Current Shareware 1994 January/SHAR194.ISO/articles/s_m1093.zip/BOOTS

Text File | 1993-10-08 | 18KB | 330 lines

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 ░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░"If it walks like a duck..."░░░░░░░░░by Del Freeman
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According to the Daily Alligator, later, everybody had something
to say.

     "Laugh? I thought I'd die!
     I mean, there we all were, grouped around the television set
in the living room when who should appear but Kent Ballard himself,
in living color, as it were. He was trussed up like a rabid dog,
a burly cop pushing him along, and he was in his bare, stockinged
feet. It was wicked neat! I mean, just the greatest freakin' thing
I ever saw. I tell you...laugh? I thought I'd die!"

                              - Ruby Begonia

     "It was a lovely party. Unfortunately, we invited Kent Ballard
and he acted like he always does in public. I tried to tell him
Cosmo is a sensitive bird. I tried to tell him to be polite. I
tried to tell him we were all contagious when I opened the door and
saw him standing there, but would he listen? Nooooo."

                              - Lucia Chambers

     "Ballard? Oh, yeah. Writes a mean humor piece. Hey, weren't
they supposed to hang him after the last trial?"

                              - Michael Hahn

     "He's a lovely man. Sadly misunderstood, actually, and quite
solvent as it turns out."

                              - Cecelio Morales

     "Yes, we were all there. We all saw what led up to Cosmo's
agitation. Still, it is a tragedy. Hilarious, but a tragedy."

                              - Al Ruffin

     "The man was no intellectual giant, but amenable enough. For
a long time, he just sat there with his mouth open and watched the
debate. I remember wondering if they had electricity where he came
from."

                              - Howard Palmer

     "Ballard? Yeah, he was here. Stayed nearly as long as those
Freeman gypsies. In jail, huh? Well, maybe that'll keep him from
coming back next year. I say to hell with the lot of 'em."

                              - John Chambers

Of course, those comments were immediately following the first
newscast and long after the events of the party which many contend
set the second chain of events in motion. The following background
is necessary to understand this bizarre event:

