Crazy Town

By James T. Morrow

While driving through Nevada, Ginger and her son, Rusty, give a ride to an old cowboy named Timothy Quigley. Things get a little crazy after that.
First, Quigley claims his dog, Bumper, is inhabited by a creature from outer space. Then Quigley’s nephew, Billy Joe, catches up to them and they all wind up in jail, including Ginger.
After Rusty finds out that his wealthy grandmother, Abigail Hardwick, is trying to steal him away from his mom, Rusty and Bumper—yes, the dog—break Ginger and Quigley out of jail.
Soon there’s an insane chase across three states, involving the police and a very nasty private detective. After that...well, you get the idea...let’s just say, things get a little crazy.
So, hop on board and take a ride to CRAZY TOWN, a novel by James T. Morrow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James T. Morrow
• Release date: Sep 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463639580

James T. Morrow

James T. Morrow is a published novelist. For the past twenty-plus years he's primarily made a living as an artist/ illustrator. He lives in the coastal community of Pacifica, just south of San Francisco.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Wake up, Rusty, Ginger said. Or your face is going to be blue.

Ginger smiled as she sat across the booth from her ten year old son. It was six-thirty in the morning and they were finishing a breakfast of blueberry pancakes. But Rusty kept nodding off and she was afraid he was about to plop face-down in blueberry syrup.

They sat in Roscoe’s Cafe, part of a truck-stop along Highway 50, near Austin, Nevada. Ginger glanced out the window at the parking lot and spotted a lone blue pickup dwarfed among several big rigs. An elderly man was sitting up in the pickup’s truck bed. At one point a dog lifted itself onto its back paws at the rear of the pickup and stared at the man.

Ginger turned to tell Rusty to finish his milk, letting both the man and the dog slip from her mind. She wouldn’t recall the moment until later in the afternoon when she sat in the back of a patrol car wearing handcuffs. She certainly had no idea at that moment the gray-haired man in the pickup was about to change her life.

Rusty—even without falling face-down—already had blueberry syrup smeared around his mouth. So, Ginger dipped a napkin in a glass of water and cleaned his face. The cold water did little to fully wake him.

After paying at the register, Ginger bought herself a cup of coffee for the road. When she asked Rusty if he wanted anything he blinked at her sleepily before saying, A bag of Oreo cookies would hit the spot.

Ginger chuckled, shook her head and talked him down to a single Milky Way candy bar.

In addition to the cafe, Roscoe’s Truck-Stop sold gas, of course, as well as snacks at a small market and it also featured a motel, which was where Ginger and Rusty had spent the night.

She checked out of the motel and put their luggage in the trunk. As Ginger stepped to the driver’s side she glanced at her watch and figured, with any luck, they’d make it to her mother-in-law’s house by about one or two in the afternoon.

She tossed her shoulder bag onto the back seat and climbed into her nine year old Honda. After reminding Rusty to buckle up, Ginger turned the key and listened to the car cough itself to life in the morning air. Revving at last, she began backing out of the parking spot.

RAP-PAP-PAP!

Oh, no-no-no, Ginger said.

What was that? Rusty asked, now fully awakened by the noise.

That, Rusty, was the sound of money escaping from my purse.

Chapter 2

Around the time Ginger and Rusty were finishing their breakfast, Quigley had opened his eyes.

He squinted into the sun and realized he was lying in the back of a pickup truck. A couple of beer cans lay nearby.

At the age of sixty-nine, Quigley’s days of drinking to excess were pretty much behind him. Over the years he’d woken up in all kinds of places, both at home in Texas and across the country during his rodeo days. He’d woken up in various jail cells a few times. Plus in various alleys behind bars. He’d woken up along the side of a road, passed out in his old Ford Mustang a half dozen times. Woken up both in his front yard and on his front porch seven or eight times. And, before he was married, he’d woken up several times in various women’s beds.

But the back of a pickup? Well, that hadn’t happened since he’d traveled the rodeo circuit, thirty years earlier.

