Act One

“The Farmer’s Almanac told me my pigs’ tails would freeze in January unless I kept ’em warm, and except for the duct tape at the base, they look pretty cute with that puffy pink insulation on their tails, especially the ones that aren’t covered in crap.”

anonymous

The executive office of Nelters Inc. is only five miles from Almond Rock and somewhat hidden in the dense oak and pine forest. It’s a far cry from the company’s previous location on the 25^th floor of the Horlen Elkes Tower in the city.

Nelters is a global corporation that owns mining operations, jewelry chains (including Jaylene and Kaleb’s), precious metal distribution centers, trucking companies, and recycling centers.

Unlike the view from the city, on the roof of the Almond Rock office, you could see rolling grasslands that turned tan in the winter, dense forests of eastern white pines and white oaks, and the looming Chesline Leer Mountain range.

There were no abandoned buildings with broken glass, ozone warnings, unidentified aromas, attorney billboards, bikers with androgynous hairstyles, or well-dressed prostitutes.

Almond Rock and the surrounding area, including the high-end residential properties that housed many of Nelters’ employees, was a safe place to live, for the most part. It had a low crime rate, but in the past year, the crimes that occurred were more bizarre and violent than those of other small towns in the state.

***The Last Thoughts of Frank, R.I.P.***

Frank Skolly, Nelters’ IT chief, unfortunately, came to work early on Fridays before anyone entered the parking lot. He liked to leave early to get home before his wife so he could make dinner. Friday was their “gourmet night,” and it usually took him several hours to prepare the meal, including the appetizers.

The security attendant checked the lot in the morning at 7:00 am and in the evening before he left, but he failed to recognize anything strange about the late ‘70s Mercedes with a red flame decal on the hood and a key-lime paint job.

The day before, the driver used a stolen guest pass to enter the parking garage and parked across from Frank’s usual spot. The car’s tinted windows allowed him to remain unseen, and he spent the night in his car.

When he saw Frank exit his car at 5:45 am, he started his engine, pulled slowly out of the space, and headed towards him with his foot slammed on the accelerator.

Frank turned around when he heard the engine’s roar and then ran at full speed towards the elevator and stairwell. Instead of ditching them, he held his briefcase in one hand and breakfast burrito in the other.

He looked back and tried to zig off to the right. With only a few yards to the stairway exit, the car slammed into his back and flung him into the concrete wall next to the elevator.

His briefcase flew to the left and bounced against the guardrail, but his beloved burrito (a homemade recipe) splattered against the blue emergency light, coating it with orange hot sauce, white cheddar cheese, onions, peppers, and bits of runny eggs.

The Mercedes slammed on the brakes, backed up, and raged forward as Frank, stunned and dizzy, turned around to face the light-green luxury junker.

Why were the West Germans obsessed with that color in the 1970s? Frank thought before it smashed into him, forced the hood ornament into his chest, and pinned him against the wall.

The car quickly reversed, with the engine smoking and wheels turned to the right. This ripped the hood ornament from Frank’s chest and left him crushed and bleeding in a fetal position on the concrete.

The car reversed 50 feet and stopped with the white smoke from the hood getting thicker and mixing with the morning fog. The driver held down the accelerator and brake while the engine roared.

The smoke billowed towards the roof of the parking deck and seemed to be in tune with the screeching moan of the 8-cylinder.

Frank, broken and bloody, tried moving his head towards the car and was hit by its blinding headlights. Squinting from the light, he tried shielding his eyes with his hand but couldn’t get his left hand to obey as he propped himself up a few inches with his right. I’m surprised his lights work, he thought.

His mind always seemed to wander at odd times. He’s really going to burn out that engine if he keeps it floored like that, and it will cost a pretty penny to service unless he has a solid service contract with the dealer, which is prepaid and isn’t a good deal, but hey, it’s convenient, and you don’t have to worry about some Bubba Fett murdering the repair job.

But wait a minute, that’s maybe a ’77 model or so, and there’s no way you’ll get a service contract with something that old. Why did I even consider that but, more to the point, why is this flame-trimmed freak after me? I wonder if that’s Kelly’s husband, but doesn’t he drive a Puegot?.. Maybe it’s a Citroen…

The driver released the brake and quickly adjusted the steering wheel so that his left tire was lined up with Frank’s head; the tires squealed in place, then roared forward.

