ANIMAL MAYHEM – Adult Fiction

FIC060000 FICTION / Humorous / Dark Humor; FIC037000 FICTION / Political – FIC052000; FICTION / Satire

72,000 words – approx. 280 pages

ANIMAL MAYHEM was my second attempt at writing a novel. It started as a short story, then became a screenplay, then a novel, then a screenplay again, then the first eight episodes of a television series, then a novel. That novel was a whopping 145,000 words which no agent wants to see from an unpublished author. So, I chopped that sucker into two separate volumes and made some adjustments to make that work. Here are the first two chapters:

CHAPTER 1 – The Legend of Perri Perrault

What makes the Legend of Perri Perrault a legend is subject to some debate. But all concerned will agree that it stems from her work in a relatively new unit in the United States Department of Agriculture’s Animal and Plant Health Inspection Service (APHIS). This new unit was called Department of Agriculture Special Operations Service (DOA-SOS). Perri and veteran inspector Harry Karr became the core of DOA-SOS when it was formed back in the heady days of shock and awe by USDA Field Supervisor, Jim Angerer.

 It was the mission of the specially-trained DOA-SOS teams to inspect animals on the farm, have them tested, and, if necessary, execute them on the spot. The official term for this was ‘Mass Depopulation & Euthanasia,’ what the elite inspectors of the DOA-SOS fondly called ‘Animal Mayhem.’

Now, there are various versions of a number of events involving Perri Perrault that circulate through the ranks of those working in the USDA. And perhaps that itself is what makes the legend. As for any single event that could explain it, one possibility could be the story of when she put herself between a charging bull and her crew. She brought the angry animal down with six shots to the forehead. As he lay breathing his last, she delivered the coup de grace, then paid the farmer out of her own pocket because the bull had not actually been sick and was therefore not subject to the extermination order.

It could also have been the story of how she noticed during a Senate-induced government shutdown, a mistake in the test results from a private contractor’s lab that would have allowed a flock of despondent-looking Muscovy ducks to survive long enough for market. Instead, she correctly diagnosed, on the spot, the presence of Duck Virus Enteritis and proceeded to ring the necks of thirty birds herself rather than wait for the extermination crew to arrive. She then dispatched a flock of twenty-eight geese on the premises as a prophylactic measure. When the feathers settled, she and Harry determined to make it their policy to conduct all future testing themselves. All other DOA-SOS teams soon followed suit and the practice became standard operating procedure.

But most people in the know will tell you that the Legend of Perri Perrault centers on the story of a November, 2016 bar-room brawl between inspectors of the DOA-SOS and agents of the U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation. The rumble took place in an establishment just outside of Lenah, Virginia called Ring of the Nibbling, a tapas bar run by a German expat named Gunther Habib Santiago. While a group of DOA-SOS inspectors were enjoying a peaceful repast, several rowdy members of the FBI descended on the joint for a post-election celebration feast of beer and sausages. It was Perri Perrault’s creative invective concerning the sartorial habits of long-gone FBI director J. Edgar Hoover, and her disparagement of the then-current FBI director and his pre-election indiscretions that brought the FBI agents to drop their knockwursts and unwisely confront those trained in the science of animal mayhem.

When the smoke, the alcohol, and the mist of expelled bodily fluids had cleared, Perri stood as tall as her five-foot two frame could take her atop the bar, with scarab green eyes blazing, and her foes laid out like so many limp bratwursts. Every other bureau in the then still-functioning Department of Justice turned a blind eye to the episode and charges were never filed against anyone involved.

Recently, however, there have been rumors of a new story that just might take the cake. The event occurred down at Heckton’s Goat Ranch in Seymour, Texas on a chilly, gray day in March of the following year, with the new administration not yet a hundred days old. There isn’t much in Seymour, Texas. Goats, mostly. And at Heckton’s, it turned out the goats were in a bad way. Harry and Perri’s test results proved it: Caseous Lymphadenitis, otherwise known as CL. One old billy goat chewed a mouthful of weeds as he watched the proceedings and he appeared to be more than a little pissed off. A rifle shot rang out. The billy goat flinched and shook his head.

Not far away, Harry Karr stood in the barnyard mud. At seventy years of age, Harry was in unusually good shape for a man with his eating and drinking habits. He managed to pull off, with style, wearing dark blue rubber galoshes with his midnight blue suit, powder blue shirt, and teal necktie. In his gloved hands he held his weapon of choice, a vintage 1903 Springfield rifle.

