The news tip came into the WBFQ Beautiful Country Music news room by the telephone. It was not really a “hot” tip like the Big City reporters got, but for Keisters Ridge it was pretty good. And while it may not have been exciting, it was certainly entertaining.
About 9:30 am on a sunny Tuesday in May the phone rang in the WBFQ Beautiful Country Music Studios. The caller reported “strange doin’s” on the edge of town. “Strange doin’s” was a generic term in Keisters Ridge that could mean almost anything. There was an informal vote among the staff to decide whether or not it was worth sending the news car out to this Tuesday morning’s doing’s. Somebody recalled the time that a cow escaped from a nearby farm and invaded the parking lot of the Keisters Ridge Drive-In, scattering patrons and generally raising Cain. Apparently the cow chased some customers around the parking lot until they took refuge behind a dumpster.
When the WBFQ Chevette arrived on the scene of the action the baffled bovine charged and rammed the car square in the grill. The cow was not hurt, but repairs to the car cost $250.
However, on this particular May morning news value was judged partially by expedience. The facts of the matter were simple; the news car needed a wash and the car wash was in the general direction of the news event. Bart of Bart’s Richfield Service, Where You Can Expect Service With
A Smile, had recently installed a new car washing machine. Bart had also purchased twenty thirty-second spots on WBFQ to advertise the new machine. He lacked cash to pay for the air time so a trade was arranged. It included ten free washings of the news car. Big John Johnson, the Country King, volunteered to take the Chevette to the wash. He really didn’t like car washes, and he didn’t really think that the “doin’s” might need investigating. He wanted merely to find out how badly Bart could screw up washing cars.
Quite a bit of time had elapsed since Bart had redecorated the men’s room of the Keister Inn and, as the town tended to have a short memory they forgot, or maybe ignored, that the decor was his idea (some say fault). These folk were willing to take their automobiles and pickups to a man who at one time was a social outcast. Tuesday was the first day of the new car bathing enterprise and by ten o’clock in the morning there was a line of two
cars stretching nearly thirty-five feet to the street. The door to the fabulous washing machine was not open yet, but the drivers were eagerly awaiting its magical folding. When it lifted finally up and open it revealed the new scrubbers and sprayers. When the driver of the first car saw what was inside he pulled out of line and moved to the next garage bay. He wanted a front alignment, not a wash job.
The second car in line was not alone for very long. Big John drove the Chevette up just as Bart started to energize the various elements of the washer. John watched as Bart lined up the front wheels of the first car so it could go through the machine. The front wheels were grabbed by the wheel grabbers and the car started to move forward. Nozzles shot jets of water all over the place, and huge cylinder shaped brushes with nylon bristled spun on axles. The grabbers grabbed the right front hubcap and threw it into a corner. The scrubbers scrubbed the chrome off of both doors. The water blaster blasted the windshield wipers away and the dryer vacuum sucked the radio antenna out of its socket.
When the first car was spit out the other end of the car wash Bart walked to the entrance door and shut it. traded stories and beer rounds. Within five minutes he knew that his story was easily worth a steak dinner plus dessert.
Big John examined the scene of the mystery. He poked at the torn-up siding, he touched the dried blood spots. He even kicked at the poison ivy. Truly the town had a mystery on its hands. He knew if he aired the story on the next news program that tongues would be wagging for weeks down at Fred’s Motel and Hungarian Restaurant, Home of the Ten Foot Salad Bar. The questions that the police had asked seemed to be most omprehensive. At least so said Amanda Kindal. One question seemed not to have been asked, however, and Big John was surprised that the marshal had let it slip by.
Why had Miss Amanda Kindal not HEARD the sounds of the mysterious visitor snacking on her house?
The answer was on Amanda’s breath. When Big John caught the scent of Scotch perfume on the May breeze he wheedled his way into the yellow bungalow on the pretext of using the phone. The inside was so neat that he pictured a fly dieing of frustration. While he faked his call he quickly scouted the dining room. There was a beautiful walnut table with a floral arrangement. The dark wood shown like a mirror. The rotary dial telephone stood on a sideboard.
