at once and fixed her gaze on an object across the street to take her mind off the mounting drama. When the old remedy didn't work, she took several deep breaths to try to get the wave to recede so she could get back on solid ground.

A lull developed in the chilly breeze. It offered a brief respite from the larger problems she faced, but - true to her typical luck - it caused her to take a deep-dive into an uncomfortable hot spell after having the chill lean on her clothes and skin for the past several minutes.

The movie theater was located opposite the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop near the northern end of Goldsboro, so she had a good view of the vast desert beyond the city limits sign. In the far distance out on the State Route, a pair of headlights moved toward town at a steady pace. Although the sky had turned dark, most of the stars were obscured by ghostly-pale, foreboding clouds that seemed to float closer like heralds carrying a grave message.

"Dang," she croaked as she took in the sight of the creepy clouds, "this he' be jus' like that there ol' song Ghost Ridahs in da Sky!  Haw… whut else can go wrong?  Lawrdie, ain't nobodda be answerin' that!  Puh-leese!"

The dizziness returned with a vengeance a moment later. Letting out a slurred "Sombitch…" she slammed her hand onto the armrest next to her to try to remain upright while the world tilted all around her.

Simply accessing the registry was a challenge. She tried to coax her fingers into finding the number for either Mandy's personal telephone or the watch desk in the sheriff's office, but they grew unresponsive and refused to do anything that might help her.

From one moment to the next, she whipped her head up and stared across Main Street with eyes that may have been wide open but saw nothing. A frightening bright-white flash swept through her mind. Keeling over, she landed on her left side on the bench.

Her shoulder thumped into the can of Cherry Cola that sailed over the edge and made a hard impact down below. As it rolled along the sidewalk, the contents poured out and left a large, dark, glistening patch on the flagstones reminiscent of blood.

Continued

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