And, hell, he didn’t even remember getting drunk. One beer. That’s all he remembered.

He started to sit up but found he couldn’t move his hands. He looked down and was dumbfounded to find his hands were tied together with rope. And not just his hands. The rope stretched down his legs and was tied around his stocking feet.

Hell and tarnation, Quigley whispered. I just woke up in Crazy Town.

The rope didn’t stop at his legs; it snaked off behind him so Quigley turned stiffly and saw Billy Joe snoozing next to him. Billy Joe was his sister’s grandson which made him, what?—Quigley’s grand nephew. But they had always referred to each other as uncle and nephew. The kid was sawing wood loud enough to wake the bones of Julius Caesar. The rope from Quigley’s legs was tied in knots around Billy Joe’s waist.

Why you no good son of the devil, Quigley said.

Billy Joe was in his mid-twenties. A good looking kid with ice-blue eyes, dark hair and a strong chin hidden beneath a full beard. Pulled down over his face was a stylish cowboy hat which looked new. Hell, all his clothes looked new. Right down to his cowboy boots with the fancy red inlay.

They must have paid the boy to come after me, Quigley thought. All that talk yesterday about bumping into me by accident was a sham.

Quigley figured his younger sister or maybe even his daughter had paid the kid to track him down and drag his ass back to Texas. Just so they could put him back into that old folks home. Or, God forbid, someplace even worse.

He dug around for his pocket knife but realized the kid must have swiped it after he’d fallen asleep. So, carefully Quigley pushed aside a couple of more beer cans and felt the outside of Billy Joe’s pockets. He spotted something peeking out of one pocket and pulled it out, gently so he wouldn’t wake the boy. It wasn’t a knife; it was a box. A box of over-the-counter medicine.

Sominex! Quigley gasped as he read the label.

No wonder he didn’t remember drinking more than one beer. The kid had doped his beer with damned sleeping pills.

Well, I ain’t about to be shanghaied by some snot-nosed kid, Quigley told himself.

He pocketed the sleeping pills, thinking if he failed to get away in the next few minutes, they might come in handy later. Quigley continued his search but didn’t find his pocket knife inside Billy Joe’s pants. Hell, he didn’t even find a nail clipper. He did find the boy’s keys and managed to pull them from his pocket, thinking there might be a small pen knife attached. But no such luck.

Quigley sat up, groaning from stiff joints after having slept on rigid metal all night. Billy Joe stirred and Quigley froze, afraid he’d accidentally tugged on the rope around the boy’s waist. But Billy Joe only shifted on top of his sleeping bag and continued snoring.

Quigley glanced around. Billy Joe’s Chevy pickup was wedged in between several eighteen-wheelers at the edge of a parking lot. The truck to his left was labelled Benkin’s Moving and the one on his right was a Target truck. At the front of the pickup, stood the rear of a big green big-rig with the letters B&W Trucking Lines painted on the doors. To the rear lay empty gravel but, across the lot, Quigley spotted a truck carrying lumber and another hauling a shiny tanker of gasoline. Beyond those trucks Quigley could see the distant blue mountains rising out of the desert.

A sign sat atop a tall pole, reading Roscoe’s Truck Stop. The sign caught the yellow of the morning sun and a long black shadow stretched out behind it. A few swallows were swooping about. And, except for a couple of lone cars whizzing by on the highway, the place was quiet. The air smelled clean—well, no, he did catch a trace of gasoline fouling the morning breeze.

Unfortunately, he didn’t see Bumper anywhere.

Quigley called out Bumper’s name as loudly as he dared, hoping it wouldn’t wake Billy Joe. A moment drifted by before two brown eyes appeared above the pickup’s tailgate. Then a black nose popped into view, followed by a pink tongue hanging from the mouth of a buff colored Labrador.

Bumper! Quigley said in a whispered shout.

The dog barked in reply and Quigley said, Shush, dog. He held up his tied hands for the dog to see and whispered, This peanut-brained kid’s done tied me up. See if y’all can find somethin’ sharp to cut this here rope.