Big John noticed that there was more wear around the knob of one particular door than the others. He opened it and took a quick peek inside. What he found there was enough to bring tears to the eyes of the most jaded bartender. Organized in neat rows were two dozen of the most popular brands of alcoholic beverages on the market. There was scotch, bourbon, Irish cream, vodka, gin, and a one liter can of Australian beer that had not yet made it to the refrigerator. Amanda had been so snockered the night before that even if the invasion of Normandy had been re-staged in her back yard she would not have awakened.
Back at the radio station they had to decide whether or not a house being nibbled on by a mysterious creature was worth time on the local news segment. It was a slow day in the news room, the only other significant event was the report that Malcom Ott’s plastic pig, which, in a fit of rural silliness, was habitually stolen every spring on the eve of the local high school graduation in a fit of rural silliness, had been found in it’s usual spot, the lobby of city hall. The house eater was a “go”.
The noon news program of Tuesday went like this:
“This is WBFQ. WBFQ Beautiful Country Music. The time is twelve noon, exactly, and its time for the Noon Report. (Sound of a teletype in the background.)
‘Good afternoon, the is WBFQ Beautiful Country Music News. At the top of the hour we have these headlines; MAYOR GRAFT REPORTS ON CITY BUDGET, VANDALS SPRAY PAINT RAILROAD BRIDGE, and LOCAL HOUSE MYSTERIOUSLY DAMAGED OVERNIGHT. But first a word from Bart’s Richfield Service and Car Wash.
“Bart down at Bart’s Richfield Service, Where You Can Expect Service With A Smile, has just installed the latest in automatic car washing machines. Today is the Grand Opening of Bart’s Car Wash and in honor of the Grand Opening Bart is offering 50% off of any car that comes in for a wash. Remember; its Bart’s Richfield Service and Car Wash where you can expect Service with a Smile at the intersection of State Route 33 and Lincoln Road.
‘Our first item on the noon report is from Keisters Ridge. Miss Amanda Kindal of 1500 Kickapoo Lane Reported to police today that sometime during the night someone or something tore several pieces of aluminum siding from a corner of her house. Apparently, there were scratches and other marks that appeared to be caused by teeth on some of the pieces of siding. Miss Kindal did not report hearing any sounds during the night. Police have no leads as to the nature of the phenomenon.”
Keisters Ridge does not have a lot of industry. In fact, for all intents and purposes it has no industry at all. The closest thing to big business was Malcom Ott’s Farm and Feed which happened to be the largest concern in town. A close second was S & M Hardware and Buggy Supply, but it did not employ as many people as the Farm and Feed Store. Down at City Hall the local shakers and movers were heard to say that if only the town could attract new business, all of their problems could be solved.
It was not clear what exactly those problems were. Everyone had their own ideas. The nature of what sort of corporation they would want to move in was not clearly defined, either. Some thought that Keisters Ridge could become another Silicone Valley. But then a jokester said that Silicone Corn Field would sound silly. Arnold Obermeyer said that maybe they could attract some sort of automotive related manufacturer to the area. The consensus was that talk like that could only come from a man who owned the only body shop in town.
For some time, there had been about twenty-five acres Midwestern branch in Keisters Ridge. It was noted that Geneti-Tech was the largest private laboratory in the country that specialized in genetic research.
At lunch that day at the Keister Inn nobody had a good idea of what genetic research was. Nevertheless, the town was glad to hear that Geneti-Tech was moving in.
The Geneti-Tech main building turned out to be a beautiful structure. Its low walls were abutted by earthen embankments planted with grass and shrubbery. It was much lovelier that the townspeople had originally imagined. When it was being built, the bulldozers piling earth around
the concrete and brick walls looked as if they were packing dirt around an explosives factory. The fence was not twenty-five feet high, as originally feared, only fifteen feet. The guard house at the gate was not very imposing even though there was a TV screen that seemed to always show a view of the road.
The people who worked for Geneti-Tech were all very nice. They drove BMWs, Peugeots, Pontiac Fieros, and custom Japanese 4-wheel drive pickups that never went off roading. Sometimes they ate lunch at Fred’s Motel and Hungarian Restaurant, Home of the Ten Foot Salad Bar, or dinner at the Keister Inn. The facility was obviously alive twenty-four hours of the day, and when each shift got off work they drove to their homes in Miller’s Falls.
