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JULY: UNEXPECTED GUESTS

Friday, the 4th of July - ten past ten in the morning.

"Haw!  Dat dere be lookin' so dang-blasted fihhhhhh-ne, yessirree!"

The joyous outburst had come from Wynne 'The Last Original Cowpoke' Donohue who took a step back from her creation. The important date needed to be celebrated in spectacular fashion, and if she couldn't have a grand Texas horse parade featuring fifty-two riders flying the Lone Star and Old Glory flags, she could have milk jugs, haybales, a traditional milk maid and a full-sized plastic cow up on the bed of her matte-black Chevrolet Silverado Trail Boss Midnight Edition.

Well, truth be told, the milk maid hadn't arrived yet, but a glance at the mobile home across the central lawn between the trailers proved that Wynne's friendly neighbor Brenda Travers was in the final stages of finishing up her own work and would soon join the classic setup.

Returning to the truck, Wynne checked the flexible flagpoles she had tied to the rear corners of the cab. The Stars & Stripes and the Nevada state flag hung limply at present, but they would stand out proudly once the vehicle would be moving.

"Yuh, this gonn' be jus' right," she said, sporting a grin that reached from ear to ear. Because of the near-triple-digit ambient temperatures - the mercury thermometer showed 98 degrees - she wore lightweight summer shoes, homemade denim Daisy Dukes, a long-sleeved though breezy T-shirt carrying the Lone Star of Texas, and plenty of sunscreen on every square inch of exposed skin. Her headwear was obviously her beloved cowboy hat that had seen so much action over the years.

Yap?

Stepping back, Wynne leaned over so she could look in under the Silverado. There, their Golden Retriever had found a shaded spot for her blanket, her water bowl and another bowl filled with some of Lafayette's Quality Dog Food. "Haw?  Whazzat, Goldie?"

Yap?

"Yuh, this be fer tha big ol' Fourth o' Joo-ly parade up in Goldsborah, sure ain't no lie. Yep, Main Street gonn' be crowded all day an' then some. Sure is. Las' I done heard, them folks from 'round he' done entered 'bout fiddy floats an' othah bizz. There gonn' be cheerleadahs an' marchin' bands an' brass bands an' Country & Westurhn bands an' ev'ry othah kind-a band, yessirree. Haw, I reckon li'l ol' Goldsborah gonn' be packed ta tha raftahs, awright."

Yapppp…

"Yuh, dat be a nasty side-effect," Wynne said in a somber tone. "With them many folks, there gonn' be many feet an' bootheels an' shit. There gonn' be one helluva fat risk o' somebodda steppin' on yer tail or paws or som'tin. Ain't really nuttin' we can do 'bout that, tho'. Moira's gonn' be jus' as full as Main Street."

Yap!  Yap-yap-yap?

"Naw, Goldie, it ain't gonn' work. It ain't that I don't trust y'all an' big boy Freddie, it sure ain't, but all y'all can't run 'round that there desurht taday. It be too hot, yuh?  An' when all y'all can't play out there, I reckon y'all might wanna play inside, yuh?  An' then we all know whut gonn' happen. Lawrdie, I done that offen enuff, yuh?  Okeh, not with any big boy or nuttin', but with plentah o' big girls, know whut I mean?  Haw?  Haw?"

Yap…

"Yuh-"

Before Wynne could go on, she and Goldie were joined by Brenda Travers who wore a traditional milk maid costume straight out of the mid-1800s; leather ankle boots, tan knee-length stockings and a full-length powder-blue dress with short sleeves, a double-tucked lower hem and a collarless O-neck. The dress was protected by a white apron tied around her waist and her neck.

Her blonde corkscrew curls had been folded up under a white bonnet that was in fact merely a handkerchief so she wouldn't get scrambled brains from wearing it in the brutal mid-day heat.

"Hiya, Wynne!" Brenda said with a grin before she noticed the unusual amount of skin on display on her neighbor. After taking a second look at Wynne's timberlogs, her grin only widened. "Wow, you're really wearing short-shorts today, huh?  You definitely got the legs for it, though."

"Aw… yuh… much obliged… I reckon," Wynne said, glancing down at her tanned legs.

"You wanna hear a secret?" Brenda said while winking in a most conspiratorial fashion.

"Uhhh… sure?"

Grinning from ear to ear, Brenda moved over to her friend so she could whisper in her ear: "I'm only wearing a Brazilian bikini underneath the dress. You know… the skimpy type. The real skimpy type."

Several moments went by while the Cowpoke's brain tried to parse the message without creating too many vivid images that would undoubtedly backfire in the already searing heat. "Okeh… yuh… okeh," she eventually said, making extra-sure to maintain eye contact.

Goldie added a few merry Yaps to the conversation before her serving of Lafayette's proved more important.

Three seconds later, just as Wynne had reached for the door handle to climb aboard her truck, the special curse that seemed to hang over Goldsboro made its present felt with a loud, thumping WHOOOOOMP! that made the two humans present jump a foot in the air.

The noise seemed to have been created by something falling out of the sky on the far side of the trailers, and it only took a moment to confirm that notion when a large cloud of desert dust floated into sight.

Down below the truck, Goldie let out a series of terrified yaps. As she tried to escape the unseen foe, her frantic paws sent her water bowl flying and even knocked her serving of Lafayette's all over the lawn. She eventually found a clear path to safety and took off like a true scaredy-dog.

"I don't bah-lieeeeee-ve it!  Whaddinda-holy-hell wus that now?!" Wynne barked at the top of her lungs. The exclamation soon turned into a long groan that formed the backdrop for rubbing her face.

Brenda just stood there in a wide-eyed stupor to begin with, but she shook her head several times to get back to the present. "Don't know, but it was close!"

"Yuh, I reckon. Lawrdie, can y'all still be called paranoid when y'all experience all sorts-a weird shittt ag'in an' ag'in an' ag'in an'… an'… aw, shittt, I reckon we bettah go an' check it out. It prolly be a piece o' da moon or some such. Yuh."

---

It only took Wynne and Brenda - Goldie had long since gone into hiding under the queen-sized bed of her owners - a few minutes to reach the impact site. A deep, wide crater had been formed in the middle of the desert where the actual ex-airborne belly flop had taken place.

Much to Wynne's relief, the object that had landed in the center of the crater didn't appear hostile. It didn't send out toxic fumes, it didn't beep or try to establish contact in any other fashion, and, perhaps best of all, it didn't sprout legs and crawl away like the thing in the horror classic The Thing.

If the object had been a piece of the moon, it certainly hadn't come from the grey one orbiting the Earth. The violence of the impact had torn it to shreds, but it was bright blue and could possibly have been some kind of large sack once upon not too long ago.

Wynne pushed her cowboy hat back from her brow. "Yuh, I ain't got no clue whaddahell that there thing is. Nuttin'. Nuttin' as in nuttin' with a li'l nuttin' sprinkled on top."

"Doesn't it kinda look like a backpack?" Brenda said, pulling up her long dress so she could kneel next to the mysterious blue object. "I'm guessing it fell out of a plane. Maybe a commercial jet didn't have its cargo doors closed or something?"

Grunting, Wynne looked up. "Yuh, sure ain't no bad theory that- haw!  Or mebbe it could be som'tin dropped bah a-buncha skaaaaah-divahs."

"By what?"

"Skaaaaah-divahs."

Brenda snickered as she got to her feet and stuck an arm inside Wynne's. "I'm sorry, but I'm a city girl. You'll have to spell it out for me. Skaaaaah divahs?  Oh!  Skydivers!"

"Yuh, like I done said!" Wynne said in a somewhat annoyed tone. "An' when I say skaaaaah-divahs, I mean them guys floatin' 'round up yondah!  Lookie there, Brendah!" she continued, pointing skyward.

Brenda leaned her head back to follow Wynne's pointing. A surprised "Oh!" escaped her when she took in the sight of close to a dozen people dressed in bright jumpsuits performing Busby Berkeley-style sky circles, somersaults, windmills and several other high-skill maneuvers high above the desert floor. "But… but why are they jumping out here in the middle of nowhere?"

"Beats tha hell outtah me, pardnah. Mebbe they be practicin' or som'tin… or mebbe they jus' got lost, yuh?"

The skydivers soon broke formation high above the gawking women. One parachute after the other deployed to bring the colorful bunch down safely. Some of them came down fairly straight while others took the scenic route by swinging around in daring patterns.

A man whose jumpsuit bore the letters JUMP CHIEF embossed on the back came down first. As expected, his landing was elegant and inch-perfect. Once he had scooped up the loose parachute, he removed his goggles and took off his helmet - the items were soon hanging over his elbow. His gloves came off last and were shoved inside the suit.

When the others started coming down, he ran around to assist them in achieving perfection upon landing. Most found success, but two found themselves with a faceful of desert sand instead.

"Lawrdie!  Wipeout," Wynne said with a grin. "At least we don't got them cactus-seses like ovah yondah in Arizonah an' Noo Mexicoh, haw?  Shoot, that coudda been nasty, that."

Brenda chuckled. "I'm reminded of the old coffee commercial… I can't recall which company ran it, but it was the one with the slogan The Perfect Coffee For Unexpected Guests."

"Aw!  Whah, I 'membah that one, yes Ma'am. Wussen Maxwell How-se, wus it?  Them Pontiacs they done raced back in tha day looked dog-gone awesome, lemme tell y'all. That wus good ol' Sterlin' Marlin drivin' fer… fer… shoot, I can't recall. It wus tha twentah-two, but… it wussen Bill Davis. Naw… wus it Juniah Johnson's second cahhh-r?"

Wynne started rubbing her chin as she pondered the vital question. A few moments went by before she shrugged and forgot all about it. "Aw, it don't mattah none, anyhows. I reckon we bettah go an' speak ta Mista Jump Chief there. Whaddayasay?"

"Let's do it," Brenda said and promptly broke out in a saucy snicker at the innuendo.

---

It was clear by the confused looks on the faces of the African-American jump chief and his group of skydivers that they had expected a somewhat larger welcoming committee than a milk maid and a gal in denim short-shorts, a Lone Star T-shirt and a cowboy hat. The chief furrowed his brow as he dug into the jumpsuit to find the document describing the flight plan. The furrows only deepened when he took in the sight of the endless expanses of nothing but a baking-hot desert all around them.

One by one, the members of the jumping team gathered around their chief to pose questions and offer suggestions, none of which were able to add much to the puzzling situation.

"Howdy, pardnahs!" Wynne said, waving her hat in the air. "Sure is nice o' all y'all ta drop bah, but ta be honest an' all… I reckon ya ain't where ya saposed ta be. Yuh?  'Cos this he' trailah park sure ain't tha centah o' tha world, ya know?"

Brenda just snickered.

The jump chief brushed a hand through his crew cut before he took another look at the flight plan. "I think you may be right," he said in a baritone. "Somehow, I have the feeling we're not in Goldsboro, Nevada. Though I can't quite work out how we could have ended up in Texas after starting in San Cristobal…"

"Aw!  Naw, this sure is Nevada, awright," Wynne said with a grin. "I be Wynne Donnah-hew ohhh-riginally outtah Shallah Pond, Texas. This he' nice lady be Brendah Travahs."

While the jumping team spoke among themselves, the chief stepped forward. "I'm Jaaron Coates, hello," he said before extending his hand for the traditional greeting.

"Goldsborah be 'nothah eight miles north o' he'. I reckon all y'all wus saposed ta come down while that there big ol' Fourth o' Joo-ly parade wus goin' on, yuh?"

"Yes…"

Nodding, Wynne reached into her rear pocket for her telephone. "Haw, yuh… that sure didden work. Lemme make a call he'… lessee if we can't getcha up there anyhows. Okeh?"

It only took her a few seconds to access the registry and select the number for Mandy's personal telephone. Another few seconds went by while she waited for the connection to be established.

'Hello, hon,' Mandy's familiar voice soon said. The level of background noise was if not deafening then at least a massive wall of sound. One of the marching bands seemed to be nearby, and waves of cheering rose from the spectators at regular intervals perhaps as a result of the cheerleaders performing various high-flying stunts. 'I don't have much time… what's up?'

"Howdy, darlin'!  Whazz-down is closah ta whut been goin' on he'. Yuh, I reckon ya be missin' a skaaaaaah-divin' team outtah San Cristobal, yuh?"

'Yes. Their plane went past a few minutes ago, but they didn't jump. Maybe the weather conditions-'

"Wussen that," Wynne said with a grin. "Them folks didden jump up in Goldsborah 'cos they alreddy done jumped down he'!  Yuh, they sure did!  An' we sure be speakin' ta that there jump chief right now, yes Ma'am!"

'Oh… dammit…'

"Yuh, deffa-nete-ly an oopsie. Lissen, darlin'… me an' ol' Brendah wus fixin' ta drive up ta all y'all anyhows, so we gonn' cram them jumpahs all ovah mah truck. I reckon they gonn' fit even with mah dairy cow up there. I ain't takin' that big-ass thing down ag'in, nosirree."

When the jump chief did a triple-take at the information that they had to share a truck with a cow, Brenda stepped forward to whisper: "It's a full-sized model. It's got a wooden base and plastic skin over a framework made of chicken wire."

"Oh… I see," the jump chief said in a voice that held a distinct undertone of not quite believing the information until he could verify it with his own eyes.

Wynne continued into the telephone: "So that whut we gonn' do, darlin'. Yuh?"

'Okay,' Mandy said eight miles further north. 'As long as they get here, it'll be fine. I know they were quite expensive to rent- dammit, Artie Rains just showed up. He looks drunk and mean…'

"Awwww-sombitch!  When ain't he drunk an' mean?"

'I have to keep an eye on him. Call me again when you get here, all right?'

"Haw, will do!  This he' be tha one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew signin' off… bah-bah, Sheriff Mandy!"

Once the telephone was back in her pocket, Wynne put her hands on her hips and began to survey the scene. "Okeh, lemme see. There be one, two, three, fo'ah, fihh-ve, hmmm, hmmm, hmmm… ten o' y'all plus me an' ol' Brendah an' mah dawggie Goldie an' mah cow… Mercy Sakes."

Stepping back, she rubbed her chin several times before she used her hand to shrug instead. "Okeh, it gonn' be a li'l crowded but I reckon we gonn' make it. Yuh?  Well, ain't no sense in standin' 'round he' yakkin' no mo' 'cos it be too dang-blasted hawt fer that. Les' jump inta Opera-shun Taaaaaght Squeeze!"

---

Operation Tight Squeeze was aptly named as even the large Chevrolet Silverado wasn't quite large enough for such a vast contingent of passengers. Wynne had the steering wheel which left the right-hand passenger seat for Jump Chief Coates. He had to sit with his legs in an odd angle pressed against the inside of the door to make room for Goldie - who insisted on staying down in the footwell - but the shared space worked remarkably well.