The driver-side wheels missed his head but plowed over his neck and chest, and the car slammed on the brakes as the mangled front grill smashed into the wall again. With the engine clanking and smoking, the driver put the car in reverse and backed slowly over Frank’s head.

Frank’s final thoughts were related to the last image he saw before death: the spinning Hardline Ridge tire. He had thought Hardline? I deserve better than that. My God, those crummy 4th-world tires are discount quality, at best. Belkmontison, Eribbiccinni, or the one named after that Pilgrim would be perfect.

What was it called again? Smith’s Tires, or was it spelled the old-timey way, like Smythe’s Tires? I know there’s a Mayflower brand, but that’s not it; they make gluten-free fritters, not tires.

After three weeks of investigating the crime, the Almond Rock Police could not identify suspects, a motive, or much evidence, except the mess found at the crime scene.

Although they had a few calls about a green Mercedes being spotted and checked nearly every repair shop in the eastern side of the state, the cops had no leads about the murder weapon’s location.

Cecilia, Frank’s wife, was having a difficult time dealing with the details of his will. Unlike men his age, Frank took out a will as a newlywed and left everything to his wife.

He was intelligent but paranoid about death, and when he talked to his lawyer about his will, he added a few ridiculous clauses to ensure his passing was memorable.

Cecilia initially rejected his final request, but she honored Frank’s wishes and had the organist play Butt to Buttresucitation by Funkadelic at his funeral.

*** Companion Pet Performance Art ***

Marshall looked down at his phone and kept looking up while he walked towards the elevator of Nelters’ parking garage. Like many of his colleagues, he initially hesitated to stare down at his phone in the lot after what had happened.

Marshall’s wife sent him a picture of a large, spotted cat relaxing in a lawn chair next to their backyard pool. Beneath the photo, she asked, “Isn’t this Bob’s?” Man, he thought, his cats barely ever leave the property unless he’s walking beside them. He forgot that Laura had not met one of the web’s rising pet stars.

The proud cat looked like a cheetah but was smaller and leaner and had gold fur and black spots. Luckily, he wound up at Marshall’s house instead of three doors down at Clyder’s. Dr. Clyder had four Tibetan Mastiffs.

However, although the dogs were fierce and massive, they weren’t as agile as Rita. She could leap over a six-foot fence easily and sprint like a track star.

Looking at the photo closely, Marshall realized it wasn’t Rita; she always wore a black collar and was smaller than her brother. No, that’s the other one.  I think that’s Edgar; he’s quicker than the others and maybe smarter, he thought.

“Yes,” he texted, “That’s Bob’s cat. Give him a call to pick it up, or go outside and say, ‘Edgar, go home to Bob,’ but don’t yell; just say it calmly at a normal volume. He’s harmless. He won’t get angry if you yell, but he’ll get scared. He’s the sensitive one, and sometimes when he gets scared, he urinates.”

Bob’s parents, Ellen and Michael, were retired cat breeders. They owned a massive tract of land in the Appalachians, where they allowed a colony of rescued felines and their retired breeding stock to rule the land and irritate their neighbors.

The cats claimed various parts of the 80-acre area as their territory, but they were trained to avoid attacking the chickens near the farmhouse, and although some of them were fascinated by the odd creatures, the cats never crossed the line with the hedgehogs.

Bob said his dad fell in love with the spiked blobs after a trip to England, and he was one of the first people in the United States to breed them.

Before retiring, Michael and Ellen left their adult children in charge of the cattery and traveled the country with a performance group that featured feline and canine acrobatics.

One of their fan’s favorite acts involved a Russian Blue cat named Judas, who wore red boxing gloves embossed with tiny yellow hammers and sickles.

With the Russian national anthem blaring on the loudspeakers, he strutted into the miniature boxing arena with his butt proudly propped up, meowed to the crowd, and turned around to face his opponent.

Judas growled at a patriotic Pekingese wearing American flag shorts and sat down in front of him. He raised his right glove and repeatedly punched the dog in the face, switching from right to left after four punches until it rolled over and played dead. A white-haired Siamese kitten wearing a bowtie played the referee; he jumped over to the dog and pawed the mat 10 times to count him out.

Little Chubbs the Pekingese had padded headgear, much like a boxer’s sparring partner, and Judas never made contact with the gloves. The duo was trained intensively to pull off the gag, and it only took Chubbs a few hours to learn how to move his head back slightly every time Judas threw a punch near his nose.

However, some people didn’t like the inter-breed boxing match because it was so convincing. They thought the wicked cat, with a name like Judas, was beating the poor Pekingese senselessly.