Harry chambered another round into the Springfield’s breech and coolly took aim at a very sick-looking goat. He fired and the targeted goat crumpled into the mud next to another freshly-killed animal.

The billy goat had just about had enough. He lowered his head and narrowed his eyes. Harry chambered another round. The billy goat reared back and charged.

Uncharacteristically unaware of the danger, Harry leveled his rifle at another goat, one with open sores. As he squeezed the trigger, the billy goat made solid contact and knocked Harry off his feet. The shot went wild.

Harry landed in the mud with a loud smack, his thigh ripped open from crotch to knee. He looked at the gushing wound and cursed a blue streak. The billy goat wheeled around for another pass. Harry reached for his muddy Springfield. The billy goat reared back and, CRACK, flopped dead to the ground.

Harry lay there in the mud, panting, his hand just touching the stock of his rifle. A pair of muddy, dark green galoshes stepped into his line of sight and he looked up with a smile. “Thanks, partner,” he said.

Perri Perrault, in turn, smiled down at her stricken comrade. Half his age, she wore a similarly stylish conservative dark suit, except hers matched her eyes, eyes of a green so dark one had to look sideways to catch the tint. A Beretta Mini Cougar hung loosely in her right hand, smoke curling from the barrel.

“My pleasure, partner,” she said as she knelt to take a look at Harry’s bleeding leg. “That’s a bad one, Harry. Could lay you up for a while.”

Harry grunted. “Lay me up, hell. You know I’m no good in a hospital. They’ll kill me there. Slow. The infections’ll set in, then the drugs to treat the infections, then the organ failure from the drugs, then more drugs to help the organs, then more infections. Pneumonia, for fuck’s sake. They’ll probably take the damn leg off anyway once it’s as green and rotten as a Grade D charter school cafeteria burger. You wouldn’t let me go through that, partner.” He shook his head sadly. “I’m spavined, Perri. You saw an old workhorse on his knees in the traces, you wouldn’t just give him a sugar cube and walk on, would you?”

Perri’s gut tightened and she looked into her mentor’s pale blue eyes. “You taught me everything I know, partner. You and Jim.”

Harry pushed a lock of steel-grey hair off his forehead with the back of his least muddy hand. “Then you know what to do.”

She did indeed know what to do. Perri straightened up and aimed her pistol at Harry’s forehead. He smiled at her and said, “You know I’d do the same for you.”

“Yes, you would, partner.” And, as the story goes, Perri delivered the coup de grace and Harry fell back into the mud. Then, they say, Perri turned and did not look back as she popped a round into the head of the last goat standing and left the enclosure, passing a nearby waiting dump truck where her crew of Tyvek-suited DOA workers stood staring, slack-jawed. It’s said that as she strode past them, Perri ordered, “Let’s cover it up!”

According to the story, Perri then holstered her Mini Cougar and climbed into her black sedan, a Chevrolet Impala with government plates. And as she drove away, legend has it, the workers moved to spread lime over a barnyard full of dead goats. And Harry.

Anyway, that’s how they say it happened in the latest chapter of the Legend of Perri Perrault.

CHAPTER 2 – Cabrito

Once he had been informed of Harry Karr’s fate, newly-promoted Field Operations Director Jim Angerer traced Perri Perrault to the vicinity of Wichita Falls, Texas, where she and her crew had been holed up for three days. Jim flew into Dallas/Fort Worth airport and drove north by northwest in a rented Ford Expedition. Black, of course.

Just past the city limits of Wichita Falls, Angerer let up on the gas. There, on the edge of nowhere he spotted half a dozen prancing, smiling, neon goats clambering across the shingled roof of a hopping little joint called Hilly Billy’s Goat Stop Restaurant. He pulled his rented Expedition into the crowded asphalt parking lot and found a space next to Perri Perrault’s Impala, so dusty it looked gray instead of black. He looked down with something like pity at the sedan. All the other vehicles in the lot seemed to be shunning the mileage-worn car and Jim marveled somewhat at how a machine like that could look so sad and lonely and pugnacious all at the same time.

He stepped out of his vehicle just as the dusk-to-dawn lights flickered on. Jim Angerer was a few years younger than Harry Karr but, with his somewhat sallow complexion and graying blonde hair, looked about the same age. His eating and drinking habits had helped him develop a bit of padding in the mid-section. It was Jim who had set the fashion standard for DOA-SOS inspectors by wearing a simple black suit and tie, with matching socks and underwear, set off with a bright white dress shirt. It was all moderately priced and off the rack. Until recent events had made it necessary to do otherwise, he had never been seen wearing anything else when on the People’s payroll.