Three jumpers as well as an excited Brenda crowded the bench seat in the crew cab. Although she was a happily married woman, she didn't seem to mind sitting on the lap of a strapping fellow. The fellow's blushing cheeks proved he was perhaps less comfortable with having a spirited milk maid nestled on his legs.

Up on the Silverado's bed, the plastic dairy cow was joined by no less than six skydivers who all tried to squeeze in between the large model, the milk jugs and the bales of hay. At least they were dressed for the conditions as all of them had donned their helmets and goggles for the fast ride north.

Cruising along at a swift speed that ate up the eight miles in no time flat, Wynne and her Silverado soon arrived at the tail end of the line of vehicles heading into town. A sea of red brake lights dominated the landscape as far ahead as they could see, but there was no time for such a delay in Wynne's itinerary.

"Naw, we be late alreddy. Waitin' he' ain't gonn' help none," she said as she spun the steering wheel left to clear the tail of the line. After activating her hazard lights, she drove north in the southbound lane at a mere 20 miles per hour to keep everything within reason. It wasn't as dangerous as it sounded as nobody came toward her, but several of her fellow motorists still honked at the matte-black truck as it drove past them.

"Once upon a-cuppel-a years ago, yuh?" she continued to Jaaron Coates and the people in the back. "Me an' mah best bud Ernie done got busted bah De-per-ty Quick Draw when we wus doin' this kinda thing up at Thundah Park Raceway. Well, it wussen the same 'xactly 'cos we wus drivin' half on da blacktop an' half in tha desuhrt, but anyhows. I got an unfihhh-ne fihhh-ne that day!  An' Lawrdie, then me an' Bea done spent tha next months hissin' at each othah whenevah we done met. Yuh. Wussen no fuhhh-n. Aw, I ain't sure whah I be tellin' all y'all that. Y'all dunno know who or whaddahell I be tawkin' 'bout or nuttin'. Anyhows, he' we be."

The law enforcement officer in charge of conducting traffic at the southern entrance to Goldsboro was Rodolfo Gonzalez. The Senior Deputy's assignment wasn't too taxing - he only had to direct the vehicles to the satellite parking lots that still had room - but his medium-brown skin glistened with sweat due to the fluorescent-green vest he had to wear over his regular summer uniform.

The vest wasn't made of a thick material as such, but the chemicals applied to it to make it glow in the dark prevented the regular body heat from escaping the wearer's torso. Worse, he stood in the middle of the road with no shade from the burning sun other than the brim of his Mountie hat, and he was busy using that to fan his face and neck.

When he spotted the familiar black truck approaching in the wrong lane, he put up his hand in the universal sign known as Stop!

"Lawwwwwwwwwwwwr-die!" Wynne cried the second she had rolled down the driver's side window. Not only did Rodolfo seem to be an involuntary participant in a steam bath, his usually so stylish hair had lost all its coolness. The gel he swore to had been burned off by the heat and sweat from his scalp which left the dark locks trying to escape in all directions at once. In short, it resembled Barry Simms's wild haystack. "Whaddahell'zzamattah with y'all, Rodolfoh?  Y'all look 'bout reddy ta drop!  Y'all gotta drink som'tin befo' ya faint…"

As the window was rolled down, a wall of noise of a positive, cheerful and joyous nature assaulted the ears of everyone inside the Silverado. Clapping, cheering, loud brass music and the occasional crack of fireworks proved without the shadow of a doubt that the sleepy desert hamlet of Goldsboro took its Fourth of July celebrations seriously.

Rodolfo nodded several times before he wiped his face and neck on a handkerchief that was already soaked through. "I can't, Wynne. I'm stuck here and I don't have anywhere to take a leak…"

"Man, that ain't healthy, nosirree," Wynne said, pushing her hat back from her brow. "Anyhows, I be transportin' a complete skaaaaah-divin' team-"

"I'm sorry… you're transporting a what?"

"A skaaaaah-divin' team, fer cryin' out loud!" Wynne said, smacking her hand onto the rim of the steering wheel. "Don't nobodda speak no Texan no mo'?  I mean whaddahell?"

Jaaron Coates came to Wynne's rescue by leaning toward the open window and waving Rodolfo closer. "We're the San Cristobal Sky Express," he said once the Senior Deputy was close enough.

Rodolfo took a step back from the matte-black truck so he could look up onto the bed and the many people sharing the cramped space up there. Grinning, he leaned his elbow on the windowsill of the driver's side door. "Now I get it, Wynne. It's a skydiving team."

"Yuh, like I done tole y'all!  Anyhows, they kinda missed tha mark, yuh?  They jumped down south at tha trailah park instead o' up he'. Getta pic-chure?"

"Yeah, I see," Rodolfo said, once more glancing at the group of people wearing brightly colored jumpsuits. "Well, that's not my problem. You're going to join the parade, right?"

"Thazz'right, son!  Me an' Milk Maid Brendah an' mah dawg an' mah cow… yeee-hawww!  Dat sorta rhymes. Whah, I oughttah be a poet!"

Chuckling at Wynne being Wynne, Rodolfo peeled a green permit sticker off a roll that he attached to the bottom-left corner of the windshield. "Well, this tag will give you full access to the parade area around Main Street. Okay?  Have fun, Wynne. Oh… hiya, Brenda!  I didn't see you before."

"Hiya, Rodolfo!" Brenda said from the back seat, waving enthusiastically at the Senior Deputy. As she waved, she couldn't help but wiggle around on the lap of the fellow she used as a cushion. A moment later, the poor guy's cheeks exploded in a shade of red typically reserved for fire engines and the like.

Wynne rolled up the driver's side window and continued into the cordoned-off parade zone that had been set up along Main Street. "Tell ya whut, Mista Coates, I'mma-gonn' drop all y'all off he'," she said as she came to a halt in front of the legendary eatery Moira's Bar & Grill. "If y'all feel like it, y'all can go in an' grab a free bottle o' coo' spring watah from them refri-gy-ratahs. Yuh?  Jus' tell tha fellah behind tha countah that ol' Wynne Donnah-hew done tole all y'all thatcha could. Yuh?"

Jaaron Coates needed a moment or two to parse the block of inch-thick Texan, but he soon broke out in a nod. "All right. Thank you very much for the lift," he said before opening the door and climbing down onto the street.

"Aw, ya sure is welcome an' all," Wynne said before she turned around in the seat to watch the other skydivers follow their jump chief on an Earthbound adventure for a change. Once the matte-black truck had been vacated, she broke out in a grin at the look of Brenda being all Milk-Maidy. "Haw, girl, this is where y'all gonn' be tha star. Y'all reddy fer milkin' that there cow there?"

"Do you have to ask?  I was born ready," Brenda said before she jumped out of the crew cab and hurried around to the Silverado's tailgate.

"Yuh, haw?  I bah-lieve dat," Wynne said with a cheesy grin. Remembering that she had promised to call Mandy again, she reached for her telephone.

It seemed the sheriff had no time to answer the new call as it went to her voicemail service three times in a row. "Aw, I'mma-gonn' trah ag'in a li'l latah… or mebbe we gonn' see mah darlin' Mandy on da street somewhe'ah," Wynne said to herself while she shoved the telephone into her pocket. "Ain't dat right, girl?"

Down in the footwell, Goldie finally popped her head up onto the seat. She looked around a couple of times before she let out a somber Yap… that proved she wasn't looking forward to all those Human feet that would undoubtedly show up in her immediate future.

To get back to the business at hand, Wynne turned on the truck's infotainment system. The radio was pre-set to the Down-Home Ol' Country Shack broadcasting out of Lansingburg further south, so the wild tones of a honkytonk piano, a mountain fiddle, a few whisky jugs and a metal washboard soon played from the many speakers as The Chisholm Mountain Wild Boys entertained the listeners with their timeless classic Moonshine Stomper.

Once Brenda had tapped her knuckles on the cab's rear window to signal that she was ready for doing her part of the big event, Wynne drove away from the curb and slipped in between two parade vehicles in her Chevrolet Milk Float.

The charade wasn't 100% perfect yet, but it got very close to it when she donned a pair of cool, 1990s-style Gargoyles shades, put her elbow on the windowsill and began chewing on a toothpick that represented a straw of wheat.

Soon, Independence Day was celebrated in time-honored fashion by The Last Original Cowpoke waving her cowboy hat and whooping, hooting and hollering like a true Texas gal…

*
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THE END of UNEXPECTED GUESTS

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AUGUST: WHEN MORALS COLLIDE

Sunday, August 10th, at two in the afternoon.

There wasn't any need to suffer through ambient temperatures reaching the high 90s when there was a matte-black Chevrolet Silverado Trail Boss Midnight Edition to snooze under.

The unusual, though certainly shady, spot was taken by Wynne 'The Last Original Cowpoke' Donohue who had spread out a bath towel and a pillow to rest on. Wearing flip-flops, denim shorts, a spaghetti-strap tank top and a wafer-thin cotton overshirt to protect her shoulders from the sun's merciless rays, she was flat on her back underneath the truck. Her legs were crossed at the ankles, her hands were behind her head, and her cowboy hat had been pushed down over her face to catch some shuteye.

She had a six-pack of Sunny Dreamz Super Selection - that consisted of a can each of Orange Squash, Pineapple Perfection, Raspberry Fizz, Smooth Apricot, South Pacific Tropical Fruits Squash and finally a Super Summer Sweet Apple Twist - a can of boiled peanuts, another bag of crunchy nutty snacks and a pulp paperback within easy reach. The book in question, a Western titled Showdown At Creagan's Rock, hadn't even been opened yet although she had been looking forward to reading it.

Her telephone had been hooked up to a pair of external speakers that produced heavenly Country & Western harmonies in the shape of The Shady Valley Quartet and their brand new spiritual My Friend Jesus. To prevent the telephone from tilting and thus ruining the connection or at the very least the sound, it had been put into an old ashtray promoting Interstate Batteries in general and the 2000 NASCAR Winston Cup champion Bobby Labonte and the #18 Joe Gibbs Racing Pontiac Grand Prix in particular.

When the song faded out and was replaced by a station jingle and a block of commercials, Wynne let out a grunt but couldn't be bothered to do anything about it. Even if she wasn't particularly interested in hearing the latest self-glorifying blah-di-blah from Century Co. Brooms & Brushes, TrueGlue Home Improvement Solutions, Princess Feline cat food, Pellegrino Umbrellas & Parasols and finally the San Cristobal Elite Banking Services, chances were great the Down-Home Ol' Country Shack radio station would continue playing the tunes she wanted to hear.

---

Seven songs and another block of commercials later, Wynne crabbed out from underneath the Silverado on the hunt for some food. After scratching herself here, there and everywhere to get the last of the sleepies to find a more suitable Corpus Cowpok'us elsewhere, she swung her legs around to sit upright on the bath towel. A huge yawn cracked her face in half before she rubbed her eyes twice.

"These lazy Sun'dy aftahnoons wus made fer doin' nuttin'… sure ain't no lie," she mumbled as she looked at the empty central lawn between the trailers.

Cosmic coincidence would have it that she was home alone save for Goldie who had spent the entire day inside the trailer to be out of the sun. Freddie the Rottweiler and Diego Benitez were visiting Diego's sister. Brenda and Vaughn Travers were at a business conference in Los Angeles. Renee Tooley was up north in Goldsboro being home-tutored by Carole Jensen while Renee's mother Estelle worked a day shift as a cleaning lady in Cavanaugh Creek. Deputy Beatrice Reilly had taken Sunday and Monday off to fly to the wedding of an old school friend in St. Louis, Missouri. And finally, Sheriff Mandy and their German Shepherd Blackie had driven up to the office to get the past week's paperwork under control.

"Yuh… these lazy Sun'dy aftahnoons sure can be ass-borin', too… dang'it," Wynne said in a mumble, propping her head up on her arm. She could only stand another thirty seconds of inactivity before she clambered to her feet. "Naw, I reckon I'mma-gonna go inside an' watch me some ol'-school Nascahhh-r. Yuh. An' it gonn' be from '89… a D.W. victory. A-yup. But which one?  Daytoah-n?  Tha Coke 600?  Tha Bristol Night Race?  Haw… I'mma-gonn' hafta do an Eenie-Meenie-Minie-Moe ta figgah that one out 'cos them ol' races always be a pleasure. Yessirree."

Rounding up the large bath towel, the telephone, the speakers, the snacks, the unopened book and the remaining cans of soda took so long that she was almost ready to lie down again. She didn't get the chance as a her ears picked up the sound of a car engine running rough approaching the trailer park.

Clonking, coughing and spluttering like a vehicular Barry Simms on one of his worst days, the car soon appeared at the end of the dirt road. It turned out to be an elegant, dark gray metallic Lincoln Continental sedan with aluminum wheels and tinted windows. The luxury car presented an image of success and general coolness save for the unfortunate noises it produced. A moment later, it went silent no matter how many times the driver tried to twist the ignition key.

Wynne continued to hold an armful of this-and-that with nowhere to put it. She chewed on her cheeks as it became obvious the driver needed help. She was destined to be the Sunday's good Samaritan since she was the only one there, but few Samaritans had ever worked with an armful of this-and-that. Sighing at how her poor luck always seemed to crop up at the worst time, she spun around on her flip-flop and strode back to the trailer to get rid of all the excess things.

---

Three minutes later, she went over to the Lincoln where she greeted the driver with a wave and a "Howdy!"

To preserve the chill created by the air-conditioning, the driver had kept the tinted windows rolled up, but the driver's side door soon opened to reveal a woman in her early thirties. The lady wore flat shoes fit for driving and walking on grass or other types of uneven surfaces. Further up, she wore a dark-bronze business pant suit that matched the color of her hair. Her face was hidden under a pair of black designer sunglasses, but they were soon pushed up in her reddish hair thus revealing her eyes were pale brown.

Wynne suddenly got a sinking feeling that she found herself face to face with a representative of one of her eternal opponents, the religious organization known near and far as the Virgin Tower. She broke out in a grimace that displayed plenty of pre-emptive resignation in case her gut had been right on the money and the lady turned out to be a missionary.

"Hello, Ma'am. I'm Krystal Monique… I hope you can help me with my car," the well-dressed woman said. She smiled when she spoke and put out her hand for a shaking, but that wasn't a guarantee that she wasn't a member of the Tower.