Bumper seemed to nod and disappeared. Across the parking lot, near the truck hauling lumber, sat a big trash can. Bumper nosed around for a moment, removing one item, then another and dropping them on the gravel lot. It was too far away for Quigley to make out what the dog was doing exactly. But a minute or so later Bumper trotted back and his face reappeared at the tailgate. But this time, in his mouth, was an open can of sardines.

Good boy, bring it on up.

The dog placed his front paws on top of the tailgate and shifted his weight as he lifted his hind legs onto the back bumper. Then the dog vaulted into the back of the truck. Bumper walked over and dropped the can of sardines onto Quigley’s lap.

Quigley scooped up the can and began using the edge of the opened lid to saw through the rope. It took some doing but, slowly, it began cutting the threads of rope. A couple of times Billy Joe jerked and made a noise. Each time, Quigley’s heart jumped into his throat but the boy must have been dreaming because he snored on. Shortly Quigley managed to slice through the final strands of rope. His hands freed at last, Quigley untied his feet and put on his scuffed cowboy boots.

He stood up, feeling as stiff as an oak plank. Walking on his toes to keep the noise down, he collected his bedroll and backpack which had been shoved against a heavy towing chain. Lastly, he snatched up his sweat-stained cowboy hat and welcomed its shade as he positioned it onto his head.

Quigley motioned for the dog to jump down. He did and Quigley followed, climbing over the tailgate and praying Billy Joe wouldn’t wake up at the last moment. Once on the ground, he and the dog began hurrying away. But Quigley stopped suddenly, realizing he still carried Billy Joe’s keys.

Hold your butt steady, Bumper, he said to the dog. I’m a-gonna teach that nephew of mine a lesson.

Bumper turned and watched Quigley holding up the keys. Quigley started to throw them out past the parking lot. But he hesitated when he again noticed that the front of Billy Joe’s pickup was parked only three feet from the rear of the B&W big-rig.

Grinning to himself, Quigley jogged back to the pickup. The dog groaned as if unhappy with the reversal of course but hurried to catch up.

Quigley unlocked the driver’s door to the pickup, then released the handbrake and inserted the key. The truck chimed so Quigley moved fast, shifting the pickup into neutral before softly closing the door.

Next he reached into the truck bed and tried lifting out the towing chain. It lay only two feet from Billy Joe’s head and, when it rattled, Quigley almost abandoned his plan, certain Billy Joe would wake up. But the kid slept on and Quigley began to think it would take a bomb to wake up Billy Joe.

He carried the chain to the front of the pickup, knelt down and attached it to the frame underneath the Chevy. Next he pulled the other end of the chain to the rear of the big-rig’s trailer and hooked it to the underside, near the axle. Back on his feet, Quigley kicked loose gravel and buried the chain from sight.

Chapter 3

That’ll be $58.52, the burly mechanic said as he wiped his hands on a dirty rag. He had bushy eyebrows and a nose that looked as if it had been broken by a lug wrench.

You’re kidding, Ginger said, brushing her blonde hair back from her eyes. How can a big rubber band cost sixty dollars?

Listen, lady, the mechanic said and pointed at the new fan belt he’d just installed. Part of that cost is labor. But if your car ain’t got that ‘big rubber band’ as you call it, then you ain’t going nowhere. Now, if you want me to take it back off, I can. But you’re still gonna have to pay—

No, here you go, Ginger said and pulled three twenties from her purse. The mechanic closed his greasy fist around the bills and said, Be right back with your change.

She watched the mechanic walk away, his feet crunching the gravel underneath.

I’m hot already, Rusty said from the front seat of the car. Can I have a soda?

You’ve already had a candy bar, she said. Besides, we’re going to have to watch our money closely for the rest of the trip.

Ah, jeez, Mom.