When Ms. Lola Heet, a wealthy anti-government donor to the most recent presidential campaign, was nominated to be Secretary of Agriculture, Jim followed the confirmation proceedings closely, and wondered when it would be his turn to head the department he had come to call home. The information that came out in those confirmation hearings lifted his spirits. Surely the powers that be would realize this nominee had so many conflicts of interest it would be impossible for her to run the Department fairly and efficiently. Surely, they would turn to someone with integrity and experience, someone who cared more about the work the Department did for the People of the United States of America than they did about its political power or potential for personal profit.

When Lola Heet was passed out of committee to a vote of the full Senate, a guarantee that she would be confirmed to the position of Secretary of Agriculture, Jim Angerer disappeared for 72 hours.

Just in time for Lola Heet’s swearing in, Jim re-appeared with a gift for his new boss—a small, exotically cute dog of mixed parentage which he was told had been custom-bred in a Florida laboratory. His new black suit was tailored and he had replaced his off the rack bright white shirt with an imported Italian one of deep, dark, purple. Impressed by his couture, Heet took Jim and the dog home with her that night to celebrate in the Secretary’s private cottage at the Federal Farm.

Now, standing in the parking lot of Hilly Billy’s, Jim reached past his purple Armani shirt into the inner pocket of his tailored black jacket and took out a slim, black leather cigar case. He slipped a fresh Baccarat Churchill out of the case, clipped it, and clamped it between his teeth. Chewing on the cigar, he walked over to the edge of the parking lot where a DOA-SOS dump truck sat with its windows open. He smiled at the occupants. The red-haired woman at the driver’s side window, Josephine Vance, waved at him with a half-eaten slice of pizza. “Hello there, Mr. Angerer!”

“Hello, Jo, whaddaya know?” He pulled himself up level with the window and nodded at the other DOA workers: Gary Enders, the young blond-haired fellow in the middle he knew to be a backhoe operator, and Terry Brinker, the slightly older black man in the passenger seat he knew to be the driver of the flatbed that hauled the backhoe from job to job. “Brinker, Enders, and Vance,” he said, nodding to them in turn. They all nodded back. “Is that pizza? Does Perri know you’re eating that?”

“Three days, sir,” said Brinker. “Three days she’s been bringing us to this place, lunch and dinner. There’s only so much goat a man can eat in three days.”

“Or a woman, either.” Jo winked and took another bite of pepperoni and onions.

Gary held up his slice and said, “We’re not even sure she’s aware we’ve been tagging along since that job at Heckton’s. She just kinda nods and grunts when she catches sight of us. It’s like somethin’s died inside her.” The other two stopped eating and looked at him. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry. Some things are better left unsaid, I suppose.” And he stuffed half the slice of pizza into his mouth.

Jo Vance turned to Jim Angerer. “It would be nice to know if we’re re-assigned or off to the next job site or, well, just what we’re supposed to do now that Harry’s no longer with us.”

Jim patted the truck door with his hand. “Don’t you worry. There’ll be plenty of work for you. Just stick close to Perri and let her know you’re still around.”

Terry Brinker spoke up. “That’s the trouble, I think. We seem to remind her too much of Harry.”

“Well. She’ll just have to make her peace with that, won’t she?” Jim climbed down off the truck and brushed a bit of lime off his jacket as he headed for the restaurant’s front door.

Inside Hilly Billy’s Goat Stop Restaurant, Perri sat alone at a table with two chairs. For three days straight, this had been her table. Each day around noon she had come in from the nearby Gruff’s Motel and ordered half the goat dishes on the menu. In the evenings, she had come in and ordered whatever goat dishes she didn’t have for lunch. For the third night in a row, she forked some goat chili into her mouth and chewed. It still tasted pretty damn good.

Jim Angerer walked through the door and spotted Perri right away. He strolled up to her table and took the cigar out of his mouth. Perri swallowed her chili and greeted him. “Hello Jim.”

“Hello, kid,” he said. Perri looked down at her plate.

Angerer pulled the empty chair back from the table. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Not there,” she said. “That chair’s for Harry.”

He nodded. “Of course.” He pushed the chair back into place and grabbed one from another table. He sat and pointed his cigar at the food. “Is that—?”

“Goat. It’s all they serve here.” She pointed out the various dishes. “We got Texas barbecued goat, curried goat kabobs, um, Cabrito jalapeno wraps, and goat meat chili. The chili’s pretty good, but the kabobs are the best I’ve ever had. Help yourself.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” He stowed his cigar inside its leather case and filled a plate with goat kabobs. He took a healthy bite and smiled. “That is really good.”