After several angry letters and death threats, an animal rights group, The Pekingese Purists, showed up to protest the Sucrose Lake performance. They headed to the restrooms to get changed, and none of the attendees questioned their appearance when they rushed out of the bathroom exits in Canis familiarus regalia; the onlookers thought they were part of the show.

Before their dress rehearsal, Michael and Ellen asked their assistants to watch their animals while they stretched their legs. As they walked around the outside of the cement dome of the coliseum, a low rumble erupted behind them.

Michael turned and said, “What’s that? It’s been getting louder as we’ve been walking…is that growling?” Ellen turned around and grabbed his hand when she saw them.

A large group jogged towards them and then stopped. They stood together wearing black and white costumes and rubber Pekingese masks. The couple turned around and casually walked in the other direction, but the Purists started to follow them. Some of them started to yip and growl as they walked.

Ellen and Michael went from a brisk walk to a light jog, and the activists picked up their speed until they were running, but after closing in on them, they stopped suddenly. They made snorting noises that turned to yelps and transitioned to high-pitched howls.

The five Purists in the front started throwing paint bombs at the fleeing couple while a few on their flanks launched the bombs with giant rubber slingshots. One ballon hit Micheal in the head, soaking his gray hair with red paint and Pekingnese urine. He was lucky compared to Ellen.

She was pelted with two bombs that hit her in the back, but when she turned to confront the attackers in a rage, she was hit in the face by a large one launched from the slingshot.

Some of the staff came to their aid to hose them off while the others chased after the activists, but the cheap paint dye and dog urine made Ellen feel like her eyes were burning. Later that night, Bob rushed her to the hospital when her eyes swelled up.

After Ellen’s eyes were treated and drained, she lost her vision for six months. She and Michael decided to retire their animal act permanently and return to breeding and training.

Eyeballs, Manhood, and Killer Siamese

Like his parents, Bob and his wife Laura loved cats and were exceptional trainers. Some of their colony acted like guard dogs, but they never crossed the property line or bothered the neighbors, which is why it was odd that one was relaxing next to Marshall’s pool.

Although the local police and animal control had never received calls complaining about Bob’s cats, they were called to his house recently, along with a few ambulances.

A small, ignorant group of friends decided to rob the house after one of them heard a rumor that Bob had had rare coins, loads of cash, and gold. They were right about Bob being wealthy, but he didn’t keep gold or rare coins on his property.

Before the men got close to the two-story stone-trimmed home, they were stalked by the night patrol. One of the men dressed in black whispered, “it’s bad luck to do this on a full moon cause people are expecting crazy shit to happen, and they’re prepared. ”

Everyone kept walking and ignored the comment until the crew’s leader, Smitty, said, “I heard it was good luck, and as you know, I’m usually right. Now, shut up, and let’s go rob this dude. He won’t be back till Sunday. Besides, he doesn’t even have a security system.”

Smitty was wrong about the moon and mistaken about Bob. He was watching a movie with his wife in the bedroom and wasn’t checking the wildlife cameras on the property. He usually scrolled through them on his phone before bed, but he was having too much fun watching The Thing with Laura.

As the four men in black approached the topiary garden in the backyard, a seal-point Siamese named Cleavus, with a white hemp collar emblazoned with the word “KILLER” under his chocolate face, waited in his favorite weeping beech pruned like a giant mushroom with his tan fur hidden by the branches and leaves.

Laura had spent several years perfecting her garden and worked on similar projects as a landscape designer. Most of her shrubs and trees in the topiary zone were shaped like vegetables or fruit, but she had one giant boxwood devoted to Kurt Russell.

He saw them come closer and trembled with excitement; Cleavus was always up for a challenge and seemed happy that visitors had wandered into his territory.

He clinched the branch beneath him tightly and swayed slightly back and forth until he centered his balance and remained motionless. He licked his lips, and as they approached, his ears bent back, and the hair on his back stood up.

Cleavus watched until the second-to-last man passed by and sprang from his hidden perch. He landed on Smitty’s face, shredded his ears with his front paws, and kicked back into his eyes with his back claws.

Smitty yelled, which sounded like a loud whimper, as he covered his eyes with his gloves. The others turned and were stunned at seeing a cat launching off their friend’s face.

Cleavus twisted in midair like a circus cat and landed in the face of Smitty’s best friend, Reese, who was known as the lady’s man of the bunch (even though he smelled like potpourri and graham crackers), and instead of repeating his prior attack, the cat slashed the masked Romeo’s eyes with his front nails and kicked his back claws into his mouth.