Ginger licked her lips and realized she was thirsty as well. She’d finished her coffee earlier, while waiting for the mechanic to fix her car. It wasn’t eight o’clock yet but already a bead of sweat ran down her back, inside her yellow blouse. Jiggling her collar to stir up some air, she was glad she’d worn both the thin blouse and her cut-off jeans.

We’ve still got hours on the road, Rusty added. We’ll die of thirst—

Okay. Here, take five dollars and go buy us a few cold bottles of water.

Water? Can’t I get some Dr. Pepper?

No, you’ve had enough sweets this morning.

Rusty groaned his disappointment but took the money and headed inside Roscoe’s Quick-Mart. She noticed Rusty was getting taller. As skinny as ever but, with his bushy red hair and freckles, he reminded her more every day of Steven. She just hoped she would be wise enough and strong enough to get him through the next few years without Steven’s help.

The mechanic approached and handed her a dollar and forty-eight cents.

So I should be okay? Ginger asked.

The mechanic nodded. Your alternator should be fine, he said, then mumbled something about battery drainage and keeping a watch for the dash light.

Ginger nodded, although what he was saying sounded like gibberish to her. The mechanic tipped his cap and walked away.

Howdy-do, a voice said behind her.

Ginger turned to see an old man walking her way. He wore a faded blue shirt and baggy pants, held up by red suspenders—even though he also wore a belt with a fancy belt buckle. A backpack, with a bedroll attached, hung from one shoulder. By his side was a friendly looking Labrador.

She nodded. Rusty came out of the store and handed her a bottle of water. Then he leaned down to pet the old man’s dog, saying, Hi, boy. How you doing? The dog seemed to enjoy the attention and licked Rusty on the chin.

Y’all from California? the old man asked.

Ginger noticed the old man was studying her license plate.

Yes, from a small town outside Sacramento.

I hear tell, the old man said, that each night God reaches down and lifts up the eastern coast of these here United States. Next morning all the loose nuts rollin’ around have wound up in California.

Ginger laughed. There may be some truth to that theory.

She stuffed her change in her pocket and turned to get into her car. The old man rushed past her and opened the door for her.

Oh, thanks, she said and slid in behind the driver’s wheel. The air inside was hot. Rusty dropped into the passenger seat and leaned over to see the old man and his dog.

Don’t mention it, the old man said, tipping his cowboy hat back. He rubbed the white stubble on his chin and said, Listen, ma’am, I hate to impose but I was wonderin’ if you and your boy would be interested in havin’ some company.

Well, I don’t know. We’re not heading to California. We’re going east to Utah.

Great, me and the dog are headin’ east too. Shore would be grateful for a lift.

The Lab stepped closer and peered up at her. It had the most incredible eyes for a dog. They seemed almost human.

The old man glanced over his shoulder at the parking lot where the big-rigs stood. Two were already pulling onto the highway and he seemed a bit nervous.

You don’t already have a ride? Ginger asked.

Naw, I was ridin’ with a trucker up until last night. Then he met a curly headed gal at the café and told me she’d be takin’ my seat. Can’t blame him; God was showin’ off when he made that woman.

Ginger smiled but had the odd feeling he was making the story up.

Well, I don’t know, she said hesitantly and glanced at Rusty. I’ve always made it a rule not to pick up strangers.

The old man smiled. I can’t fault you for bein’ too careful these days. But heck, sugar—look at me—I’m about as dangerous as a daffodil.

Ginger heard voices and turned to see three truck drivers coming out of the cafe. Two had toothpicks in their mouths and all three carried cups of coffee, heading for the parking lot.

Ginger nervously ran her hand through her short hair. What about one of the other drivers?

The old man watched the truckers heading toward their rigs and said, Already asked. None of ‘em going my way. She still hesitated and the old man added, I know I look like a homeless bum and I suppose I am in a way. But I ain’t dirty. Me and Bumper took a shower just yesterday. I ain’t broke neither. Ain’t exactly Bill Gates understand but I’d be happy to chip in a few dollars for gas.

Ginger didn’t answer but looked away nervously, biting her bottom lip.