“Isn’t it?”

“The secret must be in the spice rub; don’t you think?”

Perri shook her head. “Nah, that’s not it. It’s the goats.”

Jim looked at her and cocked an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Yep. Happy goats.”

He chuckled and took another bite, talking with his mouth full. “Happy goats.”

“Happy, happy goats,” she said, her voice tinged with melancholy.

The two federal agents sat silently for a while, chewing their food as the restaurant bustled around them. Many happy goats were disappearing into the maws of many happy diners. Pretty much everyone was having a good old time, except maybe Perri Perrault. She took a bite of a Cabrito jalapeno wrap and had trouble swallowing. She coughed and washed it down with a big draught of beer, straight from the nearly-empty pitcher.

Jim watched as she caught her breath. Was that a tear in the corner of her eye? Probably from the jalapeno. He cleared his throat and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “I’m very sorry to hear about Harry.”

“Yeah,” she belched. “He should have seen that goat coming.”

“Should have retired from the field long ago, but he always said he wanted to die with his boots on. Refused every cushy desk job ever offered him.”

Perri nodded. “That’s Harry all right.” She picked up a braised goat shank. “On duty to the end,” she said, and ripped a chunk of meat off the shank with her teeth.

Jim sat back and watched her eat. It made him recall the time Harry had taken her out into the field in Iowa on their first SOS assignment. Jim had joined them later at Bubba Joe’s Pork Palace in Osceola where Harry had already ordered a table full of porky goodness. As he pulled up a chair, Jim asked, “Well, Harry! How did our rookie do on her first job?”

Harry smiled with pride and said, “Put those hogs down like a pro. Didn’t flinch once.”

At this, Perri, only slightly green at the gills, spoke up. “Well, I don’t know, Harry. I might be flinching now. Seems kind of odd to be eating pork after we euthanized that drift today.”

Harry shook his head. “Oh now, Perri, you’re looking at it all wrong.”

“You haven’t told her yet, have you?” Jim asked.

“Just getting to it when you arrived. You see, Perri, this is an old tradition of ours, Jim and me. The point is to pick a restaurant or diner or roadside stand that specializes in whatever type of animal we put down that day. It’s a celebration of our work—getting rid of the diseased and lame so the happy, healthy specimens can make their way from barnyard to plate and the public can feel secure in the knowledge that what they’re eating is only the best.”

“There’s an invocation that goes with it, too,” Jim added.

“That’s right!” Harry picked up a meaty spare rib. “Out with the bad meat, in with the good.” He bit into the dark, caramelized crust and tore off a choice bit of slow-cooked pork. “Mm, mm, mm! That is one happy pig!”

They all dug in and Perri declared, “I think I can get used to this.”

Then, it was all laughter and good cheer all around. But now, as Jim watched her, Perri didn’t look like she was celebrating happy goats. She seemed to be eating for revenge on the goat that had gored her friend and mentor. Her masticatory efforts gave one the sense that she was determined to eat the entire species into extinction. Jim sighed and pushed his plate away. “How are you holding up, kiddo?”

Perri chewed while she talked. “Fine.” She paused for a moment and added, “A little shaky, maybe.” She resumed chewing. “Fine.”

“As much as he wanted to go out his way, it must have been hard for you to do what you had to.”

Perri shook her head. “Nooo. It was easy. Kinda scary easy.” The waitress set a fresh pitcher of beer on the table. Perri poured two glasses and set one in front of her boss. He looked at it with some suspicion. “Sorry, there’s no Scotch,” she said. “They only serve beer and soda here.”

“Is the beer imported?”

“Unlikely.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be okay,” he said and took a sip of the brew. No, it wasn’t okay. He set the glass aside and pulled out his cigar.

Perri smiled. “You didn’t come here just to comfort me, did you?”

“Lola sent me.”

Perri almost choked again and had to drain her glass to recover. She wheezed at him, “Secretary Heet?”

“Uh huh.” Jim pushed his beer toward her and she drank it down. “I’ll give this to you straight, kiddo. You’re getting a new partner.”

Perri smacked the empty glass down onto the table top. “Nope.”

“Yep.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. I know you’d like to think of yourself as the Lone Ranger of the Ag Department now because you believe that Harry was the only one who could keep up with you. But you’re too valuable an asset for us to let you keep to yourself. You need to pass on the wisdom of your experience.” She stared at him with eyes wide. He tilted his head. “You do want the Department to benefit from the wisdom of your experience, don’t you?”