The two remaining burglars turned to run away but were met by the blue-point Siamese brothers, with their backs arched and tails fluffed up.

Josephus and Andy Kapp, who looked like miniature blue panthers, walked towards them slowly, making growling sounds like sputtering small motorcycle engines. The guttural noise from the felines’ mouths was constant and increasingly becoming louder.

The men froze, and the cats changed their motor sounds to hisses. Andy Kapp made the move first, but Josephus was a split second behind; they reared back with their tails thumping on the ground and jumped into the unlucky men’s genitals.

They bit down hard (and deep) and shook their heads around as they had been trained. Andy Kapp took a few punches to his head and neck before he swiped the man’s scrotum with his left claw and dropped to the ground.

But Josephus’ victim tried to pry him loose instead of hitting him, which only worsened his pain and made the cat dig in harder. He finally released his grip on the cat as his chances of procreation sank lower, and Josephus sprang off his chew toy, hit the ground, and dashed toward Cleavus and Josephus.

Cleavus groaned at the pair, signaling them to stand guard, and ran to the cherry-stained gazebo next to Kurt Russell’s impressive green mullet. He crept over to the southwestern corner and hit the silent alarm under the bench with his right paw.

“Man! Right when the head starts crawling away,” said Bob as he paused the film. He looked at his clothes lying across the room on the dresser and didn’t want to move, especially after his eyes drifted to the curves of Laura’s right leg wrapped around his left.

I’m so lucky I married a woman with calves like that...so symmetrical…like elongated grapefruit…mine are like wilted eggplants…pathetic! Bob thought. “Well, I guess we need to put some clothes on for the five-O; I don’t want them to think we’re nudists, ” he said.

When the police arrived, the cats were sitting twenty feet in front of the screaming men, with Cleavus perched in front and Andy Kapp and Josephus behind him, forming a triangle. A low-toned wail greeted the officers from the trio while they turned their heads toward their victims.

“The hell? “said officer Steve Neen of the Almond Rock police department. The cats shined in the moonlight, and their calm motionless bodies, with the full moon beaming above and the gruesome scene below, seemed to pull Steve into a brief trance. It didn’t seem real or possible.

Josephus turned his head towards Andy Kapp and licked him behind his left ear, where he had been punched. “That’s something else,” said Steve, as he pulled out his phone and snapped a picture; Cleavus raised his head and released a “waaahhh” in acknowledgment. “See ’em looking at us like that, Sarge?”

Steve moved closer to the group and bent down. “They’re…they’re purring, sir. Do you hear that?” He reached down and petted Cleavus on the head, and he purred louder.

“Don’t ya think they look proud of it?” asked Steve to Sergeant Alfred Gillington.

Alfred studied the gruesome-looking group, clutching their faces and crotches, and sighed. “Well, Steve, I don’t think a cat, even a dang Siamese, is capable of showing pride, but I …”

He was cut off when Smitty yelled, “officers, officers!” and stumbled and fell when he tried to stand. ” Wait,” he said, pulling off his gloves and moving his hands over the large knobs that were his eyes.

He started to scream when he realized his swollen, slashed eyelids and eyes seemed to grow larger by the second. Later, at the hospital, one nurse would whisper the nickname “fish eyes” to another before his face was bandaged up.

“Well,” Alfred paused for a second to let the man scream louder again. “I’ve never seen a feline blind or neuter a man before either, so…yeah, they look proud.” He turned when the floodlights kicked on above the walking path around the topiary garden.

Bob and Laura appeared on the northern side and walked up to the police. Bob, with a big smile, said, “Good evening! Looks like those guys have had a rough night.”

He looked at the squirming burglars and started to giggle. “What a pile of pathetic jackasses. They had no idea what was creeping around in the night.”

“You know, it may be a good idea to mention to the EMS folks that their wounds will probably get infected. It’s not guaranteed, but who knows what was on their claws!

“Those cats live part-time in the house, but most of the night, they’re stalking around the property by the gardens. Josephus killed a mole the other day and batted it around before biting its neck, so his nails could still have loads of bacteria and possibly faint traces of fecal matter, and you know what that means?”

Alfred stared at him blankly and shook his head back and forth. “It means that something is gonna get plucked out or chopped off if these buttheads don’t get the proper medical attention and follow the recovery instructions.”