None of the employees, or Associates as they were called, lived in Keisters Ridge. Some locals thought it very stuffy of the Geneti-Tech people.
Some thought it mysterious.
Some though Geneti-Tech was mysterious.
Actually, Geneti-Tech was neither mysterious nor dangerous. Geneti-Tech was involved in the latest of high technology enterprises. In fact, the company was on the cutting edge of genetic research.
Down at Fred’s Motel and Hungarian Restaurant the luncheon gang, including Arnold Obermeyer of Arnold’s Body Shop and Dance Studio, Torx Torvald the Volunteer Fire Chief, and Bart were discussing the movie that had been seen the night before. WWOW-TV, Channel 13, in Miller’s Falls had broadcast the original FRANKENSTEIN on the Late Show.
Torx’s accent was a bit thick, “Ya, dot vas a purty goot movie. I saw it many years bevore dis. It is von dot I remember from ven I vas a child. Dis schientist makes a monster from the parts in de grafe yard. It vas almost like de fellows I read about in de paper, de genetic research fellows. Zom day dey vill make de big monster.” Torx chuckled.
Bart was distracted from the conversation because of an unfortunate incident down at the Car Wash. The day before the town’s only patrol car came in for a wash and went out in a series of cardboard boxes. This incident was weighing heavily on his mind. The cost of putting together a police car kit was more than he could afford. As a result Bart only caught part of what Torx was saying.
Earlier that day Bart was visiting Auntie Mabel down at the old Keister Inn. He was checking the plumbing in the new men’s restroom. It seems that the mermaid shaped fish tank has sprung a leak. Bart was head down and feet up behind the mermaid. Two men entered and Bart heard a very interesting conversation.
“Sammy, fancy meeting you here!”
“Hi, Bob. I had to work later and I decided that if I didn’t get a bite to eat I’d drop dead from starvation.”
“Yea, I know what you mean. I’m doing the Wolfsburg unit for that German firm. We’ve been going ten or twelve hours each day for six weeks solid.”
“I hear that is a toughie.”
“Worse. I’d guess that this is the biggest project hat Geneti-Tech has had since we moved into the new lab.”
“How is the control?”
“I’ve seen better. The project is a financial disaster. The audit control was lost when the computer went down for two hours. When the programmers got the mainframe on line it turns our that the control system was lost and the in house re-boot wouldn’t re-boot.”
“That must have been a bit wild.”
” Certainly was. It took most of the night to get the situation back under control.”
“Will it pay off?”
“We just got a stronger audit control. If everything works the way the new program says it should, and if the clones mature at the proper rate we will have a project that will cause such a stir in the industry that it’ll wake the dead. Only thing is, we have to keep it from the opposition. Those blood suckers in Munich want this thing real bad.”
That was the conversation Bart heard. But, being upside down behind a mermaid is not good for the concentration, and it is awfully hard to remember exact words.
Later that night Bart was having trouble sleeping. He lay in bed, wide awake. The situation with the police car had him worried. He picked up a paperback spy novel from his night stand and opened it to where he had last left off. Bart was a real spy novel fan. He had read every James Bond adventure and even had a picture of 007’s Aston Martin over his desk. There was nothing like a good spy story to take the mind off of the problems of running a business.
Well, Bart thought, at least he had done his civic duty. Right this instant his tow truck, a 1963 Ford Tow-All was being used on radar patrol. It was hiding behind Malcom Ott’s Big Blue Silo waiting for an unsuspecting speeder.
SPY RING VIDEO was not the best book ever written. The cover had a rather lurid picture of a .45 automatic, a naked girl, and two decoder rings on it. The plot centered around a spy hero who was trying to break a cabal of baddies who were trying to build a super computer to take over the world. It was not exactly Le Carre. But, in the shadows of the night it was pretty heady material for Bart.
After a time, he finally got sleepy. From the depths of his subconscious the conversation in the restroom surfaced into Bart’s dream.
There day Bart was at lunch. Torx had just made another comment about the FRANKENSTEIN movie and Arnold mentioned that he had heard something on the car radio. “Say, I bet they already did that,” said Arnold. “Vot’s dat?”
