(A republication -- from Jan. 12-14, 2007) Tractors and Dead Emus  
It was a light and stormy night. (Shut up, this is MY short story, and not every stormy night is "dark." How could they be? Is there no such thing as lightning? Wouldn't that keep the dark away? How did that cliche get started anyway?) So it was a light and stormy night, and I was at my usual barstool perch helping the barkeep reduce his vodka stock. I'm a serial Bloody Mary drinker, dontcha know. The lightning was indeed brightening the night sky, and it flashed again just at the same moment as a tall leggy blonde came in through the door. The ensuing crack of thunder caused me to turn my head in that direction, and I could see the silhouetted curvature of her legs through the diaphanous white skirt she was wearing. Imagine my surprised delight when this stranger headed straight toward the empty barstool to my immediate left, and introduced herself as May Eisenglass. "Yes, you may have a glass of whatever you're drinking," I offered, trying to conceal my excitement over this glamorous hunk of pulchritude that seemed to want to get to know ME, Gus Nosir, private eye. (Guy Noir's my cousin; I learned the trade from him, added some esses to the name because that's how I am, then shortened Gussy to Gus because what private dick calls himself Gussy?) **********************************************************************
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********************************************************************** She leaned over and whispered something in my ear, grazing not only that delighted organ but the other organ stirred as well, as her hand "accidentally" brushed against the inside of my thigh. "Barkeep?" I called out, trying to ignore the slight catch in my throat. "Yessir, Mr. Nosir?" replied the bartender. "A vodka martini for the lady, please." "Coming right up." Unaccustomed as I am to being cozied up to by ravishing long-stemmed blondes, I was jolted back to reality by what May said next. "I need your professional services," she blurted out, as she was sipping her drink. Resisting the urge to tell her I needed her professional services, I asked for the specifics. "The emu rancher down the street from my house is accusing one of my chings of killing his precious birds," she said. "Your I-chings?" I replied incredulously. "Is that like some of that Feng Shui bullshit? And how would that kill an emo kid? And what difference does it make if another emo gets killed? Happens all the time." "Either you've had too many Bloody Marys or there's a wax buildup in your ears. I didn't say 'I ching,' I said 'my chings.' A ching is a cross between a chow and a bulldog and I breed them. We have two adults and six puppies at home. And I didn't say 'emo,' I said 'emu.' You know. The bird?" "I didn't even know there WAS an emu ranch in this town. You say emus are getting killed, and your chings are thought to be responsible?" "Exactly. And if you met my dogs, you'd see how gentle they are. Can I interest you in solving the case of what's killing the emus?" Well, I was more interested in meeting her dogs than finding emu-killers, especially if it meant being invited to her place. So I quickly answered yes when she suggested that I come to her house that night and see her eight chings. *****************************************************************
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***************************************************************** On our way to May's house, we drove by the emu ranch. The rain had stopped, and it was kind of dark even though the power hadn't gone out and the street lamps were lit. I could just make out a large clump of something. Feathers? In the corner of the fenced-in block. If emus are like us, they'd be asleep this time of morning, but there were about 20 of them, chittering around and all agitated. It was just then that I saw a black object -- a dog? -- squeezing through a hole in the fence about halfway between street intersections. My car nearly collided with the thing as it reached the street. No, not a dog. It was ... a tractor. A remote-controlled tractor. It skittered away. At the next corner we came to, thanks to a nearby street lamp, I could make out the bodies of two emus, their necks criss-crossing each other. That first clump I saw was what? Same thing? On we went, arriving at May's house moments later. The chings greeted us as we entered, and the lady was right. Gentle, affectionate animals all. They weren't the emu killers. "I'll have a talk with the emu owner," I told her, "and get him to understand he must have mistaken that 18-inch-high remote-controlled tractor for one of these dogs in the dark. I normally charge $200 a day, plus expenses, but maybe we can work something else out ..." Before May could answer, a male voice made itself heard. "You won't be working 'something else' out, buddy. That happens to be my wife you're thinking of screwing." I hadn't known there was anyone else in the house, but there he was, getting up from the couch in the living room, beer can in hand. "Whoa," I said. "Nothing has happened, and nothing will." He calmed down. But I noticed something peculiar. In one hand was a beer can, and in the other was what looked like a TV remote. But funny thing. There was no TV set in the living room. The End Back in the day, I was an Alfred Hitchcock junkie, and he often finished his stories verbally after the teleplay had ended. So this is Twoberry, in his best Alfred Hitchcock imitation, telling you that ... You readers will be pleased to know that Gus reported the beer-guzzling tractor owner to the Animal Cruelty Officer of the local Humane Society, he was duly arrested and put in jail for cruelty to emus and Gus enjoyed a liaison with May after all, though the relationship didn't last as long as he'd have hoped. He never warmed up to the dogs, and received his mar-ching orders. ************************************************* Afterword And now, as Twoberry, I'll confess that while the foregoing is wholly fictional, it was inspired by real facts and events. But be not alarmed. No emus were harmed in the writing of this story, and while there really is an emu ranch in Vero Beach (which I hadn't known about until a few days ago), and while there really is a remote-controlled 18-inch-high tractor toy being manipulated through a hole in their fence and driving the emus slightly nuts as the tractor owner gets his jollies from the comfort of his porch, please be assured the emus are all alive and healthy. Unfortunately, there ARE some dead animals in this town, and the two clumps of emu bodies in the story are similar to what Barbara and I saw on the corners of our block the other night as we were taking Yoo-Hoo out for her evening constitutional. Not just two street corners. On all FOUR corners of our block, were pairs of dead chickens -- a white chicken and a red chicken at each corner -- their mangled bodies partially visible as they were sticking out of paper bags. Their necks criss-crossed each other, just like in the story. We're thinking they're some kind of ritual killing, some kind of crazy cult, something. And the sightings HAVE been reported to the Animal Cruelty Officer of the local Humane Society, and if I learn anything more about this bizarre incident, I will let you know. Oh, and the thing about tractors and an emu ranch. I got into a conversation last week with some folks who told me about those two little items, and I said it might be fun to write a story that included those two elements. Just for kicks. *********************************** A year and a half later -- in case you're curious, no word was ever received by me, about the chickens. The emus are still thriving. The guy with the toy tractor has gone on to bigger things. | 
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