"Howdy… yuh, I reckon there be som'tin wrong with it, awright… it sure didden sound too good when it wus runnin'," Wynne said, meeting Krystal's outstretched hand while she took in the details of the Lincoln Continental and its driver. "Anyhows. Wynne Donnah-hew, howdy. An' I be a Miss an' ain't no Ma'am. Outtah Shallah Pond, Texas, an' lately o' Goldsborah, Nevada," she continued, pushing her hat back from her brow.

"Oh… Goldsboro?  So we're close to town?"

Nodding, Wynne pointed her thumb over her shoulder. "Yuh, 'bout eight miles or so thatta'way."

"Well, that's good news. I've made an appointment with Mrs. Skinner of the Goldsboro Town Council at a quarter past four-"

"On a Sun'dy?"

"Yes. It's a private meeting."

"Aw… okeh…"

"I wouldn't want to be late. My business plan for the region depends on the Town Council's approval," Krystal said, straightening her pant suit jacket to make it sit even better on her shapely frame.

The words needed a few moments to filter through to Wynne's gray matter, but once they had been parsed by her army of little neurons, she broke out in a wide, genuine smile. "Haw!  So y'all ain't with them there Virgin Towah folks, then?"

"Ah… I can safely say no to that one," Krystal said with a grin. "I fact, you might say they're quite opposed to my business."

Wynne shook her head in sympathy. "No wondah. Them folks be a-posed ta perdy much ev'rythin' they don't undahstand… which happen ta be most things. Anyhows, I hope y'all can get a foot in tha do'ah, yuh?  Goldsborah's a good place fer wimmenfolk ta start a bizzness."

"Oh, is it?  That's good news."

"Whah it sure is, yes Ma'am!  We got Holly Lorenzen an' her hair salon… an' Dorothy Tylah's Yarn Spinnahs an' Cathy Pearson's Tack An' Saddle leathahgoods sto'ah… aw, an' Mizzuz Peabodda o' course. She be runnin' tha boardin' how-se. Then we got Septic Sammi Seaborn, a.k.a. Tha Sewah Gal, yuh?  An' mah friend Moira MacKay owns theeee best bar an' grill in all-a MacLean County an' prolly beyond, too. Yuh, we got plentah o' wimmen-bizzness-folk he'. Sure ain't no lie."

"I'm glad to hear it," Krystal said with a smile.

"Yuh. Okeh, les'see if we can't figgah out whut be wrong wi'cha fancy Fohhhhh-rd there… sorry, Lincoln."

---

The debugging process didn't take long for once. Although the needle on the gas gauge showed half-full, the tank itself was as dry as the white bones that could be found scattered around the merciless desert. "I reckon we done found tha li'l sombitch who tripped y'all up. There ain't no gas in da tank, Krystal… an' they still didden make no cahhh-r who can drive without gas in da tank. Okeh, 'xcept them there electro-mobiles, but I ain't countin' those 'cos they ain't no real cahhh-rs."

The veneer of cool seemed to fade from the businesswoman's image as she took in the news that she had, in a way, been the cause of the problem by relying too much on the instruments. After taking off her sunglasses, she pinched the bridge of her nose several times - then she looked at the time. "Dammit… you wouldn't happen to have some gas I could buy, would you?  The meeting is very important to me and it's imperative I get there on time."

"Naw," Wynne said, scratching her jaw, "I sure don't, Krystal. I know fer a fact that mah friend Diegoh got a jerrycan o' unleaded, but it be locked up in his utility shed… he be outtah town an' I don't got no key fer his shed or nuttin'. Aw, dontcha worry none. Y'all can hitch a ride-"

Wynne suddenly came to a proverbial screeching halt as if she tried to make a few neurons work a little faster to get the half-built notion across the finish line. She scrunched up her brow in deep concentration until the thought was ready to be conveyed: "Naw, tell ya whut we gonn' do, Mizz Krystal!  Yessirree!  I'mma-gonn' hook up a tow bar an' drag that there big-ass fancy Lincoln up ta tha Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop 'cos they got them there gas pumps out front, yuh?  An' even if they be shut off 'cos it be Sun'dy, I know tha big fellah runnin' 'em, 'cos he be mah friend, yuh?  Like I done said, dontcha worry none. We gonn' getcha up ta town an' then full o' gas in no time!  Okeh?"

"Well… sure. If it's not too much hassle," Krystal said with a smile as she reached into her suit jacket's pocket to get a small clutch.

"Ain't no hassle. None. An' y'all can keep yer wallet in yer pocket 'cos I ain't fishin' fer no greenbacks, neithah. Yuh?  Okeh, I need-a slip inta som'tin less comf'table, so why dontcha get behind da wheel o' that there Lincoln in da meanwhile?  I only be a-cuppel-a minnits. Haw, y'all afraid o' dawgs or som'tin?"

Krystal needed a second to come to terms with the instant change of topic, but she soon broke out in a smile. "No, I'm fine with dogs… well, it's not one of those killer hounds, is it?"

Chuckling, Wynne shook her head several times. "Naw. Naw, Goldie sure ain't no killah hound. Naw."

-*-*-*-

Meanwhile up in Goldsboro, Mandy Jalinski and Blackie had the sheriff's office all to themselves. Barry had called in sick, Beatrice was away on her two-day leave, and Senior Deputy Rodolfo Gonzalez usually had Sundays off unless something important was to take place.

Blackie had moved back to her favorite spot just inside the sticking glass door. It offered her a great view of Main Street, and she took full advantage of that by staying vigilant though nothing exciting had happened since they got there. She had fresh water, a stick of turkey jerky, a gnawing bone and even a rubber toy at her disposal which made her a happy dog indeed.

The sheriff had just finished doodling her signature on the dotted line of the day's ninth case file when her personal telephone rang.

Woof!

"It's Councilwoman Skinner," Mandy said as she looked at the caller-ID.

Wooof…

Chuckling at Blackie's less-than-enthusiastic response, Mandy moved her finger over to the Accept Call bar. "My sentiment exactly, girl," she said before she pressed the bar and leaned back on her swivel chair. "Hello, Mrs. Skinner. How can I help you?"

'Good afternoon, Sheriff,' Mary-Lou said in a voice that was still marked by the wheezing caused by her asthma. 'Well, this is somewhat unusual. I've been contacted by a woman who wants to set up a business here in town, or at least close to it, geographically speaking. From what I gather, it would be the third branch of her… uh… burgeoning empire.'

"Oh?  How would that involve the Sheriff's Department?"

'Because I honestly don't know how to react to her business proposal.'

Furrowing her brow, Mandy leaned forward to rest her elbows on the desktop. "I'm afraid you've lost me, Mrs. Skinner. What kind of business are we talking about here?"

'Prostitution.'

Mandy's eyes went wide. Two seconds later, a dark, dangerous look fell over her fair features. "Did you say what I thought you said, Mrs. Skinner?"

'I did.'

"Oh, for Pete's sake!" Mandy continued in a growl. The gravelly voice wasn't enough so she smacked a fist onto the desktop as well. One of her spare mugs was close to dancing off the desk and onto the floor below, but she grabbed it in time and moved it back to a safe distance from the Devil's Drop.

'I'll say!  She's an entrepeneurial Madam who wants to set up her third… her third… is the term cat house still used?  Well, it's a brothel. God, I'm blushing just talking about it!  Prostitution is legal in Nevada and MacLean County as you obviously know, Sheriff, but the owners need to apply-'

Mandy let out a deep sigh. "They need to apply for a license and provide weekly health reports for each of their working girls. And the Sheriff's Department will have to carry out regular inspections for various health and safety aspects, illegal immigrants, underage sex workers, use of banned substances… that's a ton of additional work that we don't have the resources to handle. Not to mention the subsequent paperwork."

'Do you see my dilemma?  Our dilemma?'

"I certainly do," Mandy said, scratching her temple with the butt of a ball point pen. "And that's not all I can see. I have a clear picture of Mrs. Peabody's facial color when she finds out. I can vividly imagine what she'll say, too. I can also see a literal truckload of eager gentlemen lining up at their doors on opening night. Well, every night…"

'God, my mind refuses to go that far… but you're right. However, we cannot reject the business proposal based on morals alone. There needs to be a clear and undeniable legal reason for the rejection or we could face an expensive and lengthy lawsuit. On the other hand, it's no secret that MacLean County in general and Goldsboro in particular could use the license fees and the taxes they would pay.'

Listening to Mary-Lou Skinner delivering the kind of reverse logic that only politicians possess, and in a buttery voice that only politicians master, caused Mandy to jump to her feet and slam a fist onto the desktop for the second time in as many minutes. "You want a legal reason?  All right, how about being a public nuisance?!  Mrs. Skinner, do you really want working girls sashaying up and down Main Street advertising the newest business in town?"

'No!  No, of course not, Sher-'

"But that will happen. Perhaps not at first, but it will happen. I guarantee it. I saw it often enough back in San Cristobal to know."

Now that Mandy was on her feet, she strode over to the coffee machine to pour herself another mugful of their homemade brew. A sniff - that caused a horrified grimace - proved it had gone staler than last week's shrimp cocktail. "Call off the meeting with that woman," she said in a stern voice.

'Sheriff!  I can't do that!'

Mandy's voice turned even sterner: "Call off the meeting, Councilwoman. Let me deal with this Madam when she arrives. I'll give her a clear and undeniable piece of my mind. I will never allow prostitution or any other type of exploitation of women in my town. If she insists on founding a brothel in MacLean County, she can damn well do it someplace else. That's it and that's that."

'Well… all right, but-'

"I'll deal with it. Goodbye for now, Mrs. Skinner," Mandy continued, hanging up just as Mary-Lou Skinner said 'Now wait a minute, Sher-' at the other end of the connection.

Grabbing the coffee pot, Mandy strode into the bathroom at the far end of the office to rinse it and draw a fresh potful of water. As the typical Goldsboro luck would have it, the cold faucet and all the plumbing connected to it began acting up.

She gave it three tries that yielded very little beyond groaning and some brown slush dripping down into the wash basin. Then she stormed out of the sheriff's office to get some of A.J. 'Slow' Lane's top-quality coffee from Moira's Bar & Grill across the street.

-*-*-*-

At much the same time, a familiar matte-black Silverado towing an elegant, but presently impotent, Lincoln Continental entered Goldsboro at the southern city limits sign. Wynne had to guffaw when she saw that the poor sign had once again been used as a target for someone's aggressions, not to mention their hunting shotgun or rifle.

Her telephone was turned on and set to hands-free so she could give a running commentary of what they saw to Krystal Monique who was obviously behind the wheel of her own car.

"So this he' li'l town be Goldsborah, yuh?" Wynne said into the telephone, waving a hand at the first houses just beyond the city limits although Krystal couldn't see the gestures. "It ain't in no decline, but it ain't really thrivin', neithah. It jus' sorta be he', yuh?  Anyhows, 'tho it got some great sto'ahs, it really ain't much ta write hoah-me 'bout if y'all ask me. Not that Shallah Pond wus any bettah. Aw, y'all woudden know, so… nevah mind that part."

Goldie wasn't in a good mood for whatever reason, so she had chosen to sit in the crew cab in the back during the eight mile drive. It wasn't a bad spot save for the unfortunate fact that the footwells in the rear were much smaller than the ones up front. In short, she couldn't curl herself up into a ball of golden fur but needed to sit with her doggy head on the seat. She had let out a few whimpers now and then, but it had been a quiet and laid-back drive for her for a change.

'I see,' Krystal said over the telephone. 'Population 511?'

"Yuh, sounds 'bout right. Mebbe a li'l less, mebbe a li'l mo'. Depends on how many are born an' die, yuh?  Town got a boost when they done opened Josiah Street ovah yondah. But anyhows… Missus Skinnah be livin' right there, yuh?  Y'all can't miss it. I reckon she might be out in her back garden 'cos that be pointin' away from the sun at this he' tihhh-me o' tha day."

While she spoke, Wynne craned her neck to check out the Skinner residence. She nodded to herself when her eyes fell on the neat and tidy town house.

'All right. We have plenty of time before my meeting with the Councilwoman. Where did you say that gas station was?'

"Up da far end o' town. Tha Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop. Yuh, I done worked there once upon a time," Wynne said with a grin that soon faded when she recalled how much she had disliked doing nothing but sweep the concrete floors for her entire shift. "Wussen much, lemme tell y'all… but anyhows, it ain't gonn' take us but five minnits ta drive up there an' get some gas. Dontcha worry. Y'all gonn' make tha meetin' with plentah o' time ta spare."

'Thanks. Would you mind if I picked your brains a little?'

"Aw… naw. I reckon dat be awright an' all. There ain't much ta pick, but… yuh. Be mah guest," Wynne said, glancing into the rear view mirror to see the elegant Lincoln Continental behind her.

'How can a tourist kill some time around here?'

"Whah, we got a pool table an' a video poker machine. There used ta be one o' them there video Keno machines as well, but nobodda wanted ta play it so it got too dang-blasted expensive ta rent when nobodda done put no dineros innit, yuh?  They both be at Moira's Bar an' Grill which is theeee best eatery in all o' MacLean County, yes Ma'am!  Aw, I alreddy done tole y'all that. We jus' done drove pas' it."

'It looked like a classy establishment.'

"Ya betcha it is. Also, we got one o' them there Chicky Kingz takeout parlahs, but that ain't open until three or so. We got a modern mooh-vie theatah. An' o' course, we got a great thrift store as well in Keshawn's Second-Hand Treasures. Yuh. Ol' Keshawn always got some great stuff on his shelves. Jus' north o' town, tha Tobin family done opened a bug exhibi-shun a-cuppel-a years ago called tha Bug Bonanzah. It be way creepy but kinda coo'. An'… haw, dat perdy much be it, ack-chew-ly. Well, I sapose some tourists might wanna visit the Grant-Mastah's beer an' liquor impahrts sto'ah as well, but… ya know."

Krystal broke out in a dry chuckle. 'There should be room for my business, then. It might put Goldsboro on the map.'

"Haw… yuh. Mebbe. Dunno," Wynne said with a shrug.

---

A few minutes later, Wynne checked all her mirrors before she made a slow, wide U-turn across Main Street in order to get the Lincoln to line up with the gas pumps. A grin spread over her features when she noticed they hadn't been turned off for the weekend.

Driving with great skill, she maneuvered the matte-black Chevrolet and the towed Lincoln onto the concrete forecourt with inch-perfect precision. After switching off the engine, she turned to look at Goldie behind her. "Girl!  Stay!  Okeh?  This place ain't built fer dawggies."

Yap!  Yap-yap-yapper-yap.

"Dat's mah Goldie," Wynne said as she climbed out of the Silverado. Behind the black truck, Krystal Monique had already rolled out the appropriate gas hose and had stuck it into the filler neck.