“Did you hear that bit on the radio today? No? Well, it seems that some woman out on Kickapoo Lane called the marshal this morning when she found that something had tired to eat her house.”
“Vot tried to eat her house?”
“Nobody knows, but some big animal chewed the aluminum siding.”
“Must haf been dot Frankenstein’s monster. Dot laboratory on the edge of town is de monster makers.” Torx laughed, and so did Arnold. But, Bart was still lost in his own little world.
He was thinking about broken police cars, monsters, spies, then genetic research, and finally out of control blood suckers from Munich.
Bart finally spoke to his friends.
“I heard a story this morning.”
“Vot did you say? I tought dat you vere asleep.”
“I heard two guys talking about a problem they were having out at the new laboratory. They said something went out of control and it took all night to get it back again. I think it was a computer screw-up that set it off.”
“So, what does it mean?” asked Arnold.
“Well, I was thinking, what if that thing that bit that house was an animal that got loose from Geneti-Tech? Who knows what they make out there.” Bart was worried.
“They make corn out there,” said Arnold, “I know, I fixed the fender on a guy’s Toyota pickup. Bent the right rear by backing into a tree. He said he was working on a corn clone that would revolutionize European farming and it was based on American breeds.”
“Corn? Dey vork vith corn?”
“That’s what he said.”
Louisa the waitress was cleaning an adjacent table. She was fuming because it was not her job to bus tables. Jimmy, the busboy, was sitting in a corner nursing his foot because he had dropped a frozen turkey on it. She certainly did not know what he was doing with a frozen turkey, he claimed that the cook had asked him to go get it, but that was silly. Or so Louisa thought. She was very confused. She was always confused. Today she was confused and miffed.
Nobody in Keisters Ridge would have been surprised to learn that. She was, after all, Bart’s second cousin. Some things run in families. But, in Bart’s family confusion positively galloped.
Louisa was also an eavesdropper and overheard the conversation about monsters and clones. When she got back to the kitchen she put the gray plastic dish tub on the counter next to the washing machine.
The washer-boy’s name was Stoney, and she said, “Stoney, I’ve dang near had it. Jimmy’s sitting in the corner and I’m doing his job. You know with my back I shouldn’t be dragging this stuff around.”
That started a five minute one sided discussion, albeit one sided, about backs, Jimmy, and other things including overheard conversations about blood sucking German monsters that eat houses.
That was a good story, one of the best that Louisa had ever misinterpreted, and Stoney passed it on to Jimmy when he hobbled back to the kitchen. Jimmy told it to his friends and before anybody knew it the story had gotten around town that serious “goings on” were occurring at the Geneti-Tech lab.
As he traveled around the town that afternoon, Big John Johnson kept hearing different versions of this tale. He kept running into people who asked him things like, “Hey, did you hear about that monster what got loose and destroyed the house?”
That evening Big John was filling in on the seven to midnight shift. The disc jockey who normally had that air time was ill and called the station at the last minute. Big John usually had the morning show, but he said he’d come back and spin records until someone else could be found to come in.
Everything went well until about 7:30 when a bulletin came over the teletype from the National Weather Service. A severe thunderstorm watch was in effect until three in the morning. Giant storms with high winds and hail were moving in a direct line towards Keisters Ridge at forty miles an hour.
Keisters Ridge was located in a particular area that by nature of its topography was especially prone to bad springtime weather. The prairies were like broad highways leading to the town, and when the various winds and meteorological highs and lows met in the right spots the storms traveled up those invisible highways and blasted anything that got in their way. A number of years before a tornado spawned by one of those storms smashed Malcom Ott’s big blue silo and took the wooden pig from its roof. The Pig landed a mile away on the gym of the Keisters Ridge Unit 12 Community High School.
The first storm hit about five minutes after eight o’clock. Big John was watching out the station window and could see the flashes of lightening getting closer and closer to town. Suddenly, the wind came rushing around the side of the building. It tried to pull the shrubs near the front door out of the ground by their roots. As the bolts of lightning landed around town the thunder rattled the plate glass window of the control booth.
As entire structure shook and vibrated Big John went into the transmitter room to take a reading. He watched as the needles of the meters jumped and dashed madly across the faces of the dials.