After a long moment, the old man said, I understand, ma’am. Y’all don’t know me from Adam. C’mon, Bumper.

The dog looked up at her with what seemed like a disappointed expression. His tail fell as he turned and hurried to catch up with the old man. The two walk past the gravel entrance and headed down the highway.

What do you think, Rusty? Ginger asked. Should we give them a ride or not?

Mom, Rusty said. You can’t leave them on the side of the road. It’s going to get awfully hot later. And the dog with all that fur, he’ll faint or something.

Ginger glanced at the long, empty highway stretching ahead and she realized she too would worry about the old man for days if she didn’t give them a ride. She started the car and pulled onto the highway. When she reached the old man and his dog, she pulled over.

I’m sorry, she said. You’re welcome to join us if you’d like.

Thank you kindly, sugar. That’s real neighborly of y’all.

Ginger grabbed her shoulder bag from the backseat and crammed it in between her seat and the gearshift. The old man opened the back door and tossed in his bedroll and backpack. The Labrador jumped inside and the old man climbed in after his dog.

The old man said, Name’s Timothy Quigley but folks just call me Quigley. And this here is Bumper.

Hi, Bumper, Rusty said.

Barfka, the dog replied in a raspy voice.

Is he alright? Ginger asked. He sounds sick or something.

Naw, he ain’t sick. He makes noises like that all the time…really.

I just don’t want him throwing up in my car.

He won’t; will you Bumper?

Ruffgarb, the dog said and shook his head.

Ginger was a bit dubious but she took Quigley’s hand when he offered to shake.

My name’s Ginger Hardwick. And this is my boy, Rusty.

After Quigley had shaken Ginger’s hand, he shook Rusty’s too. She noticed he did it not in that annoying way some grownups shake a child’s hand but easily and simply, as if Rusty were another grownup. She could tell Rusty liked that.

You wanna shake too, Bumper? the old man asked the dog.

Rusty held out his hand to shake the dog’s paw. But as soon as the dog touched Rusty’s hand, the boy jerked back.

What’s wrong, honey? Ginger asked.

The dog shocked me!

It was just static electricity. He didn’t mean to. I imagine it shocked him as well.

Ginger looked at Bumper but he seemed calm, as if the shock hadn’t concerned him. The dog’s eyes were serenely staring into Rusty’s and Ginger would have sworn the dog was smiling slightly, as if reassuring them that they had nothing to fear.

Quigley glanced over his shoulder at the Truck Stop. Well, grab some gears, honey, and let’s stir up some dust.

Ginger smiled, pulled back onto the highway and drove on.

Good Lord! Quigley shouted. Pull over! There’s a skunk in the car!

Ginger glanced back and saw Quigley with his feet up on the seat, scrambling against the rear door.

It’s okay, Rusty said. It’s Rosebud.

The skunk was poking its nose from beneath Rusty’s seat, then stood on the back floorboard, staring up at Quigley and the dog. Rusty reached back and picked up Rosebud.

Ginger quickly explained that her husband had been a veterinarian and had found the skunk when it was a baby. It’s mother had been killed by a car and Rosebud had suffered a broken leg. Steven, she said, fixed the leg and removed the skunk’s musk glands so it wouldn’t stink. He then gave it to Rusty as a pet.

Whew! Quigley said, lowering his feet to the floorboard. Lord, my heart was beatin’ so hard, it felt like I was knockin’ on Saint Peter’s Pearly Gates.

He turned, peering at the highway behind them and added, Can y’all speed it up a little, honey?

Well, I’d rather not. This old car doesn’t like to go very fast.

Ummm. I know how it feels, Quigley replied.

You seem in a hurry, Ginger said. Just where are you headed?

Quigley craned his neck again to view the road behind them. Don’t rightly care. I always figured if I ain’t headed nowhere special, then I ain’t gonna wind up lost. This old turtle man just don’t wanna hang around here is all.

Turtle man. You call yourself a turtle man?

Yes’m. Cause I carry my home on my back and I live life in the slow lane.