"Say, Krystal, whut kinda bizzness y'all involved in, anyhows?" Wynne said while she donned a pair of work gloves whose numerous stains proved they had seen plenty of action over the years. The tow bar and the safety chains were soon unhooked and put back on the Silverado's bed.

"Oh, I'm in the hostess and hospitality trade."

The furrow that developed on Wynne's brow proved she had little idea what that meant. She didn't want to appear like a doofus in front of such a sophisticated lady, so she let out a non-committal "Aw-haw?" before she took off the sturdy work gloves.

Before Wynne had time to do anything, she and Krystal were met by the unmistakably compact and athletic shape of Sheriff Mandy who crossed Main Street in her customary striding fashion. "Aw!  Whah, I do bah-lieve I be seein' a familiar figgah ovah yondah. Howdy, darlin'!" Wynne said, waving her cowboy hat in the air.

Mandy waved back before she noticed the other car and the female driver standing behind the matte-black truck. The woman's panache, poise and elegant clothing made several pieces fall into place for Mandy. When she was able to see the entire jigsaw puzzle, she put her hands on her hips and assumed a detached, professional expression.

"Yuh, I betcha be surprised at seein' me in town onna Sun'dy," Wynne continued, noticing very little of the change in Mandy's demeanor, "but it jus' so happens this he' nihhh-ce lady is gonn' have a meetin' with Mary-Lou at fo'ah. Her cahhhh-r done broke down back hoah-me at tha trailah park. Well, I say broke down, but whut it done wus ta run outtah gas 'cos that there gauge done screwed up. I didden got no gas ta put innit, so I towed it up he' with mah big-ass tow bar… an' he' we be, yuh?"

Once Wynne had delivered her lengthy explanation as to why she had become the knight in matte-black armor who had rescued a brothel Madam in distress, she broke out in a wide grin while she waited for a positive and appreciative reply. The grin faded when she noticed the glum expression on Mandy's face. "Okeh?  I reckon I done… missed… som'tin…" she said in a voice that trailed off.

"Miss, are you who and what I suspect you are?" Mandy said in her patented I'm The Sheriff And You Better Listen-voice.

The steely core in Mandy's voice made Wynne even more confused. She stared at the sheriff and Krystal to perhaps discover a clue that the typical laziness of a Sunday afternoon had made her overlook, but nothing too conspicuous jumped out at her. Revisiting the time she had spent with the businesswoman didn't provide any answers either, so all she could do was to scratch her neck and wait for the situation to unfold.

"That's right, Sheriff," Krystal said. "I'm Krystal Monique. How do you do. And you are?"

"The law in Goldsboro."

Wynne's eyes gradually grew wider as the tension mounted to almost unbearable levels. All she could do was to stare at the two female combatants without understanding a single thing about the whole bizarre mess.

Krystal nodded; a sly smile playing on her lips. "A female Sheriff… how intriguing. It must be a progressive town."

"No. It's anything but. And we prefer to keep it that way."

"I see."

"Somehow, I don't think you do," Mandy said in a voice that turned even steelier. In the back of the Silverado, Goldie let out a whimper and dove for cover down in the footwell in spite of the very limited space. "Mrs. Skinner called me to explain the deal. She told me we can't reject your business proposal on morals alone, but that we need some B.S. legal cause."

By now, Wynne needed to grab hold of her cowboy hat to stop it from taking off on its own. She continued to stare in wide-eyed disbelief at Mandy and the woman she had towed to town to get at least an inkling of what in the world was going on, but the two prizefighters had assumed such surly expressions it was impossible to read anything.

Mandy continued: "Let me tell you right now, we'll find that legal cause. We don't want your kind of business here. End of discussion. You're not welcome in Goldsboro or anywhere near it. I'm sure Mrs. Skinner will tell you as well, though in more flowery terms."

"Mmmm," Krystal said while she took out the gas nozzle and put it back on the pump, "it certainly can't be less flowery. You've made your point. I still intend to have that meeting with the Councilwoman. The decision will be made by the members of the Town Council, not the Sheriff's Department."

"But we're the ones who'll carry out the inspections. How many women are you planning on employing?"

Wynne's eyes grew even more puzzled as she turned to Krystal to wait for a reply to Mandy's seemingly innocent question.

"Six to eight in a rotating schedule between here and my other two businesses," Krystal said, moving around to lean against the driver's side door of her Lincoln. She crossed her arms over her chest. "More if the interest is there. The Wicked Kittens Ranch won't be a scab-infested rat hole if that's what you're worried about. I demand the highest of standards from my employees."

"And advertising?"

"Just like any other business, Sheriff. Radio, TV, print. Tasteful, of course. Colorful postcards and flyers in the town's hot spots, like the restaurant and the takeout parlor your rugged friend here told me about. A hotel if you have one."

Wynne finally had something to add to the conversation, so she pushed her hat back from her brow and broke out in a grin. "Whah, y'all jus' happen ta be tawkin' ta the ownah o' Goldsborah's Bed an' Breakfast!  Yessirree, we could easy take a-bunch-a them postcards an' flaaah'ers-"

"Miss Donohue," Mandy said in a voice that had somehow turned even steelier, "please stay out of the conversation for the time being. You don't have all the facts."

"Aw… aw… okeh. Yes, Ma'am. I be plentah con-few-sed ovah he', sure ain't no lie." Cut off in the middle of a perfectly good promotional speech, all Wynne could do was to stuff her hands into her pants pockets and resume staring at the strange battle between the steely sheriff and the elegant businesswoman.

Krystal fell quiet to observe the sheriff, but her silence didn't last long. "Let's see what happens once I've spoken to Councilwoman Skinner. I'll drive down to her right away. I get a strong sense of hostility from some of the local population. Not all, though," she said, turning to Wynne with her hand extended. "Thank you for your assistance, Wynne. It's nice to see that not everyone suffers from a closed mind."

"Aw… yuh, wussen nuttin' to it, Mizz Krystal… yuh… yer welcome an' all," Wynne said as she shook the elegant businesswoman's hand. Her face betrayed the utter confusion that reigned supreme within her as she looked at Krystal Monique getting behind the wheel of her Lincoln Continental and driving south on Main Street.

The icy silence from Mandy was perhaps the worst part of the peculiar scene, so Wynne whipped off her cowboy hat and held it to her chest. "Darlin'… did I jus' screw up?  An' if I did, y'all need-a explain it ta me, 'cos I ain't got nooooooo clue whaddahell be goin' on he'. None."

Mandy let out a deep sigh. The first wasn't enough, so a second one followed that was used to underscore a thorough rubbing of her face. "You didn't screw up, hon. You just didn't know the whole story."

"Okeh… I sure ain't likin' tha sound o' that. That there lady there ain't one o' them there Virgin Towah folks aftah all, is she?"

"No. She's a Madam. I looked up her businesses after Mrs. Skinner had alerted me. She already owns two Wicked Kittens brothels here in Nevada and is planning on spreading her business empire to MacLean County… and Goldsboro."

When it became obvious by the Last Original Cowpoke's scrunched-up features that she felt bad for helping someone like that, Mandy softened her voice and moved close enough to put a hand on Wynne's side. "Listen, hon… you couldn't know. She took advantage of your helpful nature."

"A bordellah Madam," Wynne croaked in an embarrassed voice. "Mercy Sakes, dat wus tha las' thing I evah woulda guessed. I reckoned she done owned… mebbe… shoot, I dunno. A chain o' textile sto'ahs or whutevah!  Som'tin othah than runnin' a bordellah!  Or two, even. Dang-blasted, she sure didden look like no Madam I evah done saw. Not that I evah seen one save fer in them ol' Westurhns, but anyhows…"

A smile finally spread over Mandy's face as she moved her hand from Wynne's side. Soon, the entire arm was wrapped around the taller woman's waist. "They're suit-clad businesspeople just like everyone else working in executive positions. But they're still pimps. Don't feel bad about it, hon. You couldn't know."

"I obvi'sly don't got y'all's experience with them things, but I do know fer a fact that bordellahs attract crime an' crimmi-nals like dungheaps attract flies, yuh?" Wynne said strongly. "An' tha las' thing we need in Goldsborah is mo' trubbel. Hawt-dang, we got plentah o' trubbel as it is!"

"Exactly. Tell you what," Mandy said, guiding Wynne back to the Silverado, "why don't we drive down to Miss MacKay's so you can get an early supper?  And maybe shoot a few frames?  I need to be at the meeting, but I can't imagine it'll be a lengthy affair. I'll swing by as soon as it's done."

"Haw, that sure be a good ideah. Yuh, I be so embarrassed I don't feel like bein' alone right now. Mebbe get me some spicy Mexican meatballs an' some o' Slow Lane's awesome pah-tah-tah salad… an' mebbe even a beer or two. Yuh. I reckon I'mma-gonn' do jus' that. I sure do thank y'all fer da sugges-chun, darlin'. An' fer bein' so undahstandin' an' all…"

"You're welcome."

Though Wynne opened the Silverado's door, she paused to turn around instead of climbing on board. "Say… would it be propah fer da sheriff ta kiss a Cowpoke he' on Main Street?"

"I think it would," Mandy said, stepping up on tip-toes to deliver a very nice smooch on Wynne's lips. One kiss became two, then three, but it didn't seem to bother either participant. Once they separated, they broke out in identical grins before they moved up on the Silverado's plush seats to carry on with the afternoon's program.

*
*
THE END of WHEN MORALS COLLIDE

-*-*-*-
-*-*-*-
-*-*-*-

*
*
SEPTEMBER: LIGHTING A FIRE

Wednesday, September 3rd.

Mother Nature had worn her glorious summer costume for as long as she could, but the early part of September marked the season's first slight drop of the ambient temperatures. No longer the triple-digit scorcher of July nor the high-90s of early to mid August, the present weather pattern of temperatures in the mid-80s proved more conductive for getting things done around the house.

Thus, Wynne 'The Last Original Cowpoke' found herself climbing up onto the roof of her trailer. Her mission: to sweep all the red dust away from the vent pipes and the electronic equipment connected to her satellite dish. In order to do that, she carried a broom, a bucket, a dustpan and a pair of safety goggles so she wouldn't get dust in her eyes.

To treat the rungs of the ladder with the utmost respect, she wore work boots with heavy-duty treaded soles instead of her regular decorated cowboy boots, but the faded blue jeans, the red bandana in the left-rear jeans pocket, the long-sleeved sweatshirt and the denim jacket were all part of her Cowpoke outfit. Her hands were protected by sturdy work gloves instead of the fragile sheepskin pair, and - shockingly - she wore a baseball cap instead of her beloved cowboy hat. The cap was obviously in the sponsor colors seen on the 2002 Valvoline Pontiac Grand Prix as raced in the NASCAR Winston Cup series by Johnny Benson and others.

All that hard work required some sweetening, so she also carried a cooler box that held a six-pack of H.E. Fenwyck Brewery Co. Double-Zero non-alcoholic beers, a can of Go-Faster-Longer apricot-flavored energy drink and finally a Fenwyck 1910 Special Brew as an Attagal when she had completed her tasks up there.

Of course, she didn't count on the unwieldy broom developing a mind of its own halfway up the ladder. Wobbling first one way then the other, the long tool eventually slipped from her grasp and made a howling escape toward the ground. With gravity being so efficient, there wasn't enough time to make the broom spin around before the whole thing would make an impact, so the tool landed with a thudding thump straight across the trailer's crooked rear porch.

Wynne didn't dare release her grip on the ladder so she could scratch her neck, but she did let out an impressive sigh to show the world how she felt. "Yuh… I reckon that hadda happen," she mumbled as she took a gander at the runaway broom far below. "Lawrdie. Okeh. No panic. Darlin'?  Say, darlin'?  Yoo-hooo, darlin', y'all down dere somewhe'ah?  Y'all still vacuumin'?"

The steady hum of their vacuum cleaner proved that was exactly what Mandy was doing at that moment in time. The proximity to the noisemaker obviously meant she would be unable to hear Wynne's plea for help.

When no reply was forthcoming beyond the hum and the occasional clonk when the vacuum cleaner hit the leg of a chair or table, Wynne rolled her eyes and climbed the rest of the way up on the roof.

Once up there, she caught a glimpse of their friendly neighbor Brenda Travers who was deeply involved in her morning yoga routines over by the trailer she shared with her husband Vaughn.

Brenda appeared to be performing The Praying Mantis, but it could be The Albatross, The Turtle or even The Bald Eagle. It was hard for Wynne to make heads or tails of the mess of buff arms and shapely legs that were on display, but no matter what the yoga routine was called, Brenda's flexibility was an impressive sight.

"Haw!  Ol' Brendah gonn' help me fer sure… Brendah!" Wynne cried, waving her Valvoline cap in the air. "Brendah?  Hullo, Brendah!  Bren- awwwww-shittt… I bet she be lissenin' ta music thru' them there ear bud things. Dad-gummit."

Wynne rolled her eyes for a second time as she put down the bucket, the dustpan and the safety goggles. Removing the carrier strap for the cooler box required far more finesse so no harm would come to its precious cargo, but the box was soon standing level on the roof.

---

Back down on the ground, Wynne had just picked up the errant broomstick when Mandy Jalinski stepped out onto the rear porch. The two-term sheriff of Goldsboro and the surrounding territories of MacLean County had a rare day off, but true to her personality, she had converted it into a working-at-home day instead of sitting under their patio umbrella sipping a frosted cocktail and reading a glittery gossip magazine.

Mandy wore loafers, pale brown slacks and a spring-green T-shirt that matched her eyes perfectly. Her blonde mop-top was getting a little too close to breaking the dress code of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department with regards to its length and volume, but since she refused to visit Holly Lorenzen's Homey Hair & Nails Salon up in Goldsboro, the only options were to have Wynne cut it or go on a three-hour round trip to Cavanaugh Creek to get a licensed professional to do it. Neither option was too desirable, so she had decided to let it grow for the time being.

"Problems?" Mandy said, eyeing the broomstick.

"Yuh, a long 'un. I dropped it. Naw, it wussen nuttin'. I ain't even started shovelin' dust yet an' y'all be done vacuumin' alreddy… wotcha gonn' do now, darlin'?"

"De-grease the stovetop and the microwave. Then I think I'll defrost the refrigerator and the freezer compartment. There's too much ice in there for it to be cooling effectively."

Wynne shook her head a couple of times before she broke out in a chuckle at her partner's inexhaustible energy supply. "Aw-haw?  Okeh… speakin' o' which… I reckon it be Fenwyck time," she said, patting her jacket pocket.

Realizing she had skipped a major cog in the thought process, Wynne leaned her head back to look up at the roof and the cooler box she had only just left up there. "Or som'tin… mebbe latah. Yuh. Aw, I bettah…"

Mandy chuckled and quickly grabbed hold of Wynne's lapels. A smooch was duly exchanged before they separated to continue their working-at-home day.