The storm was so disturbing the equipment that he could not get an accurate reading. They knew that when the Federal Communications Commission inspected the log they would not believe the notes taken on this night. As he checked a meter labeled “plate” a brilliant flash filled the room and there was a terrible peel of thunder. He saw the plate power needle peg out at its highest reading and the glass face plate covering the face break. The lights went out. Five seconds later they came back on and in the wavering glow of the stunned fluorescent tubes he saw smoke coming from a device called an “exciter” and all the dials resting at zero.
Big John ran back to the control room. The gain meter was registered nothing. The transmitter was operating, he could tell because a little portable radio that they always kept on was receiving transmitter static. Apparently, the meters had blown out. Big John took a chance and flipped a switch. He pushed a button and a tape cartridge in a machine on the console started to work. A commercial went on the air. While the commercial played, he restarted the record that had stopped when the lightening hit the tower. He stuck an unlabeled cartridge in machine number three, set the switch to automatic, and called the station engineer. Then he went to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer left over from the last office party. What a mess; no meters and only a portable radio to tell if he was still on the air. Meanwhile the lightening flashed and the thunder roared. The rain was turning the flat roof of the WBFQ Beautiful Country Music Studios into a lake.
Down at the VFW hall the weekly meeting had just ended.
The cash bar was open and the bartender had turned on WBFQ because the juke box was broken. The patrons heard that severe weather was on the way, but they were not concerned, they had seen it all before. A few minutes after eight Conway Twitty was singing a real tear-jerker when the first of the storm started howling around the meeting hall. Suddenly an extremely loud burst of static came from the radio speakers and the program went dead. The VFWers looked at the shelf holding the radio, their beer glasses frozen in mid-hoist. A few seconds went by, then on came a commercial for the Keister Inn Sunday Brunch Special. Then on came a song, the Spike Jones version of GHOST RIDERS IN THE SKY.
As the wind howled and the thunder crashed the patrons of the VFW bar heard Big John’s voice return to the air and try to explain just what was happening. The station was in trouble and it was clear that it might not be on the air much longer. They heard this;
“This is WBFQ Beautiful Country Music in (static) Ridge. We have just been hit by (static). The biggest (static) in twenty (static) has started its rampage though Keisters Ridge. The (static)(static) warns residents to stay indoors while this monster (static) passes through.
We will continue to bring you updates as we (static) them.”
The next song was interrupted by static each time lightening flashed. The lights flickered and trees on the edge of town began to tip over. The storm was a monster, all right, but at the VFW hall the beer continued to flow. In a back corner a beer drinker had been telling a friend an interesting story that he had heard earlier. When he heard the word “monster” he jumped up and started shouting, “I told you, I told you! It’s (burp) attacking the radio station!”
It’s not really clear what exactly happened next, but analysts now tell us that the mob that spilled out the door of the VFW hall and charged down the street was formed by a combination of elements, not the least of which were the shouts from the corner of the room and the volatility of the beer and other alcoholic beverages. The storm added a certain degree of dramatic atmosphere and lent an air of German Expressionism to the event.
The mob pushed its way down the street. They marched into the fierce wind. Huge flashes of light illuminated the scene, the street lights had gone dark moments before. Branches of trees dropped from the sky all around the crowd and the rain beat against their faces. By the time the
people reached the WBFQ Beautiful Country music Studios their jackets, sweaters, and John Deere caps were soaked through. There was water everywhere.
What the mob found hardened their hearts. The satellite receiving dish was destroyed pieces were lying across the lawn. Two trees were down, and an electric wire was being whipped around by the wind. It arced every time it touched the ground and threw sparks everywhere. The sparks cast an eerie flickering glow over the building. A faint light came from inside the structure. They saw a single candle flickering on the receptionist’s desk. The power had gone out for good, WBFQ Beautiful Country Music was off the air.
As the men surveyed the damage hip flasks were passed around. The rain tried to force it’s way between flask and lips. There was a cry from the back of the pack. Someone had seen something flash past. It may have been a piece of newspaper or maybe a hat. It might have been a chunk of cardboard, piece of plywood, a horse, or even a mobile home. Whatever it was, a voice shouted, “There it goes!”
The mob turned and started to move down the street after “it.”‘ Nobody knew what “it” was, but they were sure as shootin’ going to find out.
