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Tina waved her hands in the air. “Hold up, you want us to go out to investigate an attempted murder by bees?”
Ben rubbed the bridge of his nose and tilted his head down. “Please Chen, please don’t question the call and just go check it out.”
She laughed. “I’m sorry, I simply can’t believe this is a real call!”
“You should know better by now how ridiculous people are. Seriously?” Gavin quipped from across the room. “Wasn’t it just yesterday Chris was called out to a residence because old man Kent forgot to turn his hose off again – you know how pumped up with conspiracy theories he is. Come on, Tina.”
“Huh. Yeah.” She rolled her shoulders and nodded at Ben. “Alrighty then, looks like I’ll go investigate killer bees. Want to come with, Chris?” She smacked her partner’s desk. The man resignedly got up. They were partners, after all.
About ten minutes later, their cruiser pulled to a stop outside an okay looking house. It wasn’t great, but – now let’s be honest – the robo revolution really screwed the housing market over. Considering the houses on either side of it, well…
“So, run it by me again…” Chris looked out the window dubiously.
“Perp is running a real estate business. He invites our complainant to the property for a tour. Complainant is wandering about and – according to him – a ‘swarm of killer bees’ surrounded him and began to buzz threateningly. Apparently, the complainant is highly allergic to the fuzzy-buzzies.”
Chris mouthed ‘fuzzy-buzzy’ silently while she continued the brief.
“While it’s highly unlikely the perp trained the bees to attack the complainant, having a hive inside the home he’s trying to sell isn’t exactly up to code.”
“…okay.” Chris scratched his chin. “Then, hear me out, why didn’t he go get an exterminator? Why are we here?”
“You heard Ben.” Tina opened her door. “We’re here to take a look around, and you know, slap those bees in irons.”
“…right.”
The duo approached the house. “OPEN HOUSE!” A sign displayed on the front door.
Huh, well that was easy. Chris pushed the doors open and the two police officers headed further in. “I don’t suppose you happen to have a beekeeper hat on you, do you?” Chris asked, lightly.
“Dammit, I knew I forgot something! Although…” She looked around. “Ben should really have sent Connor out. Oh my god!” She spun to look Chris in the eye. “Ben should really have sent Connor out! Mr. I-always-complete-my-mission may have honestly tried to place shackles on every bee in here!” She laughed gleefully.
Chris had to admit, the image of Connor chasing bees around and putting them in handcuffs was highly amusing.
“Oi!” The two officers immediately snapped to the angry man approaching from one hallway. “What the hell are you two doin’ in here?” Why did he look so familiar? He continued talking. “I know how coppers work, and you didn’t present me with a warrant to search – get the hell out!”
The man’s name was on the tip of his tongue – so familiar – just where had he seen him before?
“We don’t really need a warrant when you have a sign on your front door saying it’s an Open House, do we?” Tina hedged, glancing at Chris for confirmation. However, Chris was too busy trying to place that face.
“Oi, just get out.” The man shooed them away and – obediently – the duo left the building.
Eh, they were just bees. “Get an exterminator!” Tina yelled over her shoulder. “Ben won’t care, it was another stupid call anyway.”
“That’s it!” Chris pointed back the way they’d come. “That was Mitchell Douglas!”
“Mitchell… Douglas?”
“Yes, Mitchell Douglas. You know, the hotdog salesman?”
“Huh.” Tina closed her door. “You’re right. I didn’t recognize him without his condiments. Wonder what he’s doing selling property?”
Chris hummed in thought. “Maybe concessions aren’t doing too well right now. Lots of people left Detroit, so he’s just capitalizing on the opportunity. It’s free real estate, after all.”
A few days later found Chris staring at a resigned Ben. “You want us to continue the bee case?” At this point, Chris wasn’t the only officer giving Ben a strange look. Follow-up’s usually were only necessary for detectives and probation officers. Never had they entertained the idea of going back to Old Man Kent’s, to check on his hose. If he needed them again, he would call (Hint: He never really needed them). “What do you expect us to do?”
Ben looked older by the minute. “According to dispatch, there have been noise complaints from his neighbors about vicious, raucous animal noises.”