---

Fifteen minutes later, Wynne had just filled the bucket with the dreaded red dust for a second time when her position up on the roof gave her a great view of a vehicle from Allied Parcel coming toward the trailer park.

Instead of it being one of the usual large delivery trucks, this particular one was a regular SUV that had been vinyl-wrapped in the company's familiar purple colors. The words Allied Parcel Express Delivery were splashed all over the sides of the vehicle.

The driver drove slowly along the dirt road so the parcels in the rear wouldn't get rattled around too much, but it didn't take too long to cover the distance. As it moved onto the central lawn, the driver rolled down the side window to spot the house numbers of the various trailers. It seemed that Wynne was due a surprise as the SUV came to a halt at once.

"Haw… he be stoppin' he'… now whut?  I didden ordah nuttin' online or nowhe'ah else… did I?  Haw, not that I recall or nuttin'… mebbe I did an' I jus' can't 'membah a dang-blasted thing 'bout it," Wynne mumbled as she peeked over the edge of the roof.

Down on the ground, the courier went to the back of the SUV to open the double doors. A pale brown package in the shape of an oversized envelope was soon retrieved.

"Howdy, Mista!" Wynne cried, waving her Valvoline cap in the air. "Yuh, I be up he' on da roof an' all!  Y'all got som'tin fer Wynne Donnah-hew or Sheriff Mandy?"

The man holding the envelope studied his hand-held electronic gizmo that told him all the details he needed. "Miss Wynne Donohue," he said while looking up at Wynne.

"Shittt… typical. Okeh, I be right down. Ag'in. Hold them ponies, pardnah… it ain't gonn' be long. Yuh?"

Haste makes waste, so Wynne climbed down slowly and in good order so her legendary rotten luck wouldn't sneak into the scene to literally trip her up and send her to hospital with a broken butt, nose or neck. "Howdy. Dat be fer li'l ol me?" she said once she had put her boots on the ground.

"If you're Miss Donohue, then yes," the driver said, sticking the envelope under his arm while holding out the electronic gizmo.

"Whah, I sure am. Yessirree, an' I always been, too. Ya know, many folks change their name these days. I ain't nevah undahstood whah they wanted ta do that. It don't make no sense ta me, but I guess it does ta them folks or else they woudden do it, yuh?  Not me, tho'. Nosirree, I ain't nevah gonn' change mah name ta som'tin else than Wynne Donnah-hew. An' y'all can take that ta da bank," she said as she took off her work gloves, grabbed the stylus and finally doodled her signature.

The driver from Allied Parcel just shot her an odd look before he handed over the large envelope and took off back to the SUV.

"Haw… he obvi'sly be one o' them guys who ain't much fer small talk. Ain't none o' mah beeswax, anyhows. Les'see whaddahell this he' thing- whu'?"

As Wynne tore off one end of the envelope, a pair of thick stacks of paper came sliding out. She only just stopped them from being introduced to the desert floor through her quick reactions, but her work gloves made the trip downstairs instead as she couldn't hold onto everything at once.

Sighing, she crouched down to get the gloves while holding onto the opened envelope. Once the gloves were stuffed into her pocket, she took a gander at the envelope and the two stapled stacks of paper it contained. A neon-green question mark soon developed hovering over her Valvoline cap and the dark locks underneath it as she read the return address on the rear of the envelope: Distant Horizons Film Group / Padded Cell Productions, Hollywood, U.S.A.

"Whaddinda'wohhhhhh-rld be goin' on he'?  Scripts?  Whah'dahell them folks be sendin' me a-cuppel-a mooh-vie scripts all offa sudden?  An' they don't look nuttin' like Westurhns, neithah… one's prolly one o' them there crittah fittah hahrrah flicks an' the othah is… aw, I dunno whaddahell the othah one is," she mumbled as she leafed through the first of the two stacks of paper that had turned out to be scripts.

Mandy soon joined her on the crooked porch. While peeking around the denim-clad shoulder to see what was going on this time, she peeled off a pair of pink, elbow-length protective gloves that she always wore whenever she needed to use the heavy-duty de-greasing chemical solutions for the stovetop. "So… movie scripts?"

"Yuh. From Padded Cell Produc-shuns. Them mooh-vie people who done made tha Westurhn I wus in. I ain't got nooooo clue whaddahell them fine folks be doin' sendin' 'em… I ain't heard a peep from 'em fer years," Wynne said with a shrug.

"Well, what are they?"

"Dunno… say, darlin'," Wynne said, checking the time on her telephone, "we both done worked really hard this he' morn, yuh?  How 'bout we grabbed a bite ta eat an' som'tin ta wet ou'ah whissels… an' then take a peek at these he' scripts?"

Chuckling, Mandy reached up to scratch her eyebrow. "Did you finish sweeping the roof?"

"Aw, yuh. Almost," Wynne said, nodding. A few moments went by before she shook her head 'no'. "There be plentah o' tihhh-me fer that tha rest o' tha day, yuh?"

Another chuckle escaped Mandy as she hooked an arm inside Wynne's denim-clad sleeve. "No, because our work sheet has another ten items on it, hon. We're pretty much set until supper."

"Aw… okeh. Shit. Okeh… uh… yuh. Ten items?  Can't we mebbe scratch-"

Mandy shook her head.

"I reckon we can't, haw?  Okeh, then I bettah go topside an' fill anothah bucket," Wynne said, shuffling back to the ladder.

---

When lunch finally came, the nuked pre-fab tacos and the medium-spicy salsa dip had been great, the beers had been even better - even Mandy had sampled the golden nectar in the shape of a Pale Lager - and the company had been the best of all. The only fly in the ointment turned out to be the quality of the two movie scripts.

Mandy had only made it 25 pages into one called Hobo Killers when she threw it down in disgust and concentrated on eating her tacos.

The basic story was a remake of sorts of the 1973 classic Emperor Of The North starring Lee Marvin and Ernest Borgnine, but even though that had been a violent movie in itself, the new script had taken every opportunity to maximize the blood, guts and senseless violence. A strong vein of misogyny ran throughout the pages almost as if the screenwriter had an agenda that needed to be addressed as often as possible.

"This," Mandy said, tapping a finger on the cover of Hobo Killers, "is the worst piece of crap I've read for at least a decade if not more. Pure exploitation. Do yourself a favor and skip it, hon."

Wynne and Mandy shared a long look while the former wiped chunky salsa dip off her lips with a napkin. "That bad, haw?  Yuh, okeh. This he' ain't too bad so far… The Werewolves O' 13th Street… no guessin' required fer whut kinda mooh-vie it be, yuh?" she said with a grin that soon faded. "I sure can't see whaddahell kinda role I could play innit, tho', 'cos there ain't really no majah female parts or nuttin'. An' I still don't get whah'dahell them folks at Padded Cell done sent 'em to me. Mebbe I should give 'em a call or som'tin?"

"That's a good idea, hon. It might clear up some confusion," Mandy said and got up from her chair to signal the end of the lunch break. "But that's for tomorrow."

"Tamorrah?  Whah not right now- yuh, okeh, the ten-item work sheet, haw?  Okeh. But tanight, perhaps?  I bet them Hollywood studio types got their phoah-nes open all day an' then some."

Mandy had already gathered up the dirty plates and tumblers, but she paused long enough to send Wynne a saucy wink. "We won't have time for anything tonight, remember?  We have a little something we want to play with."

"Mercy Sakes, darlin'!  Like I wus evah gonn' ferget that!" Wynne said, clutching her heart. Once Mandy had gone into the kitchenette with the dishes, Wynne continued in a mumble: "Dang-blasted, I had fergot. Lawwwr-die. Fergettin' ou'ah quality tihhh-me… dat be crimmi-nal!  Wynne Donnah-hew, y'all be reddy fer da scrapheap…"

-*-*-*-

The following morning: Thursday, September 4th at 9:37am.

"Howdy, Miss," Wynne said into her telephone, "this he' be Wynne Donnah-hew outtah Goldsborah, Nevada. I need-a speak ta someone in charge o' them there scripts at Padded Cell Produc-shuns."

Once again sitting on the couch, she had her denim-clad legs up on the corner of the coffee table so she had a good platform for the notepad that nestled on her lap. A ball point pen was held ready to jot down all the important information that was sure to come. "Yuh- whazzat?  Naw, I ain't trah'in' ta sell all y'all a script or nuttin'. Y'all done sent me a-cuppel-a scripts yestuhr'dy- yuh, dat be right. Wynne Donnah-hew. Dubya whah enn enn eee an' a whole buncha lettahs. Yuh. Okeh, I hold."

Mandy and Blackie had long since departed for the sheriff's office up north, so Wynne's only company were the unlikely pairing of the slender and nimble Goldie and Diego Benitez' Rottweiler Freddie that was neither slender nor nimble. The dogs were so close down on the carpet they shared a single space. Now and then, Goldie leaned her head against Freddie's black and brown fur to give it a little caress. A big ol' grin spread over Freddie's features each time it happened though it was hard to make out due to his large, heroic jaw.

Mind-numbing Muzak continued to stream through the telephone. Wynne almost fell asleep listening to it, but a real, non-recorded voice speaking in her ear stirred her fully awake. "Haw!  Yuh, howdy, this he' be Wynne Donnah-hew outtah Shallah- well, lately Goldsborah, Nevada. Lissen, somebodda done sent me a-cuppel-a scripts- aw, that wus y'all?  Okeh… I sure would like ta know how come?  I mean, I ain't connected ta all y'all fine folks- it did?  Haw…"

Down on the floor, Goldie and Freddie both let out puzzled grunts. Wynne answered them by flashing them a big thumbs-up. "Cowpokes vs The Undead Vampyre Ghoul done sole a whole buncha DVDs an' streams an' stuff!" she said in a whisper. The dogs didn't really understand the general concept of home entertainment, so they just shrugged and returned to snuggling up close.

"Dat sure be a welcome surprise, yessirree!" Wynne continued into the telephone at her regular volume. "Yuh. Neat. But I gotta be honest with y'all, Mista. These he' scripts sure ain't fer me. Nosirree. One be way, way, way da hell violent an' the othah… well, there ain't really no part innit fer me that I can see or nuttin'. Yuh, dat be tha Werewolves O' 13th Street. Sure, y'all gotta find it so ya know whaddahell I be tawkin' 'bout."

The news that the low-budget horror Western she had acted in in a leading role had done well on the home entertainment market made her grin from ear to ear. After grabbing a small bag of Crunchy Nutty snacks, she leaned back on the couch and tore the bag open with her teeth. She had time to chew on a handful of salty peanuts and cashews before the voice in her ear continued.

"Yuh, I still be he', pal. Y'all got tha script reddy?  Okeh… okeh… whadda- hold 'em hosses, pardnah. Y'all want me ta play some random dame who done gets attacked by one o' them there werewolves?  An' then whut?  She whut?!  She done gets pregnant an' croaks givin' birth ta a werewolf monstah?!"

Down on the floor, Goldie responded to the rising tone in her owner's voice by burying her head in her paws and ducking into Freddie's muscular flank. The big boy soon leaned to his right to add another layer of protection.

"Lissen… I sure be sorry an' all, Mista, but that ain't gonn' happen. Nope. Jus' ain't gonn- naw. Naw, an' dat be final. Aintcha got no Westurhns?  Lawrdie, I could jump inta filmin' a new Westurhn tamorrah- y'all ain't got no Westurhns?  None?"

The next bit of news in Wynne's ear made her bolt upright - it also made Goldie let out a whimper and bury herself even deeper into Freddie's side. "Whaddahell y'all mean Westuhrns ain't relevant no mo'?  Mercy Sakes, I be gettin' da sour burps he'!  I got a ton o' ideahs. Mebbe I could write mah own- haw?  Nosirree, this ain't no star attitude tawkin'. Naw. But anyhows, Mista, them scripts y'all done sent me ain't good fer nuttin'. Okeh?  Send me all them Westurhns y'all getcha hands on, but no mo' o' them exploita-shun mooh-vies or nuttin'- naw. Yuh, okeh. Bah-bah, Mista."

Once the telephone was on the couch next to her, she looked at the empty page in the notepad that was supposed to have been filled with notes. Grunting, she began tapping the ball point pen on the notepad. "I need-a get mah brain in gear… an' that takes a beer… haw, dat rhymes!  Whah, I oughttah be a poet an' all," she said as she got up to raid the refrigerator for whatever she could find beer-wise.

Goldie and Freddie shared a look that clearly meant 'Well, if she isn't interested in us, we're not interested in her. Come on, let's play tag.'

As a reply, Freddie let out one of his trademark bassy WOOFs! that made the entire trailer rattle. Goldie soon led the way past an exploring Wynne, through the screen door and out into the endless desert where nobody on two legs would disturb them.

-*-*-*-

Two hours, four bags of pork rinds - two extra-salty and two chili-flavored - six cans of Double-Zero and just as many trips to the bathroom later, Wynne once again tapped the ball point pen on the edge of the notepad. It wasn't on an empty top page this time, but rather a densely written one labeled Page 8.

Putting down the pen, she went back to the first page and read through what she had written. It wasn't top-professional material, but she had watched enough Westerns in her lifetime to know what kind of scenes, characters and dialogue would be required for the whole thing to come together and be magical.

"Yuh, I reckon this he' be an okeh first crack o' tha whip," she mumbled to herself as she closed the notepad. "Haw… whip… whip… yuh, bullwhip… shoot, where wus that… whip… whip… yuh, okeh, there we got it… yuh. Bullwhip. Gotcha!"

Grinning at her brilliant addition to the main heroine's costume, she leaned to the side to grab her telephone. Diego's number was soon found in the registry. "Howdy, Diegoh… yuh, this sure is Wynne, awright. Lissen, wotcha doin' right this minnit?  Watchin' teevee?  Okeh, I can offah som'tin a li'l mo' excitin'. Couldya purr-haps come ovah an' help me with a mooh-vie scene I done wrote?  'S right, it be a Westuhrn. How'd'ya guess?  Throw in beer an' suppah?  Whah, I do bah-lieve y'all got a deal, there, pardnah. Yuh. Neat-O!  See ya in a few, yuh?"

Her grin only broadened as she moved her backside from the couch and began to clean up the mess she had made. Holding an armful of empty cans and bags that had contained various crunchy snacks, movement out on the central lawn between the trailers made her look in that direction. The person responsible happened to be Brenda Travers walking back to her home carrying a bag of groceries.

"Haw… now dat would really be awesome, yessirree!  Ol' Brendah done had such a shitty experience back at the real mooh-vie shoot… aw, this might help her get ovah that trauma an' shit… okeh… junk first, then Brendah."