You don’t have any family?

My wife, Polly, passed away ‘bout ten years back. Got a daughter named Flo. I was livin’ with her and that pissant of a husband of her’s for a while but things didn’t work out. So, me and the dog took to the road.

You should go back and work things out. Living on the road is no life for anyone.

Y’all should go and meet my daughter. Then ya wouldn’t say that. Not all her fault though, I guess. I got kind’a ornery sittin’ around the house all day. And no one’ll hire an old geezer like me no more.

What kind of work did you do?

Everythin’ from ranch-hand to short-order cook. But mostly I guess, I did plumbin’.

There’s good money in plumbing, from what I hear.

It ain’t bad. And the work ain’t too hard. All a body’s gotta know is three things to make it in the plumbin’ trade. One is water always runs downhill. Second is always use the wrong wrench first, you’re paid by the hour. And third is never-ever put your fingers in your mouth.

Ginger and Rusty laughed.

Ginger asked, How old are you? If you don’t mind me asking?

Sixty-nine, last count. I’ve been around since Moby Dick was a minnow.

Ginger told Quigley that her grandmother had lived to be eighty-four and had stayed active right up until the last year. Then we had to put her in a home, she added.

Umph. Quigley shook his head. The thing about gettin’ old, he said thoughtfully, is it sneaks up on ya. Never see it comin’. Ya wake up one mornin’ and look at your hand. He held up the back of his hand. Veins stick out like blue highways on a map, leading from one little, liver-spot of a town to another. It comes like a goddamn shock. I mean it would gag a maggot. Inside your head ya still feel thirty-five but outside your body’s done gone Benedict Arnold on ya.

Barfka, the dog coughed.

Y’all feel that way too, huh? he said to the dog and gave it a long slow stroke. I ain’t surprised; that carcass you’re haulin’ around is pert near, but not plumb, twelve years old.

I used to do that too, Ginger said. I talked to Cleo, my cat, all the time until a car ran over her one night.

Why not? Ol’ Bumper talks to me. Y’all heard him with your own ears.

A motorcycle’s engine boomed as it pulled to their left, preparing to pass. Ginger had spotted it in her rearview mirror. The sound, however, caught Quigley and his dog by surprise. They jumped.

Ginger studied the old man carefully. You’re not wanted by anyone, are you?

Me? Well, this gal named Edna Mae Burns wanted to get her hands on me real bad. But that was way back ‘round 1975. I let her do it too. He laughed.

I’m sorry, Ginger said. I didn’t mean to sound suspicious. You just seem kind of nervous.

Comes with age, I reckon. Right, Bumper?

Ruf-gar-ber.

Why do you call your dog Bumper? Rusty asked, turning around in his seat.

‘Cause of that bump on his head.

Ginger glanced around and noticed Rusty rubbing a furry bump above the dog’s dark eyes.

Accident? she asked.

Kinda…

Gar-ruff, the dog said, shaking his head in Quigley’s direction.

Ah, she’s okay, he told the dog. The dog barked again and Quigley sighed. Bumper don’t want me to tell ya.

You really act like he’s talking to you.

He is. This here ain’t no ordinary dog.

He looks pretty ordinary to me, Rusty said as he continued to stroke the dog’s head.

Well, no, maybe I should keep my trap shut. Y’all might think my brain is loose.

Ginger chuckled. No, I won’t. I promise.

Yeah, that’s what one feller said who gave us a ride three days ago. I told him and he pulled to the side of the road and tossed our butts right outta the car.

Well, don’t worry, Ginger said with a grin. I promise I won’t throw you out. Now, tell me. What makes your dog so extraordinary?

Well, Quigley said and took a deep breath. Bumper here is from outer space.

Chapter 4

Billy Joe dreamed he was with Shirley Rose, his girlfriend back in Texas. She had her arms tight around his waist and was shaking him playfully.

Easy, gal, he mumbled.