Big John Johnson had, meanwhile, shut down the station. There was nothing that he could do so he turned all the knobs and switches to “off” and prepared to go home. He worked by the light of a candle that he had found in the sales manager’s office and marveled at how it was that the glow of such a tiny flame could improve the appearance of the station. His pleasant thoughts did not last long. The storm was getting worse and he decided that the sooner he got home the happier he would be. As he went out the front door he met stragglers from the crowd, which was now well away.
Big John fought the wind as he closed and locked the door. He caught one of the slower members of the mob and shouted over the howls of the wind, “What’s going on?”
“We’re going to get that monster that’s out there tearing up the town!”
“What monster?” yelled Big John.
“The one that escaped from Geneti-Tech and ate that house! It was right here a few minutes ago and tore up this here radio station! Look at what it did! The damn thing is ten feet tall!” The man turned and ran after the departing group.
Big John was shocked. This was certainly news to him. He had chalked all the damage up to the storm. Weirdness, he thought, was afoot this night. Being a professional radio person he decided to get the WBFQ Beautiful Country Music Action News car and follow the crowd. He pushed his way through the wind and the rain to the side of the building where he found the Chevette partially covered by branches from a shade tree that, up until fifteen minutes before, had been growing nearby. He cleared them off, then climbed into the car and backed it into the street. Under the seat was a tape recorder. He turned it on and began to describe what was happening. The crowd had moved a couple of blocks away, and as he followed at a discreet distance he saw objects blown across the beams of the headlights.
He spoke into the tape machine, “I’m in the news car following a crowd of nuts down the street. It’s very windy, and branches are down everywhere. The station is off the air. Apparently, these folks think that a monster has escaped from Geneti-Tech. Details are sketchy. The mob seems to be somewhat boozed up. Do I get overtime for this?”
After recording the events that led up to that moment he returned off the machine and turned on the police scanner. All the law enforcement agencies were busy. The town marshal was patrolling in Bart’s tow truck and finding trees and power lines down on almost every block. Torx Torvald and the Keisters Ridge Volunteer Fire Department were checking arcing lines everywhere and dealing with smoldering branches. The county sheriff reported flash flooding and the state police were trying to close off all the main highways. The news car had a radio telephone in it, Big John called the station manager at home. He told the manager that the station had been locked up and that he was following a crowd of apparently drunken townspeople through the storm. Big John then called the local emergency number, 911, and reported the crowd and its activities.
By now there wasn’t much that he could do. As the crowd made its way down main street Big John saw pickup truck doors open and flashlights appear from under seats. From the beds of these same trucks pitchforks, pipes and two-by-fours also appeared. The crowd handled these makeshift weapons like tottering old soldiers. Between flashes of lightning, Big John could see doors to houses open and the inhabitants come out with more flashlights and weapons of all kinds. One high school baseball star joined
the mob with a Louiseville Slugger in each hand.
It had become obvious that the crowd was heading towards the Geneti-Tech laboratory. The evil monster that was ransacking their town was a product of the fiendish scientists there and it was the intention of the good citizens of Keisters Ridge to stop this horrible rampage. All around them the wind howled as it had not howled in twenty years. Lightening perpetually flashed, illuminating the way of the advancing mob. Beams of flashlights played off of the twisted and smashed trees that littered the edge of the road. It was in this dramatic atmosphere that the people made their way towards the headquarters of the faceless horror.
The rain had temporarily stopped by the time the leaders of the pack were within a half mile of the lab. The Geneti-Tech emergency generators were providing just enough electricity to keep the buildings barely glowing in the darkness. Ahead the road was blocked. A series of oddly shaped black objects sat in the middle of Route 33. The lightening had moved off to the west but the wind continued to blow. As the crowd bunched together in apprehension and various individuals fingered their flashlights and pitchforks a stray bolt of lightning smashed into a tree just ahead. The crack of thunder followed immediately. By the afterglow of the flash the crowd caught a fleeting glimpse of the details in the black mass ahead. Suddenly the mass lit up in red, blue, and orange. Probing beams of white light stabbed towards the crowd. The people froze in their tracks and then staggered back in fear.