“Bees?”
“Not – at least I hope not – bees. Animal noises: Grunting and squealing, big animals.”
“Huh.” Gavin leaned over his desk. “Sounds like some mutated bees. They must be the next line in his experimental assassin bees.”
“Reed.” Ben sighed, fighting back a smile.
“Well.” Chris looked at Tina’s empty desk. “Unfortunately, I can’t go. My partner’s out on ticket writing duty.” He shrugged.
“Reed.” Ben let the smile evolve into a smirk. “You can investigate with Chris.”
“Aw hell no!” Gavin thumped his desk. “You’re not my boss, Ben.”
Just Gavin’s luck, Fowler had emerged from his office and was headed back with a coffee (Read: Cup number twelve.) in hand. “Reed!” He shouted. The man jumped. “Do as Ben says.” He slammed his door, cutting off any chance of reply.
“Fuck.” Gavin glared at the door. “Fucking fine. Let’s go Chris.”
When they arrived at Mitchell’s supposed residence, they determined quickly there was no way any neighbors could have complained about noise… mostly because there wasn’t a house at the address provided. Instead, a solitary abandoned Hot Dog stand with the number 402 rested at the end of Park St between two old taxis.
“What a fucking joke.” Gavin kicked a piece of trash. “Alright, where are his real estate properties? We’ll see if he’s maybe taken to sleeping there.”
Chris pulled up the flyer from the bulletin board outside the station. “Hm, this one is closest.”
“What’s our luck he’s at the first house?”
Decidedly low, so it turned out. They’d just left the sixth residence behind with no sign of Mitchell Douglas ex-hotdog salesman, present real estate salesman.
However, there had indeed been signs of several large exotic animals being kept in each house for a few days each. The backyards looked like pig sties. The lawn consisted of mud and shit.
“The real mystery,” Gavin spoke up. “Is who the hell were the neighbors that complained to us? These nearby houses are clearly unused.” He looked side to side and across the street where a few posts barely held a roof up.
They did need to speak to Douglas about the possible exotic animal breeding company he may have started with the front of real estate. One last property on his record led them far out of town to an old abandoned-looking farmhouse. (Who the hell even farmed anymore?)
“Oh fuck.” Gavin held a hand over his nose. “There is no fucking way this isn’t the jackpot.”
Chris carefully tried to breathe through his mouth. He quickly stopped that when he tasted the animal feces on his tongue. “Yep, this sucks.” He agreed, letting a bad word slip to display the horrific smell. “I know you said the last place reminded you of a pig stie…”
“Agreed!” Gavin moaned.
The air reeked of spoiled food, feces, vomit (maybe from the last visitors), and everything mixed into the most revolting stench a person could smell. (Now, both officers had witnessed many crime scenes. Some bodies to the point of putrefaction and further. Newly deceased human muscles relaxed which usually gave them the odiferous scent of urine and feces. These past smells held barely a match to the overwhelming cloud of crusty, musty decay they beheld themselves to.)
“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to smell again.” Chris sobbed, half in relief and half in fear. On one hand, he and his wife had a newborn. Newborns are equivalent to a pet dog or cat for the first few months. They eat, they poop, they sleep scream. Chris was relieved on the first hand because he wouldn’t have to suffer the smell of his son’s dirty diapers ever again. On the other hand, he was fearful because he’d heard that at the loss of one sense, the others tended to overcompensate. This meant that Chris would never sleep again, due the lungs his kid had.
The duo began to approach the house, noting that aside from themselves, it didn’t look like anyone had been around for a while. Was this another Dead-End to Mitchell Douglas and his Exotic Pet business? (Neither would mind. They’d be able to leave much quicker.)
The circled the house upon finding the wood rotten. Entering that was a disaster waiting to happen.
And at the furthest point from the cruiser, Chris and Gavin ran into a pig. Well, a pig’s child – what were they called again?
“Fuck!” Gavin screamed and shoved Chris away from the pig-child. A massive not pig-child speared the air where Chris had just been standing. The two men landed in a pile of probably pig-shit.