---

Ten minutes later, the living area of Wynne's trailer was filled to capacity with tall, wide and handsome neighbors standing around yakking: herself, Diego Benitez and Brenda Travers. Freddie and Goldie made up the peanut gallery.

The scaredy-dog Golden Retriever had promptly jumped up into the couch just to be on the safe side considering how many of the weird and unpredictable Humans that were around all of a sudden. At least she had been given some water and a full bowl of Lafayette's Quality Dry Feed so she was content with the situation.

Freddie, who had taken up residence right next to Goldie, was even more content as his owner had given him an enormous gnawing bone that he tried his best to tear to shreds and grind to dust between his powerful jaws.

Wynne and Brenda both needed to keep busy and look elsewhere than at their friend Diego out of fear of laughing out loud at his clothes.

The hunting enthusiast wore an unusual combination of brown desert boots, green sweatpants, a blue shirt and - of all things - a gray, knitted cardigan that had clearly been living at the very back of his closet after it had been a birthday or Christmas gift from his sister.

The lurid set didn't really match the personality of the Mexican-American gentleman whose hunting and chorizo-making skills were legendary among the residents of the trailer park, but it was washing day which meant that his favorites were either in the tumble dryer or still in the washing machine. In short, he'd had to improvise in a hurry.

When Wynne had called him, he had been slouching in his TV-chair wearing nothing but socks, a wifebeater and a pair of tiger-striped briefs, but he didn't think the ladies present would be too impressed if he showed up in that combo so he had hopped into whatever clean-ish clothes he could find.

He'd had time to wet-comb his black hair, but his sideburns and mustache had resisted his beautifying attempts as they were perhaps too far on the wild and bushy side. "Let me get this straight, Wynne," he said, leaning against the doorjamb because all the seats in the trailer's living area had been taken, "you've written kinda like a movie treatment and a couple of scenes?"

"A-yup," Wynne said, grinning from ear to ear.

"For a Western?"

"A-yup ag'in."

"How come?"

Shrugging, Wynne reached over to the coffee table - she had managed to squeeze her backside onto the couch next to the enormous Freddie - to grab the two scripts sent to her by Padded Cell. " 'Cos aftah readin' most o' these two profes-shunal scripts, I reckoned I could do a perdy good job offit mahself. An' that ain't no beer or booze tawkin', neithah."

Diego scratched his neck a couple of times before he broke out in a shrug. Brenda's response was far more enthusiastic: bouncing up and down, she gave Wynne a quick round of applause that ended with a big thumbs-up. The spirited lady with the bright eyes, exquisite looks and corkscrew curls wore a 1990s-style lavender-colored training suit that she made look cool rather than kitschy. "Well, I think it's brilliant, Wynne. Girl power!  Are we going to film it?"

"Haw… film it?  Haw… I wussen… well, I hadden…" Wynne croaked while she looked wide-eyed at her friends. Diego didn't seem to care either way, but Brenda resumed bouncing up and down like a Jumpin' Jackie.

Brenda bounced over to give Wynne a little slap on the arm. "Please say yes 'cos that would be even more awesome-sauce!  I'd like to be the camera operator. I could still speak a line or two of dialogue if you want me to, though."

"Well, okeh…" Wynne said; the furrows on her forehead proved her brain was hard at work trying to figure out the implications. When the process went on for far too long, she dropped the entire brain-business and did what she always did: improvised. "Haw, whah'dahell not?   Okeh, Brendah, les' film tha darn thing!"

-*-*-*-

By the time 9:00pm rolled around, a filthy Dodge Durango from the MacLean County Sheriff's Department drove off the State Route and onto the dirt road that would take it the last stretch to the trailer park. The vehicle first stopped at Beatrice Reilly's trailer to let off the deputy sheriff, then it moved over to the similar abode that was home to the Donohue-Jalinski household.

Mandy yawned and rubbed her face as she and Blackie walked around the corner of the trailer en route for the crooked porch at the kitchen door. A case file stuck under her left arm contained the first handful of legal documents filed by Krystal Monique and the Wicked Kittens Hospitality Group regarding the official application to set up a business in or near Goldsboro.

Just as Mandy put a boot up on the crooked planks, a gravelly male voice rang out across the desert: 'You've had your chance, Black Hand. Throw down that hogleg or ya won't see the sunrise tomorrow!'

Mandy's eyes went wide, then narrowed down into slits as she spun around to see what kind of evil, vengeful ghosts of the past had possessed Goldsboro and the poor trailer park this time.

'I ain't throwin' down nuttin', Marshal Coopah!' a woman who sounded suspiciously like Wynne said a moment later, ' 'Cos this deal ain't ovah yet. I be in town ta collect tha bounty on Marnie Sampson, an' bah all things holy, dat's 'xactly whut I'mma-gonn' do… whethah y'all like it or not!'

When Mandy heard the next exchange, she let out a mumbled "Someone ought to write a thesis about this place… it'd make it to number one on the horror charts…"

On any other day, Blackie would have jumped into a full offensive stance at the weird goings-on, but she and Mandy had spent a good portion of the day running around in the desert up at the Old Boys' Haven trailer park north of Goldsboro searching for a fellow who was wanted for questioning in connection with growing marijuana.

The German Shepherd's energy levels were far too low for any kind of late-day drama or action. Instead, she used her muzzle to poke her owner's leg in order to get the front door opened so she could get some water and feed.

"I know, Blackie. Let's get you settled in," Mandy said, moving over to the door to take care of her four-legged colleague in the MacLean County Sheriff's Department.

---

Five minutes and a thorough dusting-off of Blackie's dust-drenched fur and paws later, Mandy stepped back onto the crooked porch to study the nearby stretch of the desert. She finally noticed the sheen of a campfire that had been set up eighty-five yards or so from the rear side of the trailer. Although the evening gloom cast murky gray shadows over everything, she was eventually able to see three people standing close to the flickering fire.

Shaking her head in utter and complete puzzlement, she began striding across the desert sand and rocks to get to the heart of the matter.

---

By the time Mandy made it to the campfire, Wynne, Diego and Brenda had finished filming their latest scene and were watching it on Brenda's highly advanced UHD video camera. "Awwww-yuh," Wynne said, reaching over to slap Brenda's shoulder, "dat be an awesome close-up o' ol' Diegoh, that… Lawrdie, son, y'all got that there tuff guy look down pat, dontcha?"

Diego let out a loud, though somewhat embarrassed, laugh at not only Wynne's comment but the way his face filled up the entire screen. "Yeah… I guess… man, that's what I call a close-up. If we ever do this again, I need to trim my nose hairs first."

Wynne opened her mouth to reply, but she was cut off by a:

"MacLean County Sheriff's Department. I need to see your filming permit," Mandy suddenly said, taking everyone by surprise. It didn't help that she spoke in her patented authoritarian voice known as I'm The Sheriff And You Better Listen. "There's going to be some serious tickling involved if you don't have a filming permit. Especially with regards to a certain Miss Donohue!"

Brenda promptly let out an "Ooooooooooooh!" as she whipped around to see the uniformed sheriff enter the sheen of light from the campfire.

"Lawwwwwwwwwr-die, Sheriff!" Wynne cried, slapping her cowboy hat against her chest. "We ain't got no permits!  We didden even know we needed no permits… I reckon I be at yer ticklin' mercy, then… haw…"

Another "Oooooooh!" burst out of Brenda; Diego just blushed and shook his head.

Mandy couldn't hold the stern facade for too long after that. To compensate for her strict voice, she walked over to Wynne and delivered a good smooch on the Cowpoke's lips. "Have you guys been doing this all day?  I did wonder why you never showed up in town…"

Wynne shrugged - she hadn't even given her missing trip to Goldsboro a moment's thought. "Yuh, we been filmin' since… whut, noon, yuh?  Yes Ma'am, we sure have. O' course, it jus' be a-buncha random, unconnected scenes, yuh?  But we done trah'd some o' tha stuff we done loved in ol' Westurhns an' all. An' we didden ferget ta eat, neithah… nosirree, we done made a ton o' mashed pah-tah-tahs an' roasted some big ol' brats ovah da fi'ah there… an' we mebbe hadda a-cuppel-a beers, too. Mebbe a crate or two. Yuh. Yuh… I hadda blast taday, that sure ain't no lie."

"Me too!" Brenda said with a grin; Diego nodded his agreement as well before he cracked open a can of Dark Lager with a Pssshhhttt!

"Tell you what, hon," Mandy said, hooking an arm inside her partner's. "Why don't we put out this fire?  Then we can go home and check out what you've filmed while I eat a late-late supper?  I'd really like to see it."

Wynne scratched her neck before she pointed at Brenda's highly advanced camera. "Yuh, but it only be on that there marvel there… an' I ain't got no clue how ta operate it or nuttin'-"

"No sweat, Wynne!" Brenda said, "I'll run home and upload the video clips to my private YouTube channel… you have the link to that, remember?  Then you can X-Cast it onto your Smart-TV. I can have it done in ten minutes, no problem."

Wynne blinked a couple of times. Then she scratched her nose. Then she let out a grunt. "Okeh, I undahstood them words, but nuttin' o' whut they done meant… nuttin'… darlin', did y'all get da meanin' o'-"

To cut a potentially very long talk short, Mandy gave Wynne a little sideways nudge that meant Not now, hon. "Thank you for the suggestion, Mrs. Travers. We better push it off until tomorrow. I'm so hungry I can barely walk straight."

"You betcha, Sheriff!  That gives me an opportunity to do some editing and maybe add a score or sound effects," Brenda said with a wide grin.

"Les' go back hoah-me an' make some chow fer da Sheriff, yuh?" Wynne said before she turned to Diego and Brenda. "Thanks a whooooooooooole bunch, mah de'ah friends!  It been one helluva awesome day, ain't it?  Catch all y'all tamorrah, yuh?"

Diego raised his can of beer high in the air to salute his friend in a fashion he knew she would appreciate. "See ya, Wynne… have a cool evening. Bye, Brenda," he said before he turned around to walk back to his trailer.

Brenda did a little more bouncing before she waved at the Cowpoke and the Sheriff. "Bye, Wynne!  Bye, Sheriff Mandy!  Sweet dreams!"

Once they were alone, Wynne let out a sigh of contentment. "I don't reckon nuttin' evah gonn' come outtah this, but it sure wus fuhhh-n ta play with them ol' Westurhn genre conven-shuns ag'in. I wondah how big a budget we'd need ta find ta ack-chew-ly shoot a Westurhn… eighty grand?  A hundred?  Two hundred?"

"Far more than we have, hon. That's for sure. Let's not make that mistake again. We've been burned before, remember?" Mandy said vehemently as they reached the crooked porch.

"Yuh, I 'membah…" Wynne said somberly, thinking back to the time when she and Mandy had been tricked into investing a great deal of money in a TV-movie for the Schlock Channel. The movie was supposed to have been based on their experiences with the white space aliens, but it was so brutally poor it went under without a trace and never made a bent nickel. A deep sigh escaped her as the bad memories came flooding back.

"I need to get out of this uniform and splash some water in my face… would you mind preparing something in the meantime?  Most anything is okay, but it needs to be substantial. No instant noodles!"

Chuckling, Wynne gave Mandy a quick kiss. "No noodles, noted. Whah, I oughttah be a poet an' all… yuh. We got some brats left. I'll fix y'all up real good, darlin'. Dontcha worry none. Okeh?"

"Okay. Thanks," Mandy said as she went inside.

Wynne stayed out on the crooked porch to gaze at the evening sky. The grand vista of the endless desert plain, the distant mountains and the setting sun ignited a spark of inspiration deep within her. The spark lit a fuse that seemed to run past at least a handful of script cues and other ideas that could be developed into something more.

A cautious but hopeful smile spread across her features before she turned around and went inside. Her thoughts and ideas weren't quite ready to be shared yet so she decided to keep quiet about them - for now…

*
*
THE END of LIGHTING A FIRE

-*-*-*-
-*-*-*-
-*-*-*-

*
*
OCTOBER: EVERYONE DIES AT THE END!

October 31st, 8:10am.

The yawn that almost leveled Wynne 'The Last Original Cowpoke' Donohue on her way out to the trailer park's mailboxes had the strength of an industrial steamroller. Her jaw was nearly torn off her face, but the somewhat grotesque look didn't matter as nobody was there to see it. She needed to smack her lips a few times before she could move on; her eyelids took the opportunity to slip shut.

The last few days had been unseasonably warm and pleasant, but it seemed as if Mother Nature had decided to strike back just as October was about to make its regular, yearly metamorphosis into November. In any case, a chilly breeze rolled in from the wide open desert that surrounded the small trailer park on all sides.

Wynne ducked her head even further down her wool-lined denim jacket. She obviously wore her full 'Snow'-poke outfit: decorated cowboy boots, lined jeans, three T-shirts, two sweatshirts, the aforementioned jacket, her sheepskin gloves, the red bandana in the left-rear jeans pocket, and finally the battered and bruised cowboy hat that rarely left her dark locks.

Her feet made the journey to the mailboxes on autopilot. Once she was there, she still had little use for her eyes as the hand holding the square key knew exactly where the lock was. She let out a mumbled, sleepy "Haw?" when she felt the mailbox being full up to the top edge.

With no choice but to crack open an eyelid, she eventually got a hazy glimpse of the contents of the mailbox. In addition to the two regular newspapers they subscribed to, there was a promotional newspaper from Barton City that she knew would be filled with advertisements and coupons for a wide range of stores in the downtown area.

There weren't any traditional letters, but a large, brown envelope caught the attention of Wynne's sleepy eyes. She let out a grunt when she recognized it as the one she had included in the package she had sent to Lone Sunflower Pictures, an independent production company specializing in low-budget Westerns. Grabbing it, she tore the edge off at once to read the cover letter that was sure to be there.

Her eyes only made it to the big, fat, bright red word REJECTED! that had been stamped onto the 8-page treatment's cover page. Symptomatically, the cover letter fluttered to the dusty ground. A long line of grumbles escaped her as she bent over to pick it up, but the grumbles were cut short by a sharp intake of breath when she skimmed the opening part of the letter.

"Haw… juvenile plot… illogical plot progres-shun… childish dialogue… irrelevant ta modern audiences… offensive an' insensitive comic relief … no shades o' gray an' far, far too much white-hattery an' black-hattery!"

Wynne's face slowly scrunched up until it resembled that of a horned toad that had suddenly found itself relocated from its beloved foul-smelling swamp to somewhere far, far cleaner. Her strong fist crumpled the letter into a ball before she realized she might need it later. Sighing, she smoothed it out again and stuck it back into the large envelope next to her story treatment that she had worked so hard on.