“But Harry is the only partner I’ve ever had.”

“Harry’s out of the picture now. And how do you think he felt taking you under his wing when you were still learning to stamp hams? Now you either take a new partner or I won’t be able to protect your job.”

“What about the wisdom of my experience?”

Angerer chomped down on his cigar. “My way or the highway, Inspector Perrault.”

Perri pushed her dishes of food away and stared at the table top. Her job. The most important thing in her life was her job.

Jim sighed and shook his head. “Sorry, kiddo. I know you love your work. But the Department is in a bad spot, and I don’t need benighted mavericks roaming America’s Heartland in search of their own personal Sangreal. I need people I can count on to do what I ask.”

Perri’s heart fluttered and she looked up with concern in her eyes. “The department’s in trouble?”

Angerer bit down harder on his cigar. “Private contractors,” he growled.

Perri hissed, “Loyal to none.”

Jim pulled out his silver and black Zippo and glanced around. “They allow smoking in here?”

“You’re a gun-totin’ straight white male in Texas. It’s my guess you can do whatever the hell you want.”

He shrugged and lit the Churchill in his mouth. When he had it glowing nicely, he flipped the lid of the Zippo shut and put it back in his pocket. “More and more of our funding is going to those leeches every day. In our latest budget, money for inspection and enforcement has been slashed to the bone. But they’ve allocated billions for hiring contractors to do the job. There’s serious talk of privatizing the entire Department of Agriculture. I need you, kiddo.”

Perri felt a warmth growing in her chest. She looked at her boss with moist eyes. He puffed out a huge volume of blue smoke and said, “Your country needs you.”

That did it. All her defenses were down. Perri was ready to do anything Jim Angerer asked of her. “Christ, Jim. You know I can’t say no to my country. Or to you. Hell, I owe my career to you.”

Jim smiled and refilled their beer glasses. He grimaced and hoisted his brew in a toast. “Whaddaya say, then? To a continued career with a new partner?”

Perri’s chest swelled with patriotic pride. “It’s my duty, sir.” Accepting the toast, she picked up her glass, quaffed her beer and slapped the glass onto the table. Jim pretended to take a sip before setting his glass down. Perri wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and asked, “Now what can you tell me about the new guy?”

Jim leaned back in his chair and took the cigar out of his mouth. “Ah, well. The boy is a little strange, if you ask me, but a good civil servant. Started out as a produce inspector.”

“Boy? How old is this fella?”

Jim shrugged. “Damned if I know. You can ask him yourself. He’ll join you after he graduates from the Farm next month.”

“A rookie?” Perri’s voice had pitched up an octave.

“Not a complete rookie, just new to livestock. He’s been re-trained.”

“A rookie!” she squeaked again.

“Well, hell, Perri, you’re the senior partner now. You can teach the young man. I mean, he is teachable, handpicked by Secretary Lola Heet herself. That should count for something.”

Perri lowered her head a little and muttered, “Haven’t met the new secretary yet. I wouldn’t know.”

“Aw, she’s a great gal. You’ll meet her soon. Meanwhile, I don’t think you’ll have any trouble with Gilbert Montoya.” He puffed on his cigar and considered for a moment. Then he lowered his voice and said, “Still, like I said, the boy is strange. You should be careful. It couldn’t hurt.”

Perri nodded and stood up from the table. “Okay. I’ll keep an eye on him. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll head into the kitchen.”

“What for?”

“You were right to think it was the spice rub made those kebabs so good. Tastes like something special. I think I’ll find out just what it is the chef uses.”

Jim Angerer puffed on his cigar and watched his most dedicated inspector wend her way to the kitchen. He considered just how loyal and duty-bound the woman was. He had no doubt she would do damn near anything he asked or ordered so long as she believed it was in service to her country. So long as she trusted him, he could make use of her. Beyond that . . . A wave of creeping self-disgust surged up from his belly and he had to hold back the bile. Figuring that good food was always a welcome remedy for what ails a body, he flagged down a waitress and asked for a doggy bag.

The waitress looked at Jim and asked, “Everything okay here?”

“Sure,” he said. “I’d just like a go box, please.”

She squinted at the cigar-smoking stranger. “You mean a goat box, right?”

“Okay.” And Jim smiled a little, something that never hurts, really, under the right circumstances.

Reassured, the waitress smiled back and nodded. “One goat box coming up.”

Once he had his goat box, Jim loaded it with kebabs. Without waiting for Perri to return from the kitchen, he left Hilly Billy’s Goat Stop Restaurant in a cloud of blue smoke.