El Chupacabra vs. The Grunch
It was dark and gloomy over the moors of Louisiana. Dark and gloomy, just like Ace Detective Jeb Maynard liked it.
"Dark and gloomy," he said aloud, "just like I like it, here over these moors of Louisiana." He squinted out over those dark, gloomy moors. Is moors a word?
"Who are you talking to?" questioned "Scooter" Stine, around a mouthful of donut and chinese take out, appearing suddenly from behind the master detective. Jeb started, recovered quickly and threw a glower that would have easily wilted Scooter if he hadn't deftly dodged it. "What are we doing here anyway? I were on stake-out tonight..." He trailed off as he looked down over the cemetary which Jeb's precarious perch overlooked. "Wow, I can see my house from here!"
"Quiet, you nimrod!" Jeb exclaimed almost silently. "Since you weren't paying attention when I explained this to you before, we're looking for... someone. The number of blood drained goat carcasses in New Orleans is up 355% and it's getting worse every day. Those idiots... moron! Get out your notebook and write this down or you'll forget it again." Jeb waited impatiently while Scooter searched his pockets.
"I think I left it in the car," Stine finally conceded. " I can go get it. Where's the squad car?" Jeb cast another glower, but his partner had already disappeared into the stoney, moory morass.
He's so stupid, thought Jeb. Why do they call him Scooter anyway? Was it getting foggier? Was that the sound of a goat's lifeblood spilling over the stones behind him? With catlike grace, he leapt into action, climbing the rocky overhang. He scanned the outcropping, finally spotting the source of the noise. It was only a twitching rat. He examined it, immediately determining that it had fainted from terror.
"Something really scared this rat," he mused, "something really scary... to rats." Then he heard it. A plaintive, hollow bleat echoed over the foggy, muggy countryside. From his rocky hideout, it sounded like it was coming from the cemetary.
"That sounds like no goat I've ever heard!" exclaimed Maynard, craning his neck to capture every nuance of the anguished cry. Do bleats have nuances?
He leapt down and began running toward the source of the noise, crashing headfirst down the hill and quickly finding himself well past the cemetary gate. A little less sure of himself, he called out worriedly, "Stine... stupid...you out there Stine?" He walked a little further. "Useless waste-of-space partner... helloooo?"
He started, suddenly... out in the middle of a cemetary in thick fog... no one knew where he was, not even his partner. Something in the darkness could easily leap out and gut him, or worse, eviscerate him. He could be vivisected and the pieces would be wrapped nicely in a bunch of packages which could then be mailed to his friends and loved ones. He stopped dead in his tracks. Well, not dead, but right there. He broke into a cold sweat. Not only would he be dead, but it would look really bad on his record. At his funeral, Stine would stand up and say a few words around a mouthful of sweet and sour and bitter chicken noodles. He always had a mouthful of chinese noodles or jelly donuts, but it suddenly occurred to Jeb that he never saw any boxes or cartons or food containers of any kind. That must mean something, thought Jeb, but whatever it means, it's eluded me again.
Say, he thought, I don't have any friends or loved ones anyway, so there'd be no reason to send pieces of me wrapped in brown paper packages to anyone. Relieved, he started to walk down the path in the direction that the bleat had come from. Then he realized that having never bothered to get any friends or loved ones would make it poetic justice if he did die right there friend and loved one-less. He stopped again, until he realized that if he kept stopping "dead in his tracks" like that it would be irony if his hesitation got him killed and he set off again.
After several more starts and stops and pausing a few times to wonder if he was still traveling in the general direction of the bleat, he stopped again and looked around apprehensively, very convinced that the most horrific monster that ever existed was sneaking up behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he gracefully tripped over the blood-drained corpse of what had once been a fine goat. Picking himself up, he began to examine his find when Stine materialized out of the dark behind him.
"Is that another goat corpse?" asked his wayward partner. Angrily cramming his heart back down his throat, Jeb rounded on the ingenuous Scooter.
"Don't sneak up on me dunderhead!! Do you have any idea what I just went through!? I was practically killed, and I'm far to valuable to the force to be killed and mailed to people!" Stine just sat there wide-eyed, sauce running down his chin. It occurred to Maynard that Stine could butcher him right then and there and probably would and not only would it be irony, but it would be poetic justice too and no one would even know about it. "Excuse me... um, detective, I apologize. I was out of line," he finished stiffly.
"Is that you, Officer Maynard?" asked Scooter.
" Anyway, I found another goat corpse. I think you will find that it has been ("Notebook!" said Scooter, slapping his head) entirely drained of blood and there will be two puncture wounds on its neck."
"Wow!" said Scooter, "that's masterful detective work! How did you know all that?" Jeb ignored him, musing over the note he had just removed from the corpse, reading: "I have entirely drained this goat of blood and you will find two puncture wounds on its neck, ha ha ha."
"That sick freak is laughing at us," lamented Jeb. "I hate it when they leave notes, even if it is how we catch 90% of them."
"Say, that looks like your handwriting," said Scooter.
"MY handwriting!" exclaimed Jeb, "I'll show YOU MY handwriting!" The enraged clue-unraveler whirled to thoroughly throttle his partner but his throttling hands found only air. "Now where did he go?" Had Scooter really said that? Had Scooter really been there? Was Jeb really there? What is reality?
Alone again, Jeb Maynard, NOPD Detective Supreme popped the drained carcass in a plastic bag for evidence and sprinted through the fog. Somewhere, in the dark, dank, musty night, a long drawn out bleat sounded.
This page hosted by 
Get your own Free Home Page