Once the three newspapers and the envelope had been thrust under her arm, she shuffled back to the trailer kicking the stuffing out of any pebble she came across.

---

Blackie and Goldie were so busy snuggling up in their doggy basket in the narrow hallway between the sleeping area and the kitchenette that they couldn't even be bothered to respond to the burble and hum of their owners' coffee machine. Now and then, the dogs glanced over at the shorter of the two Humans who moved back and forth preparing breakfast dressed in a fluffy, spring green bathrobe.

Yap? - 'When are we going to get something to chew on?  I'm starved.'

Woof… woof, woof. - 'You're always starved. You'll end up fat if you don't watch out.'

Yap!  Yap-yap-yappety-yap! - 'I beg your pardon?  I'm still in the growing phase. You're already old and fully grown…'

Blackie and Goldie shared a long look before they decided to drop the matter for a sunnier day. Instead, they snuggled a little more.

Mandy had just poured herself a mugful of coffee when Wynne returned. At the same time, the toaster oven let out an electronic Ding! to let the world know the first buns were ready. After moving over to the oven, Mandy took the hot bread with a pair of tongs so she could get everything ready for their breakfast. "Any mail today, hon?" she said as she halved the steaming-hot buns with a bread knife.

Wynne continued to stand just inside the front door wearing a deep frown across her brow and a foul expression a few inches further below. An "Mmmm," was her only reply as she moved past Mandy to put the newspapers on the coffee table in the living area.

"Okay… I know that Mmmm," Mandy said as she reached for the small reed basket where they stored their glass jars of jam. "Did we get a window envelope we didn't expect?"

'Naw,' Wynne said from the living area.

"Have the mailboxes been vandalized?"

'Naw.'

A few silent moments went by filled with the application of several teaspoons' worth of strawberry jam and slightly less than that of blackcurrant. "Then what?" Mandy continued, putting the spoon onto the carving board for later.

'It ain't nuttin'.'

"It's got to be something…"

'Naw.'

"Please, hon. It'll get better if you share it."

'Yuh… okeh… them nasty-ass folks at Lone Sunflower Pic-chures done rejected mah mooh-vie treatment. Hell, they hated it.'

Mandy let out a grunt as she put the jars of strawberry and blackcurrant jam back into the reed basket. "Oh. I see. Your coffee is ready… the buns aren't far behind. What kind of jam-"

'Ain't hungry.'

"Of course you are."

'Naw… aw-shoot… yuh, I reckon I mebbe hungry. Aw, jus' the usual stuff. Yuh?  Much obliged.'

Mandy grimaced as she reached for the jars of rhubarb and apricot jam. After taking care of business regarding the jam, she put the plates and Wynne's mug on a tray. The mug was soon filled with black coffee though she left room for choppy seas in case the dogs decided to get in the way. Almost as an afterthought, she reached into a cupboard to get a tub of creamer that seemed to be sorely needed to brighten Wynne's morning.

---

Fifteen minutes later, Mandy scratched an eyebrow as she read the cover letter for the third time. "Yeah, okay… whoever wrote this didn't hold back. It's far too rude if you ask me. A rejection I can understand, but this is literary murder."

Wynne was still silent, so Mandy leaned forward on the couch to swap the incendiary letter with her mug to get the last of her coffee.

"Mmmm," Wynne eventually said. She had her hands wrapped around the mug to warm them save for the moments when she took an absentminded sip. "Haw, I loved that mooh-vie ideah… or treatment or whutevah y'all wanna call it. I know it wus tha first swing o' tha bat fer me, but I happen ta think it was perdy dog-gone entertainin'.  But all them nasty-ass things that there fellah there done said… rubs me da wrong way, sure ain't no lie!"

"I'll bet," Mandy said, reaching over to caress Wynne's shoulder.

A few moments went by with nothing but the sounds of slurping. Then Wynne let out another long sigh. "Ya know, I reckon I undahstand whah I ain't liked none o' them there new Westurhns since… shoot… da past fiddeen years or so. Mebbe twentah. They jus' ain't whut I be lookin' fer in a Westuhrn, yuh?  I want clean-cut heroes an' mustache-twirlin' baddies an' fist fightin' an' fast shootin' an' hard ridin' an' some romancin' an' plentah o' humor, too. Ya know, a real, honest ta goodness Westuhrn like them great, great mooh-vies Randolph Scott or John Wayne done made back in tha day. Or Bustah Crabbe an' Al St. John fer that mattah!  Them two wus intra-dooced as Ou'ah Ol' Saddle Pals 'cos they were, dang'it!"

"The modern Westerns don't have that?"

"Naw, they sure don't, darlin'," Wynne said, shaking her head hard to show she meant it. "Taday, ev'rythin' gotta be so dang-blasted violent an' gritty an' ugly. Revenge Westuhrns… hate 'em with a pas-shun. An' nobodda makes 'em in color no mo'!  They all be in them there ass-stupid washed-out sepia or teal or some shit like that."

"Yes, I did notice that… I always thought it was because they couldn't afford better cameras," Mandy said with a half-smile.

"Naw, it be an artistic deci-shun an' all. Aw, it don't mattah shit anyhows," Wynne said, waving her hand. "Mebbe writin' a mooh-vie treatment wussen fer tha likes o' me, but at least I done hadda blast doin' it. I reckon dat be all a Cowpoah-k can ask fer."

Mandy nodded a couple of times before she leaned over to first grab hold of her wife and then deliver a strong, lengthy kiss of support. "You tried. Plenty of people don't even reach that stage," she whispered once they separated.

Finally releasing some of her scrunched-up look, Wynne leaned into Mandy's soft touch. "Haw, yuh. Say, darlin', might there be anothah kiss innit fer me?  I reckon I need it…"

"Let's see if I can find another one," Mandy said, winking. A moment later, the search had been completed and a sweet and juicy one had been lined up.

-*-*-*-

Several hours later.

Wynne stood outside her trailer working on her 1989 Pontiac TransAm to prepare it for its winter quarters up at the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop. She had bought a professional car cover for it, but getting all four corners lined up at once soon turned out to be a two-person job. Twice she thought she had made it; twice she realized the car cover was on so crooked it resembled the time when she had tried to put on her mother's Nylons.

Mandy and Blackie had long since driven to Goldsboro to make their final preparations for the potentially troublesome day, evening and night. Diego and Freddie were away over Halloween to celebrate the Mexican Day Of The Dead at Diego's sister's place. Estelle Tooley and Beatrice Reilly were both at work, Renee Tooley was up in Goldsboro being home-tutored by Carole Jensen, and Brenda Travers had driven to Jarrod City to do some late-late Halloween shopping. It left Brenda's husband Vaughn who was working from home, but his spaghetti-arms would provide so little help it would be a waste of time for all involved.

Down below, Goldie let out a Yap-yap-yap-yapppp? that meant 'I'm sure this is important, but it's far more important to fill my lunch bowl. Yes?  So make it snappy.'

When the third attempt at getting the cover to line up failed as well, Wynne pushed her cowboy hat back to have room to rub her brow. "Haw… latah," she mumbled as she not only gave up the task but even bothering about it on a general level. Instead, she and Goldie shuffled back to the trailer.

---

The Golden Retriever was lost to the world after her bowl had been filled to the brim with Lafayette's Quality Dry Feed. Wynne's own lunch wasn't far behind: after some consideration, she had settled for a Dinner For One Chili Con Carne that she had picked out from a small selection in their freezer. Before she could make it further than taking the wrapped tinfoil tray out of the cardboard box, her telephone rang.

The caller-ID said Brenda Tr, so Wynne accepted the call at once. "Howdy, Brendah!  Back from Jarrod City alreddy?" she said, momentarily leaving the chili con carne behind while she leaned against the kitchen counter with the telephone stuck to her ear.

'No, I'm still here. I've just picked up a cool costume at a rental shop. It struck me that we haven't talked about what you're going to be dressed up as tonight. Remember last year when you were the Bandit from the Smokey movie and nobody knew who that was?'

"Haw… yuh. Wussen no fuhhh-n, that," Wynne said, shifting a little to her right. "Aw, that wus a shitty Halloween all 'round. That wus when we done lost ol' Albuhrt Rossmann."

'Oh… that's right. That was creepy. But do you have anything lined up, or do you want me to find you a costume while I'm here?  They have absolutely everything in all sizes.'

Turning around, Wynne just stood there staring out of the window that offered a view of the wild, endless desert behind the trailer. The monochrome landscape and the overcast skies were good matches to the mood she was in. "Naw. Tell ya whut, Brendah… I ain't gonn' come ta town tanight. I jus' don't feel like it. I ain't in no good headspace taday."

'Oh… I'm sorry to hear that. Is there any particular reason- Gawd, you guys didn't have a fight or something, did you?'

Wynne found herself shaking her head although the person she spoke to was nearly forty miles away and thus couldn't see any of it. "Naw, naw, nuttin' like that, thank tha bearded gaaah in tha skaaah. Naw, it be mah mooh-vie treatment. I done got it back taday from that there independent studio, an' ho'ah-brothah, them folks done hated it. An' I mean hated it. Lawrdie, they sure didden sweeten them words o' theirs."

'Oh, no… that sucks, Wynne. I thought it was great!'

"Yuh, much obliged, Brendah. They didden, an' it left me feelin' perdy dog-gone deflated, yuh?  I ain't givin' up on it, tho'… at least not yet… but it did kill mah mood."

Wynne shifted away from the edge of the kitchen table to return to preparing the frozen tv dinner. Pinning the telephone between her ear and her shoulder, she punctured the plastic wrapping with a fork so it was ready to go into the microwave whenever the conversation was over. "Aw, Hallahween ain't fer tha likes o' me, anyhows. There always be som'tin weird, weird shit goin' on whenevah I be near. Naw. Ain't gonn' happen tanight. I be stayin' at hoah-me."

'Won't that be boring, Wynne?  Diego's not home and Vaughn and I will be here in town. I presume Mandy will be working all night as well?'

"Yuh, yuh, that be 'bout right, but lissen, sometimes borin' be jus whut tha Doctah done ordah'd, yuh?  Dontcha worry none, Brendah. I be fihhh-ne. Hell, I be bettah than fihhh-ne. I be downright snug as a bug inna rug. Ta improve mah mood, I done prepped plentah o' beer an' food an' snacks an' a-cuppel-a ol' Nascahhh-r races an' stuff. Whah, I even got an ol' rasslin' VHS tape that I done bought fer 99 cents up at Keshawn's!"

Brenda broke out in a loud guffaw at Wynne's lengthy list. 'Okay, you're making me envious, girl!  All right, all right, I'll leave you to it, then. Bye, Wynne!'

"Bah-bah, Brendah," Wynne said before she closed the connection. Chuckling at the enthusiastic tones in her spirited neighbor's voice, she opened the door to the microwave, stuck the chili con carne onto the tray, slammed the door shut again and finally hit the Go! button so she could get something to eat.

-*-*-*-

Lunch, the afternoon coffee break and a full serving of hot and spicy supper came and went. By the time evening rolled around, Wynne was in the middle of forty winks on her battered, old couch.

The 1994 running of the SplitFire 500 NASCAR Winston Cup race at The Monster Mile at Dover Downs, Delaware had been fun and exciting with constant on-track action and a top-quality commentator team, and the 1993 WWF Summer Slam On Tour extravaganza from the United Kingdom had made her swallow in nostalgia.

The nine empty cans from H.E. Fenwyck Breweries on the coffee table proved nostalgia wasn't the only thing she had swallowed. She had started with a remarkably limited amount of Double-Zeros for lunch - three - but had soon upgraded to several cans of 1910 Special Brew to experience their richer taste. The interloper was a can of South Pacific Tropical Fruits Squash because she needed something sweet. The final two beers had been a Midnight Velvet Stout and an Extra Strong, respectively.

The Extra Strong had been the straw that had made the tipsy camel trip and stumble into the ditch - or onto the couch, to be exact. Wynne's deep snores proved it would be a while before she resurfaced.

It didn't really matter what she was doing as all the weirdness she had hoped to avoid by staying home was about to come a-knockin'.

Goldie had taken to the doggy basket out in the narrow hallway to catch some shuteye of her own. A wise decision as the notorious scaredy-dog would have freaked out at the sight of three incorporeal beings materializing in the middle of the trailer's living area.

All three were merely fuzzy orbs of energy to begin with, but they soon turned into humanoid-shaped apparitions who wore tattered rags and carried all the classic ghostly paraphernalia in the shape of balls on chains, brass scales and even a tin whistle that created all those extra-spooky sounds that all self-respecting ghosts needed to master to be taken seriously.

One was a little shorter than the others, one was a little more heavy-set, and one was a little taller. All three appeared to be female, but the fuzziness made it hard to tell.

The apparition with the tin whistle began playing an eerie, other-dimensional tune that should have made anyone among the living quiver in their boots. Wynne Donohue, however, was Wynne Donohue which meant the desired effect failed to happen. To add to the ghost's misery, Wynne also wore lightweight indoor shoes instead of boots so there would be no quivering involved.

The tall ghost continued playing the whistle for another few notes before she threw it down in disgust. 'Oh, why the hell did I get saddled with that piece of… I asked for a damn bagpipe!  And what did they give me?  A stinkin' tin whistle that isn't good for anything!'

'Settle down, Sister,' the more heavy-set of the three ghosts said. She appeared oldest and was the one who carried the pair of brass scales. 'We're here to show Wynne how her life was, how her life is and how her life will be. Not complain about our working conditions. Yes?'

The tallest ghost stuffed her tendrils into her tattered rags before she assumed a perfect pout. 'Yeah, all right. But she's still sleeping!'

'Not for long,' the shortest of the three ghosts said with a grin. A can of beer soon materialized in her hand. The second the traditional Psssshhhht! was heard, Wynne stirred and soon broke out in a wide yawn. The short ghost smirked at her colleagues. 'Ha!  Told ya!'

Awake but not seeing much, Wynne swung her legs over the side of the couch and sat up. She tried to read the time on her telephone but eventually gave up. An eyelid was eventually cracked open, and the blue eye behind it made a small tour of the premises.

The ghostly light in the middle of the living area soon caught her attention. "Whaddahell… who done turned on tha teevee?  I be perdy sure I didden… or mebbe I done slept on da remote?  Lawwwwwwr-die, it be anothah o' them ol' hahrrah mooh-vies. Ain't in no mood fer hahrrah tanight. An' now I ain't findin' that there remote there. Awwwww, dad-gummit!"

The tallest ghost stepped forward and let out an 'Ooo-ooo-ooo-oooh!' that, similar to the sounds created by the tin whistle, should have made anyone among the living curl themselves up into a ball of trembling fear.

