“Holy shit it’s hot,” Randy muttered out loud, with his eyes closed. Randy’s brain was drawing blanks as it tried to implement a tracking system on his current whereabouts. The only facts he could string together was that he was currently face down on what he felt to be cement or some type of stone. He could hear a noise that resembled a bird flying by, over and over. From the pounding in his head he figured tequila had played a large roll in his current state of lethargy and apathy. He tried feverishly to open one eye but that proved to be a most difficult task. Basically the only thing he knew for sure was that his name is Randy.
Now he heard buzzing, like flies, and his nose produced some evidence to the brain that he was near cow manure. He could make out the panting of a dog, and heard it start to whine like it was nervous. Then he heard a voice unfamiliar to him.
“Wyoming? Ya facker! I hate Wyoming. Ain’t never been here but I can tells ya, I facking hate it. Ain’t no humans sposed to live in this desolate ass shit.”
That shitty English and accent could only be one person: Chris Buttered Biscuits Quin. Randy’s brain zeroed in on everything, all at once — they had found him. Imagine the most validated “Fuck” you have ever given in your life. This was the alcoholic Minotaur mother of that Fuck. Randy had also deduced that tequila was not to blame, Buttered Biscuits Quin had hit him in the face with a shovel… typical Quin.
Quin usually sent his minions to handle tasks of reigning in rogue employees but he was bored. While he let the professionals find Randy, he wanted to embark on an adventure and prove to himself that he was still a viable threat to his enemies.
“You need a new shovel ass face” Quin laughed through his golden teeth. “Also, quit trying to open your eyes. If I remember correctly that will take 4 days, 4 days you ain’t got ya facker.”
Randy was pissed at himself. He knew Buttered Balls Quill, as he referred to Chris, had found him through his email account. Randy had received an email on his dormant account from his mother and the subject box read “Daughter needs braces”. Randy did not have a daughter. This was the code Randy’s mother was told to use if a major issue arose on their land or bank account in the township of Clevslamnickel. Without thinking, Randy responded and took care of the circumstances that had his mother in tears. When all was said and done, Randy had sent 23 emails in total, making it easy as pie to locate him on his ranch in Wyoming, which was titled under the pseudo company name of Barbarian Chested Chicken Lickers. He thought is was hilarious and knew nobody would ever find him there. Hell, he didn’t even have a single chicken on that ranch.
“Ain’t gonna lie Quin, I don’t want to die. I have no alternate scenarios that would benefit you enough to change your mind ’bout killin’ me. I don’t regret what I did, but I sure regret it was your tenacious ass that I crossed.” Randy had a fault, it was speaking the blunt truth in situations where a lie might serve as a better accomplice than truth,
“I admire your stupidity Randy. I will say that you are neither handsome or smart. Lucky for you I ain’t one to go after your whole family, just watching you suffer satisfies my evil muse.” Quin was enjoying every half second of this situation.
Randy knew big Bob was coming by shortly for his weekly talk on world matters and philosophy type shit. Truth is, Randy brews a wicked cup of java from special beans that he imports from Kompot, a village in Cambodia, mainly know for its pepper. That’s black pepper, like for eggs and mashed potatoes, not green peppers, like for omelets. The Khmeri farmers would send some of that pepper with each bag of beans. Bob carries a .44 magnum and a first aid kit everywhere he goes. Randy knew that either big Bob or Buttered Balls Quill was going to die today. Whichever one lived would greatly affect his current short-term plans.
Quin was lighting a cigar with a hundred-dollar bill from Randy’s wallet when he heard the blaring of a song he absolutely despised. It was Stairway to Heaven and Quin knew someone was going to die before Randy. “Anyone playing that shit has to die!” exclaimed Buttered Biscuits Quin, and he meant it.
Randy lay there on the barn floor, smelling manure and listening to the barn swallows whiz by his head and the blaring of the music. Bob usually listened to Whitesnake, but Led Zepplin was not too far-fetched for him. Randy’s heart was pounding as he waited to hear the shots ring out in the cool November air.
Quin was blazing in no time and Randy counted 4 shots. “Please let there be return fire,” Randy was praying. There was none. Randy knew he had to get up but as he stood the realization that Quin had broken his legs hit him like lava incinerating a sapling. “Fuck… I am fucked, totally fucking fucked… fuck!” Randy’s painful cries floated through the dust particles that exploited the sun’s early morning entrance.
Randy then heard the barn door screech open on the rusty track. “My, my, my, you done pissed someone off young man,” a woman’s voice rattled in Randy’s head.
“Who’s there? Who are you? Don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me.” Randy could not place the voice, it simply was not what he was expecting and his mind went haywire searching for a match between the voice and his short-term memory.
“Now why would I kill a man I never met?” asked the scratchy voice. She sounded older. She was either in her seventies or spent her entire life smoking and drinking straight whisky.
“Who are ya mam? And what happened to Buttered Biscuits Quin?” Randy was calming down a bit, but still worried.
“My name is Beatrice Longfellow Kode, I am friends with big Bob. He told me to meet him here for the best coffee I have ever had and some polite conversation. From the way I was greeted I feel Bob may be an asshole or an assassin. I known him a long time, he’s my son. I ain’t got no will so I don’t why he is trying to kill me!”
“Beatrice, that man was here for me. It’s bad timing on your part, that’s all. I did not here you fire a shot, how did you kill him?” Randy was in pain but was worried about Buttered Biscuits Quin.
“I didn’t kill him and he ain’t dead. He slipped on some cow shit and knocked himself out. Those fancy alligator shoes have no place on a farm, ain’t got no traction. That boy is dumber than an uneducated rock.”
Just then Randy hears Whitesnake blaring and knows big Bob has arrived. “MAMA!!! Where are you? Holy shit toads, is that man dead? Stupid shoes he’s wearing. Ma! Randy!” big Bob made his way to the barn. “Holy cats Randy, you’re in bad shape. cow kick you?”
“Shovel kicked me Bob. Please call an ambulance and the police and tie that other dude up.” Randy passed out, it was just too much for him to handle and he was dehydrated.
When Randy awoke he was in the local hospital and big Bob was there. Bob explained that Buttered Biscuits Quin had actually died when he slipped in the cow shit and hit his head. The town was hailing Beatrice as a hero and she relished in it. Her bad timing had turned into free breakfast for life at the Hoof and Cow Cafe off of County road 6. The owners, Ethel and Chuck, figured she would bring in a large crowd, and she did.
Randy took a while to recover and never walked without a cane, but he was alive, by the miracle of Beatrice jamming Stairway to Heaven. Beatrice showed up every morning for coffee, and the two of them became best friends. They had so much in common, living being the most essential.