There in the road was the entire Keisters Ridge police force. The marshal, two town constables, and Bart’s tow truck blocked the highway. Behind them three state police cruisers and two sheriff’s cars formed a wall of metal. Flashing lights from each vehicle lit up the night. The yellow lights from Bart’s Tow-All blended with the others and presented a light show. The beams bounced off the low lying clouds.
By the light of the chromed spotlights the townspeople saws that the Law was intent upon stopping them before they reached the Geneti-Tech laboratory.
The more sober of the group had decided that enough was enough and turned to go home. Big John Johnson watched the timid file past the WBFQ news Chevette. Some dropped their two-by-fours by the side of the road. Others carried their axes and bats like golf clubs and tried to give the impression that they were out on this horribly stormy night to practice a few putts. They knocked around stones on the shoulder of the road.
The leaders at the front of the group were beginning to feel the effects of so many beers starting to wear off. But not enough had worn off to allow them to turn around and leave with grace. Instead the last bits of their alcoholic bravery caused them to approach the cars and tow truck of the combined law enforcement agencies. The officers formed a semi-circle spacing themselves on both sides of the road and in a line across the pavement. The squad cars were behind them. In front was Bart’s tow truck with its yellow flashing lights. In front of the tow truck was the marshal and his two constables. Approaching the truck was the slowly sobering crowd from town. The fellow from the corner of the VFW hall who had started the whole,thing stepped forward when the mob stopped a mere fifty feet away from the officers. As the rain started to fall again he slowly moved forwards, only the bravest of the mob followed. The rest seemed to forget the terror from Geneti-Tech when they realized that they faced with a drunk and disorderly arrest.
From the rear of the crowd Big John noticed that the rain was picking up. It looked like more lightening was on the way, too. A new storm was coming towards them even faster than the last one. Very quickly flashes of lightening grew in the clouds. Bolts danced their way across the cornfields. Everybody could see that in seconds they would be inundated by rain.
Big John’s view through the windshield of the Chevette disappeared in a brilliant burst of white light. The roar that struck simultaneously made his teeth ache. He grabbed the steering wheel and braced himself as the car rocked. The explosion ended almost as soon as it had begun. Big John’s eyes readjusted and he was presented with a most fascinating sight.
All of the sheriff’s deputies and state troopers were frozen in the road with their hands on their pistol holsters. The leaders of the mob were lying in the ditch. One constable was sitting on the ground while the other was staring at the marshal. The marshal was standing in the
middle of the road with no clothes on. Bart’s tow truck was reduced to a pile of smoldering rubble. One badly smashed yellow warning light cast a dieing beam across the faces of the men in the road. A tremendous bolt of lightning had hit the derrick on the back of the truck, the main trunk of the bolt had found its way to the ground by way of the towing cable, but a branch had gone through the marshal’s shot gun, which he was holding in his right hand and blew his uniform off. Bits and pieces of tow truck were scattered everywhere.
The constable in the ditch was unhurt. The leaders of the mob were carried back to town in the sheriff’s car. The marshal was wrapped in a blanket and put in the back of the WBFQ Action News Chevette. He was stiff as aboard, so Big John had to lower the rear seat and open the hatch so his legs could stick out. He was transported to the hospital in Miller’s Falls where he recovered in a couple of days.
The next day the insurance adjuster came. Damage to the WBFQ Beautiful Country Music Studios was extensive. It took two days to get a new exciter shipped in from New York. Two more days were spent installing it. Then the engineer found that the meters all had to be replaced.
Nearly a week went by before the town was blessed by the return of WBFQ Beautiful Country Music to the airwaves. In that time the streets were cleared and most of the broken windows on Main Street had been replaced.
The first newscast after the storm made little mention of the storm was made, and none at all of the mob that had tried to invade the fortress of Geneti-Tech.
The storm must have scared off the house eating monster, nothing was heard about it ever again and the story passed into the realm of half-truth and legend that is remembered only by old men on rainy Sunday afternoons.
The general consensus towards Bart’s loss was that it was really too bad that the tow truck had been destroyed. But, as Torx Torvald was heard to say at lunch one day at Fred’s Motel and Hungarian Restaurant, “Let’s face it, if de storm didn’t get de truck it was only a matter of time before de car wash did.”