Training the Untrainable Beasts

Animal rights activists in the state applauded the blinding and ball-biting attacks, but the authorities and his friends were unaware that Bob could train wildcats.

When he was five, his father introduced him to Mortimer, a pet mountain lion. His parents had a few scars from training him, but he became a loyal family pet and constant security guard. If someone entered the property when the family was indoors, and the cat didn’t recognize them, he screamed and sent them fleeing.

He lived for 21 years, and later as a teenager, Bob raised and trained a bobcat named Melba Toast without his parent’s help. Mortimer (or Melba Toast) wasn’t allowed in the house but followed Bob around from a close distance whenever he played outside.

Unlike most cougars, he stayed active during the day when Bob was around and slept at night when the family went to bed, but he was always alert.

He intervened when a seven-year-old neighbor picked on five-year-old Bob before he walked into the house for supper. Donny, the bully, called him kitty boy and shoved Bob into the prickly shrubs near the front door.

Though the tan cat didn’t hurt the child, he scared the stool out of him when he leaped from the bushes, screamed, and showed off his fangs.

Mortimer’s high-picked wail was enough to scare an adult but would not, in most circumstances, lead to an evacuation. Donny sloshed away crying and never bothered Bob again.

No Menudo in the Parking Garage, Please

Marshall’s wife replied, “I thought you were kidding, but it worked. He made a weird whine and walked away.”

As he was saying goodbye, he saw Jarvos running up to him with a wide grin on his face. “What do you think this is all about; what has the ‘ol silver beansprout all riled up, and what the heck were you listening to when you drove by?” he asked.

“Menudo, of course. And I don’t know what this is about. Maybe someone left another thong tied to the side mirror of his Bentley,” said Marshall.

“Or…another fake profile set up in his name.” Their boss had a lot of friends but also had his critics.

As they entered the elevator, Marshall grinned and said, “I was hoping it was a meeting about getting a new coffee machine.” He hit the 5^th-floor button, backed against the wall, and stared at the ceiling.

“Why is a machine that only makes one cup at a time sitting in our break room, asked Jarvos, “and why do some of those flavors taste like cough syrup?”

Online Parodies

Kent Prollen stood with his armed crossed and watched his department heads file into the conference room. Karen Murphy, Kent Oleander, Marshall Dullar, and Jarvos Snoyner had each worked for the company for over six years, but Marshall had been there the longest.

Although Nelters’ interior was post-modern in most of the building, the conference room had green wallpaper and cherrywood paneling. It made new visitors feel like they were entering a smoking lounge at a gentlemen’s club in the Prohibition era. Prollen’s predecessor had lived in another time—in his mind—and his influence had not yet been erased.

He wasn’t imposing, but Prollen could be intimidating when necessary. At 5’11 ¾”, with bright white hair, long stringy arms, and a lanky body, he looked more like a game show host than a CEO. However, his reputation for quickly resolving conflicts kept his staff from relishing surprise meetings.

He had a sense of humor but rarely smiled when someone told a joke or tried to be intentionally humorous at a meeting. Today, Prollen didn’t look particularly angry, but something else was hidden in his face. Was it . . . concern?

“Good morning, everyone. Well, it’s not a good morning for Darden; he’s worried someone is trying to discredit him and somehow damage the company with online attacks.

“A satirist is targeting Jaylene’s sappy diamond commercials. Darden calls them terrorists, but as you will see, the videos are only parodies of Jaylene’s commercials.”

“The prankster’s online handle is thehonestbutttruth… whatever that means.” Prollen looked around the room and saw Jarvos snickering about the profile name. “Yes, it’s a hilarious name, but some of his footage initially seems to toy with plagiarism.”

“The filming style, soundtrack, and even the models look like the ones in the Jaylene ads. But, our lawyers claim that the filmmaker has not violated copyright laws.”

Prollen pushed a button on his remote and turned to look at the wall-sized video screen “Here, you’ll see the company’s logo.

butttruth Productions

“Darden is online spreading a theory that this drawing has hidden code embedded in the graphics. I disagree and think it’s the only low-quality aspect of their operation.

“It looks like someone used a spirograph program and fooled around for five minutes, but that silly fool is convinced it contains viruses intended to cripple Jaylene.”

“The man isn’t a complete idiot, but lately, he’s been a little erratic. I think someone is dosing his pork rinds.”  

Up Next: Harassing the Diamond King: Love and Death on the Run and Dirty Digits.