“Whoa there, Nelly.” Chris replied on reflex.
For a second Gavin stared at Chris who stared back at Gavin. Before the seemingly unending eye-contact could last too long, the not pig-child (or see also: pig) squealed in anger and spun to face them again.
“Fucking fuck!” Articulate as ever, Gavin heaved Chris to his feet and the pair sprinted the way they’d come.
Except, well… this wasn’t right?
They’d definitely come from that way.
Or not…
“Fucking lost in a fucking farm in the fucking middle of fucking nowhere. Fuck!” Chris tuned Gavin out as he tried to figure out the maze of trash they’d gotten stuck in. “And there’s another fucking pig in that goddamn fucking corner. Fucking run you fucking shithead!”
Suddenly the maze was filled with pigs on all sides, and they ran for their (fucking) lives.
“Quick! In here!” Chris yanked Gavin’s arm and they jumped into a hole in the ground. What the actual (fucking) heck? “We gotta regroup and figure out how to escape from here. Those aren’t just pigs; those are wild pigs!”
“Fucking obvious-fucking-ly.” Gavin grumbled.
“And wild pigs are otherwise known as feral hogs, Gavin.”
“What, is this Animal Planet? I don’t fucking care.”
Chris checked his waist. “I have my taser, nine mil and handcuffs. What about you?”
“The same fucking thing as you, fucking hell. These goddamn wild ass pig ass bitches are fucking me over…” Gavin paused and pulled a colorful packet out of his pocket. “Oh, shit. I also have this five-pack of sticky slappy hands.”
“Reed.” Miller stared at the Assorted Colors! label and then gave his friend a look. “What the heck? Why are you carrying those with you?”
“I thought they might come in useful.” Reed shrugged.
A body slammed into the ground and Gavin renewed his cursing. “We have to get out of here.” Chris’ eyes darted around. The hole looked like it led them into an extended basement from the house. “Let’s go further in.”
“And so, we fucking enter this demolition-ready death-zone.”
Carefully, with as much speed as possible (the feral hogs must be dancing above their heads), they successfully made it into the kitchen inside the farmhouse.
Apparently, hogs had excellent senses of smell. Within a few minutes of their success, the hogs busted the doors down and found them.
The two men balanced on the top of an old, rusted refrigerator as a sea of pigs writhed around them. It was impossible to count, but if he estimated, Chris might say there were between 40 and 50 feral hogs hanging about.
“How?” He continued the conversation from the basement as they reassessed their supplies. He looked at the five-pack and ignored the moving bodies to give Gavin the most disbelieving look he could bring to fruition. “How could sticky, slappy hands possibly help in any situation – aside from, maybe, entertaining a pack of children?”
Gavin shrugged again.
“Well.” He sighed and sent his eyes heavenward. “Let’s make a plan.”
Later:
“Wow I can’t believe that worked!” Gavin crowed while manically speeding from the property.
Chris’ hands were white where he gripped the car door. He gasped, trying to hold air in his lungs.
“I mean, who knew 5-Minute Crafts could ever amount to anything more than shit-posting?” He continued, raving about the horrible plan they’d somehow pulled off. “I will never regret a YouTube spiral again – oh, they’ve got my subscription!”
“5-minute crafts?” Chris woke from his stupor and stared at Gavin with increasing dread and realization of how close they came to getting mauled by forty-three feral hogs. “You mean to say this idea stemmed from the channel that promotes using ramen to repair broken porcelain sinks?”
“What the fuck, Gavin!?” He exploded, the stress from the day making him break his record for not cursing. Honestly, they’d almost died!
And so, Gavin spent his evenings off watching horrible, useless YouTube videos detailing the Top 10 uses for Egg shells! And subscribed to 5-minute-crafts. He even tried the ramen trick. Unfortunately, he quickly ended up at his local home-improvement store, looking for a new sink.
And Chris? Chris spent his nights lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, reliving every second of their assault on the boars with sticky-slappy hands. He was sure the six-hundred-pound boar likely still had the green hand skewered on its left tusk.
That’s okay. Chris hated the color. The boar could keep it.