You see, first, the Chambers had a party.
                               ***
     Cosmo was the official greeter. He wore a paper hat that said
"Official Greeter." He had his feathers preened and was prepared
to play gracious official greeter. All would have been well had
Ballard just gone along with it, but would he? Noooooo.
     "Hello?" said Cosmo to Tess, who politely responded "Hello."
     "Hello?" said Cosmo to David, who politely said "Hello."
     "Hello?" said Cosmo to Kent, who ignored him. "Hello? Hello?"
said Cosmo. Nada. Nothing. Zip. "What's that?" said Cosmo, staring
fixedly at Kent's back as he descended to the basement.
     "A very rude guest," said Lucia, and off she went to chastise
Kent.
     Soon, Kent trudged back up the stairs and approached Cosmo's
cage. "Hello, Cosmo," he said.
     "Joe mama," said Cosmo.
     "What did you say about my mama?" asked Kent.
     "I was diss'in her son, Rube," said Cosmo.
     Kent narrowed his eyes. He cocked his head and studied Cosmo.
"You pitiful excuse for coq au vin, are you talking to me?" he
demanded.
     "Word, man!" said Cosmo.
     "Why you green chicken, how dare you talk to me this way?"
Kent asked incredulously.
     "Joe mama," said Cosmo.
     And so it went.
     Party attendees report that the antagonism between Cosmo and
Ballard spiked like a fever throughout the weekend. They recount
how Ballard gleefully consumed all the cashew nuts in front of
Cosmo, laughing maniacally. Cosmo, they say, made several attempts
to dive-bomb Ballard. That act, say guests, lost much of its power
to intimidate because Cosmo, unfamiliar with the concept of
landing, crashed repeatedly into objects about the room and Ballard
easily escaped the attacks. All of this, of course, lends weight
to the suspicion that Mr. Ballard could well be capable of later
heinous acts, say party guests, who point to Mr. Ballard's obvious
hostility toward fowl as a whole.
     As near as later events can be recapped, it went something
like this:
                               ***
     Kent Ballard climbed into his van and turned it in the
direction of home, reflecting on his recent visit to the Chambers
home in Springfield, Virginia. All had gone relatively well, he
thought. In fact, except for those birds the Chambers were so fond
of, the company had been charming. He still didn't know why they
had seemed to like everyone but him, particularly that bird-from-
hell, Cosmo, but the feathered beasties were out of his life and
the problem of their owners, now.
     "CHUNK!" came a loud noise from the rear lower panel of his
van, and then, quickly, "CHUNK! CHUNK!" from the roof.
     "What the devil?" demanded Kent, slowing down to pull to the
side of the road and get out and look. As he stepped from the van,
a group of pigeons swooped near his head, causing him to duck and
lose his baseball cap. Immediately, one of the birds scooped it up
in its beak and flew off with it.
     "Damn!" said Kent as he moved to the rear to see if he could
tell what had hit his van. He saw nothing but a small, round dent
with a bit of the paint scraped away. Must have been some sort of
falling debris, he decided, looking heavenward just in time to get
bird dropping in his eye.
     "Shit, shit, shit," he hollered. And shit it was. His eye
burned, his head hurt and two more of those ominous "CHUNKS"
sounded nearby while he was trying to swab his eye out with a rag
he found in the van. His eye began to stream water from the residue
of gasoline on the rag and he cursed again. He dashed across the
street to the nearest filling station to wash out his eye, "CHUNKS"
sounding behind him like machine gun fire. What the devil was that,
he wondered again.
     He emerged from the service station restroom some thirty
minutes later, his eye red and inflamed but with partial visibility
restored, and gazed across the road at his van, which now looked
like one of those goosebump candies from a supermarket dispenser.
He noted a gaggle of birds, from swallow to seagull, seated on the
electric wires overhead, and watched as one after another dove
down, thunked a rock or tree branch into the van, and rose again
to its lofty perch. Where the van didn't poke out, it poked in. A
series of tiny scratches covered it, all but obscuring the color
of the paint. He stared in horror, decided this was some sort of
bad dream, and retired to the nearest go-go bar to slug back
several shots of Staggering Highlander and watch the nubile females
wrap their anatomies around mock fire poles.
     When he again emerged into the sunlight, he discovered there
was none. He peered at his watch and thought it said 10:30 p.m. He
decided he'd best hurry on home before Tess began to worry, and
made his unsteady way over to the driver's side of his what was
left of his van. He climbed into the front seat, fumbled with the
keys and a look of recollection dawned on his countenance.
     He remembered the trial and the words of his famous lawyer,
Cecelio Morales. "Do not, I repeat, do not attempt to operate a
motor vehicle under the influence in the future if you value your
gonads." Kent, who was inordinately committed to his gonads in
their present form, arrived at the befuddled conclusion that it was
wiser to rest a bit before attempting the journey home, and crept
between the front seats to recline on the sleeping bag which had
replaced the middle seats for just such an emergency. He removed
his boots and curled up.
     Soon, he was dreaming of a land where the only creature
capable of flight was himself and the crew of his World War II
aircraft. He smiled beatifically and emitted a tiny "snork," from
time to time.
                               ***
     The white jeep pulled to a stop behind Kent's van. Its
occupants, their faces smeared with bootblack, strapped on their
camouflage backpacks and emerged from the jeep, one creeping toward
the brush at the side of the road while the other approached the
van and peered into the windows. The second nodded to the first who
darted into the undergrowth and emerged giving a high sign. Both
crept back to the jeep to wait.
     Kent was awakened by the cries of a woman, obviously in
distress. His eyes flew open and he peered out the window. The
sounds seemed to be coming from a small forest area near the
roadside. Without further hesitation, Kent threw open the door of
the van and rushed headlong into the foliage, shouting his presence
and promising aid.
     In the jeep, the first camouflaged figure turned to the
smaller of the two and said, "Okay, you get the boots and I'll set
up the rest of it."
     The second blinked at the first.
     "What do you mean, how? You're a bird, stupid," Cosmo said to
Zack with great patience. "You can fly, remember?"
     Zack blinked twice.
     "Yeah, well, that landing thing isn't really a problem. Just
fly over there, swoop down and grab the boots and come back."
     Zack looked skeptical, but did as he was told. In the
meantime, Cosmo began to unload large garbage bags from the rear
of the jeep and proceeded to place the contents in and around the
van. He returned to the jeep and picked up the CB to radio for the
Highway Patrol. His call was interrupted by the
"Chunk...thud...thud...plop," of Zack's return.
     "Jeez, Zack, you have to make that chunk sound when you come
to a sudden stop?"
     Zack shook his head and blinked.
     "Yeah, well, the plop I expect. You almost always end up on
the floor but did you have to drop the boots? That "thud...thud"
really threw me for a minute," Cosmo complained as he snatched one
of the boots and hauled it into the jeep. An unsteady Zack grabbed
the other one, tumbling it and himself into the front seat and they
backed up and took off.
                               ***
     The screaming went on and Kent followed the sound, emerging
into a clearing where he found a tape recorder turned to high
volume. He strode over and snapped it off and the screaming
stopped. He peered around, saw nothing and returned to
his van, a disgusted frown on his face. He sat on the running board
and thought about it for a while.
     Finally, tired of contemplation and ready to be on the road
again, he reached for his boots. He stopped cold, fumbled in the
floor board of the van and finally turned on the interior light,
tossing the contents frantically about. Finally, he realized that
his boots had somehow mysteriously disappeared. He wondered what
he would tell the burly Highway Patrolman he saw pulling to a stop
beside his van and emerging from his patrol car about why he was
driving through the country in the middle of the night with no
shoes on. He wondered how he could get Cecelio's home phone number
in the middle of the night. He cast a baleful eye at the empties
Ruby had left in his truck the week before and wondered if he could
persuade the cop he was collecting aluminum for recycling.  "Could
I see your license, buddy?" asked the patrolman.
     Kent was determined to be polite and obedient, and he hastened
to hand over his license and smile innocently, stockinged feet and
all.
     "Step around to the back of the van, please," said the
officer, and Kent complied, his horrified eyes bugging when he saw
what awaited him. There, at the rear of his van, was an enormous
pile of what appeared to be dead ducks. He was sure they hadn't
been there when he'd pulled over.
     "Can you explain this?" asked the patrolman.
     Kent looked at the officer. He looked at the ducks. He thought
about his rifle which was mounted on a gunrack inside his van. He
thought about pleading insanity. He mutely held out his wrists.
                               ***
     "... a most startling arrest in Indianapolis tonight. The
accused resident, one Kent Ballard, was apprehended following what
was apparently a hunting excursion wherein he bagged far beyond the
legal limit of wild duck even during hunting season, which this is
not.  Ballard, whose van was badly battered and misshapen by what
police suspect were the falling bodies of the wild game as he shot
them, was apprehended in his stockinged feet, protesting his
innocence.
     "A police records check revealed Ballard was recently found
guilty on a concealed weapons charge and is free pending appeal by
his attorney, a Mr. Cecelio Morales, who, when reached for comment,
said "Are you kidding? That deadbeat didn't pay me for the last
trial. That gal from the first jury was right - they should hang
the bastard."
     "More on this story as it unfolds," said the beaming
television anchor.
     John and Lucia Chambers looked at one another.
     "Not surprising from a man who has no affinity with birds,
wouldn't you say?" asked John. Lucia shrugged.
     Cosmo, (one of the few birds who, you will remember, can),
grinned.
     The late night update brought further details on the arrest:
     "Accused mass duck murderer, Kent Ballard, continues to
protest his innocence, but police have revealed a videotape has
been received at police headquarters with damning evidence against
the accused. Here, now, is an excerpt from that tape:

     ...........................

"Uh, ladies and gentlemen, we seem to have some technical problems
with that tape. I can tell you that it clearly shows footprints
scattered all over the duck blind at the edge of town... prints
which police experts insist belong to the missing boots owned by
Mr. Ballard. Ballard insists he is still unable to account for the
whereabouts of those boots. Police predict they will be found, and
when found will match those prints and serve to convict Mr. Ballard
who will be breaking rocks in the hot, hot sun for a number of
years to come. Back to you, Marcia."
     John and Lucia looked at one another. Cosmo laughed. Zack and
Cosmo did a high five behind the Chambers's backs.
                               ***
     "He's a lovely man, much misunderstood," said Cecelio Morales
solemnly for the rolling television cameras. In response to
questions about his gratis representation, Mr. Morales refused to
confirm that Ballard had deeded over his home and property in lieu
of cash payment. As to the mysterious tape, however, Mr. Morales
had much to say.
     "Obviously, there is a conspiracy afoot to convict Mr. Ballard
via doctored videotape. I, personally, have been unable to verify
such evidence as I have been afforded several copies of the
purported tape which have all been blank. I will certainly make a
motion to suppress the introduction of this tape at any trial due
to my inability to view the evidence against the accused. In the
interim, Mr. Ballard remains incarcerated without bond, another
travesty of justice."
     Morales looked hurt. His soulful eyes begged the watching
audience to side with his client, who was obviously being
mistreated.
     "Have the missing boots been recovered?" asked the anchor,
thrusting the microphone beneath Cecelio's nose.
     "How should I know?" he asked the camera. "I can't even get
the evidence they claim they do have, so I will obviously be the
last to know about any new developments. It's a conspiracy, I tell
you. Why, I know friends of Mr. Ballard across the whole country
who have tried to obtain copies of the tape to no avail. I wonder
if they even have a tape. I wonder if the government is behind this
whole thing. I wonder if this is a plot masterminded by foreign
systems of government to disrupt the social and economic stability
of these United States. I wonder if the appraisal on Kent's house
will suffice to pay my costs."
                               ***
     "Guess what's for lunch!" invited the guard.
     "Not duck," Kent pled.
     "Rightarooni," said the guard. "Cook's fixed you a nice duck
salad and some lovely duck soup. There's a plate of roast duck with
duck-flavored dumplins, too. Later, he says he's gonna try a new
surprise recipe for you. Eat hearty!"
     Kent gagged.
                               ***
     "I'm afraid this is quite serious," Cecelio intoned to Kent
on a visit later that day.
     "Hey, man, you got my house, you got my cars, hell, for all
I know you got my wife. What more can you bleed me for? I'm
innocent, I tell you, innocent," Kent cried.
     "Be that as it may, the police report that they have recovered
the missing boots. It seems they just turned up on the doorstep of
the police station sometime during the night. They have matched the
prints to those found in the blind and even without the sometimes
here, sometimes not tape, they've got you dead to rights. Funny
thing, though, about those boots. They appear to have what looks
like bird beak indentations in the slip-on loops. Did they have
bird beak prints in them when you last saw them?"
     "I don't know," confessed a morose Ballard as the guard
appeared outside the cell with his dinner tray. He whipped the
cloth aside, took one look, and lifted a small container from the
corner of the tray. He turned to Cecelio.
     "Duck pudding?" he offered.

                                     -end-
                         Copyright (c) 1993 by Del Freeman