A Mortifying Sequential Camel Rodeo.

I don't know how long I was out, but when I came to, I struggled to pull myself up using the edge of the card table for leverage. Surely, it must have been a bad dream. But alas, the bird cage door was still open, the shoebox was on the table, and the sounds of, " Like A Virgin," drifted across the driveway from Betty Lou's trailer.

I peered in the shoebox, the feathers belonging to Lupe's nearly bald ass were still there, I picked one of them up and stroked it recapturing memories of how I would hold him upside down and use him as a backscratcher. "Oh, Lupe'," I whispered. I put the happy memories on hold and plucked the letter from the bottom of the shoebox.

Dear Parrot Guy,

 The proof is in the Polaroids. So far, your little friend is doing fine. In fact, one of the girls has taken a real liking to him. Ha Ha. I'll warn you again don't go to the cops. Tomorrow night, 7 o'clock, behind the 7-11 on Franklin there's a dumpster behind the store. Behind the dumpster and the fence there will be a package. Come alone or else your bird will be in a roasting pan.

Clyde

President

Satan's Road Rash Rangers

The letter shook in my fingers when I looked at the crude pencil drawing at the bottom of the letter. They drew a picture of a stick figure bird on its back in a roasting pan. Several stick people were surrounding the bird whose eyes were like this: X X. The smiling stick figures all had big ")" on their faces, and were clutching knives and forks. One, I could only surmise was of the female gender, had words floating out of her mouth. "Happy Thanksgiving Everyone." Two stick guys were about to fight, and one of them said, " I get first dibs on the beak."

I had to do something, time was running out. The cops were out of the question. I moved quickly to the living room and picked up the phonebook. The cover was ripped off, just more memories of Lupe' to fill the empty void. I turned to the yellow pages, and searched for detectives. The yellow pages then directed me to Private Investigators, which then directed me again to Investigators. Finally, I found what I was looking for, and I followed my finger down the small list of names. Actually, I stopped at the B's.

My nervous fingers dialed and I held the phone to my ear. It was dead. I felt a sense of panic fill me. Then I noticed the curly cord was severed, two pieces of black electrical tape dangled limp from both ends. Another memory of Lupe's antics. I'd nearly forgotten it was him who chewed through the cord, and my attempt to fix it wasn't as long lasting as I hoped. I had no tape left. There were signs of its usage all around the small trailer. Several pictures of me and Lupe' celebrating Christmas hung on the walls, held fast by the black tape. Oh, those were happier moments. My heart fell, realizing I would have to use Betty Lou's phone.

I shuddered at the thought, and shuddered even more, when her loud music pounded from the front porch of her trailer. Her gutteral bawling voice showed signs that her Budweiser was nearly finished. The slurring words as she joined in the singing burned my ears. " Come and get your love, come and get your love," she sang twice as loud as Redbone. I only knew the band's name because her three boys were with her pretending they were disc jockeys.

I hung up the useless phone, and turned slowly. A man's got to do what a man's got to do. I wondered to myself if Breedlove Detective Agency could possibly be of any help. I jotted down the number on a beer stained paper coaster, and shuffled toward the door.

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