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The air inside the Clampett mansion is thick with the scent of pine cleaner and something vaguely sweet and floral, a smell that makes Granny's nose wrinkle in distrust. Outside, beyond the enormous picture windows, the late afternoon sun hangs like a pale, dusty coin in the sky. Jed Clampett, his signature hat on his head, stands quietly by the fireplace, a thoughtful look on his face as he takes in the opulence of the room and the conversation around him.
Aunt Pearl, her face a map of pure, unadulterated contentment, gazes out at the manicured grounds. "Paradise is someplace like... Beverly Hills, Californy."
Jethro, leaning forward in a plush velvet armchair that seems to swallow him whole, nods his head vigorously, his eyes wide with wonder. "They got swimming pools and movie stars!"
Elly May, perched on the arm of the chair, her overalls a splash of familiar denim against the foreign opulence, squints at the hazy horizon. A faint, brownish film seems to coat everything. "And smog!" she declares, her tone a mix of curiosity and concern.
Granny, stirring a pot on the unfamiliar, gleaming white stove, lowers her wooden spoon. "What's a smog?"
A hush falls over the room. Everyone considers the strange, new word. It hangs in the air, foreign and perplexing. Jethro scratches his chin, a deep furrow appearing on his brow.
"I reckon it's a small hog."
Elly May giggles, the sound a bright, natural thing in the stiff, decorated silence. She hops off the armchair. "Well, Jethro, if it's a small hog, it needs feedin' or else it’ll get hungry an' start nibblin' on them pretty flowers out yonder."
The thought of a small hog roaming the perfect lawn is too much for Jethro to resist. He springs up, all six feet six inches of him. "Let's go find us a smog, Elly May! We can tame it!"
They saunter out through the kitchen door and into the backyard, a space more immense and manicured than any field they've ever known. The grass is an unnaturally uniform green, soft beneath their boots. The shrubs are cut into perfect, unmoving shapes, like frozen clouds. The air is still, save for a low, insistent hum and a faint, metallic hiss that carries on the breeze.
"Listen to that, Jethro," Elly May whispers, her head cocked, her ears searching for a familiar animal sound in this alien landscape. "That ain't no songbird."
Jethro, a born hunter, immediately falls into a low crouch, his eyes scanning the impeccable hedges. "Sounds like a right sneaky varmint. Let's corner it."
They creep forward, their movements a stark contrast to the stiff, motionless garden around them. The hissing grows louder, a harbinger of the mechanical and mysterious world that surrounds them. It is not the sound of a living thing, but a sound of pressure and precision, a sound born of metal and pipes. Around a sculpted topiary in the shape of a swan, they find it. A small, brass head emerges from the ground, swiveling and spitting a fine, misty spray of water. It spins with an unnerving mechanical grace, hissing and spewing. Elly May's eyes widen.
"Oh, the poor little feller," she coos, stepping closer. "It's all scared and nervous, look at it sputterin'." She reaches out a hand, a gentle gesture meant to soothe a frightened animal.
Jethro, however, sees things differently. He sees a foe. "It ain't scared, Elly May! It's a vicious little critter, spittin' fire! I'll wrassle it for ya!"
With a whoop, he launches himself at the contraption. The water stream, which was a gentle mist to Elly May, becomes a powerful, direct assault against Jethro's face and chest. He stumbles back, soaked to the bone, his arms flailing as the sprinkler head continues its relentless spray.
"Got the varmint!" he gasps, completely drenched, his hair now plastered to his head. "Told ya it was a small hog, Elly May! A wet 'un!"
Elly May simply stands there, watching the little brass head spin, her hands on her hips, a shake of her head turning into a fond, rolling laugh. It is not the laugh of a city girl, but of a girl who knows the secrets of the woods, a laugh that understands that not all mysteries can be tamed, and that some critters, whether they’re living or made of brass, are best left alone. Jethro, soaked and defeated, finally gives up his struggle. The two of them turn and trudge back towards the house, the smell of clean, wet grass clinging to their clothes.
The smog outside still hangs in the air, a silent, motionless beast they have chosen not to disturb. The hissing sound continues, a low, constant reminder that they are no longer in the woods, and that some varmints, no matter how small, are simply too foreign to be wrangled.