Wynne just belched. She began to dig through the cushions on the couch and all the empty beer cans on the coffee table to see where on Earth the remote had ended up. She wished she had saved a beer earlier, but all were empty so she got up from the couch, turned her back to her incorporeal visitors and shuffled into the kitchenette.

The three ghosts stared wide-eyed at each other. The taller of the three assumed an even surlier look as Wynne returned holding a six-pack of Dark Lager. 'How could anyone ever think we could teach this one an important lesson about life?  She's a lush!  And trust me when I say I know lushes-'

'Now, now, Sister,' the heavy-set ghost said, 'we weren't sent here to judge but to enlighten. Please remember that.'

Grumble, grumble, grrrrrrumble. 'Oh, fine. All right. Here goes,' the taller ghost said as she floated ahead to stand just on the other side of the coffee table. 'Ooo-ooo-ooo-oooh!  Wynne!  Wynne Donohue!'

"Whu'?  Who dat dere tawkin'?" Wynne said, jerking upright. Even in her buzzed state, she couldn't help but spot the blurry-blue shape almost directly ahead of her. She rubbed her eyes a couple of times to make the fuzzy edges go away, but soon realized they were a ghostly feature rather than an eye-bug. "Aw… yuh… I be Wynne Donnah-hew. Howdy. I wussen 'xpectin' no comp'ny so I ain't really got nuttin' y'all can feast on or nuttin'. Y'all wan'some pork rinds or them great boiled peanuts?  I reckon I can find some pretzels, too. Naw?"

'Beware!  I am the Ghost of Halloweens Past. I am here to show you-'

"Lawwwwwwwwwr-die!  Big E, zat you?!" Wynne cried, jumping up from the couch at such speed that her legs knocked into the coffee table. For the next five seconds, a hands-free symphony known as Cling-Clang-Merrily-Down-Low played as all the empty cans danced about. Some simply fell over and rolled around while others danced a Jitterbug all the way over to the edge of the table. Once there, they performed beautiful swan dives that made them disappear without a trace.

'No, I am not. I am the Ghost of Halloweens Past… like I told you,' the taller ghost said in a flat voice that left no doubt that she was about ready to throw in the ghostly towel and return to her home dimension.

Wynne's enthusiasm fizzled out as quickly as it had ballooned. Shrugging, she sat down on the couch and grabbed the six-pack of Dark Lager. "Aw… yuh. Okeh. G'wan. Don't mind me, okeh?  I jus' gotta grab this one he' an'…"

Pssshhhhht!

'That is the issue I want to address,' the taller ghost continued in a remarkably restrained voice. 'Think of how much money you have spent on the devil's brew over your entire life. If you had never started drinking, you would have lived a far better life. You would have been a rich woman today, Wynne-'

"Naw, 'cos I woudda blown it on som'tin else," Wynne said before she took a long swig to prove a point. The inevitable beer suds mustache was wiped off on the back of her hand before she continued: "An' lemme tell y'all som'tin, lady… or whutevah y'all ack-chew-ly iz. There ain't nuttin' wrong with mah lihhh-fe right now. Yuh?  Not a dang-blasted thing."

'But there is!  You simply cannot see it-'

Wynne shook her head vehemently. "Lissen, whut don't I got?  I got mah darlin' Mandy, I got mah dawggies, I got mah best bud Ernie an' all them great friends he', yuh?  An' I got mah TransAm an' mah Silveradah an' mah own hoah-me which is paid in full, yuh?  I be perdy dog-gone great at playin' pool an' I got them trophies ta prove it… an' yuh, I got mah beers an' mah pork rinds an' all kinds-a coo' stuff. Check out them Nascahhhh-r diecasts ovah yondah!  Ain't they awesome?  Tell me, howdahell could any o' that evah be improved upon?"

The taller ghost opened and closed her incorporeal mouth a couple of times before she shook her ghostly head in a most despondent fashion. Sighing, she floated back to the other visitors. 'This is hopeless. I give up. She is all yours.'

The middle of the three ghosts, the somewhat heavy-set one, stepped forward and spread out her tendril-like arms like in an embrace. 'Beware!  I am the Ghost of Halloweens Present. I am here to show you what you have become and what… uh… what you have accomplished… I am here to… to… oh…'

She spent the next short minute hemming and hawing before she broke out in a shrug and stepped back in line. 'Honestly,' she said to her ghostly siblings, 'I cannot add anything to what Wynne just said. She stole all my best points!'

"Haw, lemme drink ta that," Wynne said from her spot on the couch. Soon, the familiar glug-glug-glug could be heard all over the living area.

All this left the stage for the final, shorter ghost. Grinning, she stepped forward and put out her tendril-like arms. A pale blue portal opened up to show a funeral where the centerpiece was a black casket decorated with silver and white stripes as well as a large, stylized W in a forward-slanted font. The year was undisclosed, but the familiar faces of the people gathered around the casket were all a great deal older, and some were even quite elderly.

'Beware!  I am the Ghost of Halloweens Future!  Behold, Wynne. This will be you unless you change your ways!'

"Haw!  So y'all be sayin' that if I quit drinkin' beer, I'mma-gonn' live forevah?  Now ain't dat awesome?!" Wynne said sporting a mocking grin that soon faded into a mask of annoyance. "Like Hell it is, pardnah. All y'all can stick that where tha sun don't shine 'cos there ain't no way I wanna live forevah if I ain't got mah sweet, li'l Sheriff Mandy bah mah sihhh-de. End o' discus-shun."

Just to underscore her words and the steely determination behind them, Wynne put the latest can of Dark Lager to her mouth, but she left enough room for a "An' down tha hatch!" before the inevitable glug-glug-glugging took place.

The Ghost of Halloweens Future scratched her ghostly neck before she turned to her siblings for help. Unfortunately, neither of the others had anything clever to add at that moment in time. 'Uh… no… no, that is not… uh, that is not what I am saying… everyone dies at the end.'

The pale blue portal showing the funeral scene with the casket soon began to dissolve at the edges. The effect lasted for a few seconds longer before it disappeared altogether with a flatulating sound reminiscent of a leaking balloon.

Wynne shook her head before she wiped the obligatory beer suds off her upper lip. "Aw, y'all gotta be shittin' me!  Whaddahell kinda craptastic peptawk izzat, Cap'n Killjoy?  Ev'rybodda dies at the end… well, much obliged fer statin' tha frickin' obvious!"

Since the shortest of the three ghosts' big production number had been shot down so effortlessly, she slinked back to her colleagues to share a long look of equal measure astonishment and resignation.

"Now all y'all done gave me a headache… hate dat. I reckon I'mma-gonn' grab me some pork rinds so I can get some salt. Or mebbe a Pain-B-Gohhh-ne?  Haw… mebbe both. Yuh," Wynne said, getting up from the couch all over again.

While the subject of their haunting was away, the three ghosts of Halloweens Past, Present and Future put their incorporeal heads together in a huddle. 'Well… let us file this under undecided,' the heavy-set one said. 'We better move on. We have plenty of other sinners to visit tonight. Sisters?'

'Works for me… this gig was too weird,' the short Ghost of Halloweens Future said. 'Who do we get to haunt next?'

The Ghost of Halloweens Present needed to access their ghostly Filofax before she could answer. 'A Mister Arthur Rains,' she said after a short while. 'He has been involved in numerous cases of a dubious nature. Several pages' worth, actually…'

The Ghost of Halloweens Past, the tallest of the three, let out a mumbled, 'If my damned tin whistle cannot scare him, either, I am gonna squash it into a hose clamp!  And then I am gonna file an official complaint!'

'I am sorry, Sister,' the middle of the three ghosts said, 'I could not hear what you said…'

'I said I cannot wait. Lead on,' the Ghost of Halloweens Past said with a semi-smile that soon faded. Moments later, the three ghostly figures flickered twice before they vanished from the physical plane.

Two seconds on from the interdimensional exit, Wynne returned to the living area with an opened bag of extra-salty pork rinds. The headache pill had already been downed out in the kitchenette, so she went straight for the next can of beer.

Before she could crack it open, she noticed she was alone once more. A grunt escaped her. "Yuh, ain't sure whaddahell that wus all about. But okeh… this wussen even tha weirdest stuff evah ta happen in he'. Whaddinda-wohhhhhh-rld… it be a quartah past midnight alreddy?!  I musta dozed off longah than I reckoned I did… aw, who gives a stuffed turkey buzzard, anyhows."

Pssshhht!

Headlights flashing across the ceiling made Wynne hurry over to the window overlooking the central lawn. Craning her head to the left didn't give her anything but a crimp in the neck, but her efforts were rewarded when she shuffled around to be able to see to the right of the trailer.

Just as she glanced in that direction, Mandy and Beatrice Reilly exited one of the white and gold Dodge Durangos from the MacLean County Sheriff's Department. The law enforcement officers saluted each other before Beatrice strode off to get to her own trailer across the central lawn. Mandy stayed at the Durango for a minute longer to let Blackie out from the dreaded K9 cage in the back of the SUV.

"Haw, Sheriff Mandy an' ol' Quick Draw sure be hoah-me early tanight… not that I be complainin'," Wynne mumbled to herself. "Lawrdie, I can't wait ta wrap mah arms 'round mah darlin' Mandy," she continued as she hurried out into the sleeping area to grab her denim jacket from the closet.

She had already made it back to the front door when she realized she still wore her lightweight indoor shoes rather than something with more resistance to the chilly conditions outside. There was no need to risk getting frostbite in her twinkletoes, so she dumped the jacket once more and simply waited for Mandy to show up.

Her patience was rewarded two short minutes later when Mandy opened the screen door to let herself and Blackie inside. The sheriff of Goldsboro had barely set foot in the kitchenette before Wynne did what she had promised to do: she wrapped her arms around the compact, athletic shape of the woman she loved more than anything on the face of the Earth and beyond.

Blackie and Goldie mirrored their owners' reactions though at a slightly smaller scale. After rubbing noses and fur for a short while, the Golden Retriever and the black German Shepherd moved back to the doggy basket to snuggle up tight.

Wynne and Mandy's embrace wasn't rushed or awkward despite the unusual circumstances. No, it was a gentle, unhurried affair that allowed plenty of loving to flow between the two gals. When they finally took a half step back from each other, their eyes remained locked onto the other's like golden beacons. Kissing was inevitable, so the sweet contact was soon initiated and held for a good, long time.

The need for air necessitated breaking off the kisses, but they remained within arm's reach of each other. Mandy chuckled. "If I'd known I'd get this kind of welcome, I would've come home ages ago!  Love you."

"Luv y'all too, darlin'. Now an' ferevah. Yuh," Wynne said before she finally let go so Mandy could slip out of her heavy winter uniform jacket. Grinning, The Last Original Cowpoke followed the sheriff into the sleeping area to watch her change into her comfortable everyday clothes. "So… how wus Hallahween up in Goldsborah when I wussen 'round ta draw in tha weird shit?"

"The entire afternoon and evening were quiet. Hardly anything happened… and when it did, it was small potatoes," Mandy said, shaking her head. "The little kids got their trick-or-treating done before nightfall like we had hoped. The teens who came later all behaved themselves. There was a small drinking-related incident up at Mr. Iverson's bar, but that was it."

"Haw, dat happens seven nights a week!"

Mandy clicked off the ceiling lights in the sleeping area before she moved into the kitchenette. The refrigerator seemed to call out to her, so she went over there to grab a soft drink. A small grunt escaped her when she clapped eyes on the empty shelves that had been filled with six-packs earlier in the day. The can of orange squash was soon cracked open with a Psshhht! but unlike Wynne's favored approach, Mandy actually poured the bright orange liquid into a tumbler.

"Say darlin', y'all wanna watch a mooh-vie or som'tin?  I bet there ain't nuttin' on them satellite channels but that there hahrrah shit-"

The tumbler was already half way up to Mandy's mouth when it was stopped cold by the puzzled look on her face. "I'm sorry… there's nothing on but what?"

"Hahrrah. Hor-ror," Wynne said, moving her mouth in an exaggerated fashion to lessen the impact of her inch-thick Texan accent.

Grinning, Mandy reached out to give Wynne's arm a gentle slap. "Oh… of course. Not interested in that."

"Naw, me neithah. Mebbe we could watch an ol' comedy or som'tin on DVD?"

Mandy only needed to think about it for a few seconds: "No. Not tonight. I just wanna cuddle."

"Or we could cuddle, yuh," Wynne said, sporting a grin that reached from ear to ear. Leading the way, she was soon back in the living area to clean up the mess she had made over the course of the day, afternoon, evening and night.

"Whoa," Mandy said when she took in the sight of the countless empty beer cans that had been strewn all over the coffee table and the carpet below it. "This must've been some kind of party…"

After scooping up an entire armful of cans, Wynne tried to shrug but couldn't. "Well, ya know… one led ta tha next, yuh?  It done gave me a weird, weird dream, tho'. Nuttin' scary like a nightmare, jus' really weird. Som'tin 'bout them ghosts of Hallahweens Past, Present an' Fu-chure. It wus jus' bizarroh world. An' so wus they."

Mandy knew better than to ask for any details, so she settled for nodding.

Wynne continued: "I reckon it wus a dream, but… but… haw, it might not ha' been. I dunno an' I don'care. Anyhows, mah day wussen too bad all things considah'd. I done hadda li'l nap not too long ago an' I got some great chow fer lunch an' suppah. I been fihhh-ne. Lemme dump these in da recyclin' bag, okeh?"

"Sure," Mandy said as she sat down on the couch. A loud CRUNCH! under her backside proved that a pork rind had escaped Wynne's jaws of doom earlier. Unfortunately, it had been unable to escape its destiny as it had now been ground into mere fragments of its former self. Chuckling, she brushed off the couch and her rear end before she sat down once more.

Wynne soon returned with a bag of candy in one hand and a pack of pretzels in the other. "Sweet or salty?" she said, holding up one bag at a time.

"Actually… I just want you."

"Yes, Ma'am!  Only too happy ta oblige!" Grinning, Wynne dropped the sweet and salty bags on the table before she hurried around the corner to take her place next to her partner. A tiny amount of shuffling was required, but Wynne's long limbs and warm body were soon cocooning the soft but powerful woman in front of her.

"Yeah… I like this," Mandy whispered, snuggling even further down into Wynne's touch. "Just wonderful… I love you plenty, hon."

"Les' make this a happy Hallahween, darlin'. Luv ya like ca-razy. An' I ain't nevah gonn' letcha go…" Wynne whispered into Mandy's ear before an unspoken agreement made them fall quiet and simply enjoy the moment and each other's company…

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THE END of EVERYONE DIES AT THE END!

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