When she continued to shake him, he opened his eyes and stared at the inside wall of his pickup. It took him a few seconds to remember where he was. Someone shook him again, but he knew it wasn’t Shirley Rose. It had to be his ornery old uncle, Quigley.

Keep still, old man, Billy Joe snapped and rubbed his temples. After his uncle had fallen asleep from the drugged can of beer, Billy Joe had finished a six-pack. My head feels like a cracked melon this morning.

When the shaking continued, Billy Joe turned to give his uncle a good cussing out. But his uncle wasn’t there.

Billy Joe snatched up the rope and saw where the old man had cut it with something.

Gar-dang it! Billy Joe fumed.

That’s when he noticed he was being shaken because his truck was moving. He swung around, certain that the old man had swiped his keys and was driving them due north, away from Texas.

But the cab was empty! No one was driving!

Holy crap! Billy Joe shouted. He stared ahead and saw that his pickup was zipping down the highway less than six feet from the rear of a shiny green big-rig.

Billy Joe glanced to the side of the road where the long shadows of his pickup and the big-rig were streaking past the desert landscape. He also spotted the shadow of a chain. A chain linking his pickup to the back of the eighteen-wheeler.

Damn your skinny old hide! he shouted.

Chapter 5

Did he really just say his dog was from outer space? Ginger wondered.

She glanced at Quigley in the rearview mirror. He had to be joking. Had to be.

I can tell y’all think I fell up a tree, Quigley said. But I’m as serious as cancer. All this happened about six or seven months ago…

Quigley told his story, saying that he’d been in Midland, Texas, at a place called Chick’s Chili Joint. Exercisin’ my table muscle on a bowl of chili as he put it. When he first heard a voice, he’d thought it was Chick talking behind the counter. Quigley asked him: What’s all that dental racket you’re makin’? But Chick denied he’d said anything.

I thought I’d stripped the gears between my ears, Quigley continued. "Now, Chick makes a bowl of chili that you’d swear was made outta rattlesnakes, but I’d eaten it for years and never heard voices before. So, I find the bottom of my bowl and walk outside, thinking I must be crippled sick in the head. Outside I see old Bumper here, only I called him ‘Weaver’ back then. And he’s got a big ol’ bump on his noggin.

I says, ‘Weaver, what happened to you?’ And this here dog looks up at me and I hear this voice askin’, ‘Who are you and where am I?

Quigley snorted a laugh at the recollection.

Ginger glanced at the old man, then noticed Bumper staring up at Quigley, looking solemn and shaking his head. She glanced at Rusty and saw he was laughing, enjoying the crazy story.

Well, Quigley went on, to make a long story short, turns out this space creature by the name of Ka-goly-Mayu was workin’ on some fancy experiment on his home planet of ZoKatuMa when somethin’ went wrong. I mean bad wrong and he was accidentally transported to Earth and wound up in ol’ Bumper here. That bump was where Ka-goly’s energy crash-landed into my dog.

Ginger was beginning to think Quigley must have a bump on his head too, hidden beneath his cowboy hat. She stared at him in her mirror and saw the twinkle in his blue eyes. Like those of a boy Rusty’s age. Those eyes seemed misplaced in a face lined with leather-brown wrinkles. No doubt Timothy Quigley was screwy, but she didn’t feel alarmed. His eyes also told her that, as he’d put it earlier, he was as dangerous as a daffodil.

Bark-arucka.

Quigley looked at his dog. Yeah, I know… His gaze moved back to Ginger. Bumper says y’all don’t believe me.

She smiled and said, Your dog is right.

How ‘bout you boy? Quigley said to Rusty. You believe my story?

Rusty grinned at him. Too good a story not to be true, he said and winked at Ginger when she glanced his way. Winked just like Steven used to do.

What’s these aliens look like on Bumper’s planet? Rusty asked.

Kinda like our chimpanzees, Quigley said. Only they got big heads, have long bluish hair and six fingers on each hand and foot. Oh, and Bumper claims they got orange cat-like eyes.

Oooooooough. Ooooooooough. Bumper howled with