Google Glue

Doug Donnan

Executive Editor/OMNI-GENRE+MAGAZINE!

donnan.doug @yahoo.com                                                                              

                      

           

                                     







"GOOGLEGLUE"

                                                           

    by

   DOUG DONNAN

   

      "Actually the base is an ancient Aztec recipe made from the tiny Tzautli Orchid,

a rare exotic flower that is indigenous to a particular, rather remote region of South

America," explained the little chemistry professor Werner Van Poog. "I've added a

few chemicals to enhance its overall composition . It is now not only an extremely

powerful epoxy resin or super-super glue if you will, but a type of hyper-strong

attractant!" he said pressing his latex gloved hands together as if he were gingerly

kneading and shaping some gobbet of sculptor's clay.

     The smattering of students in the auditorium looked down at professor Van Poog

as if he might be trying to explain to them the meaning of life itself. So intent were

they with their laptops and micro-tape recorders that he feared they might be missing

the gist of his lecture. “I promise you all…there won’t be a test on any of this,” he sighed.

     

     At this they all seemed to relax as if some hypnotist had snapped his fingers. They

settled back in their chairs. A pretty girl in a blue tartan sweater sheepishly raised her

hand, "Do you think it might hold some kind of magnetic properties?" She reddened

somewhat having not waited for him to acknowledge her hand.

     "That's an excellent question young lady," he called back to the entire class having

picked up on her awkward embarrassment. "Magnetic Properties!" Van Poog began to

pace back and forth for some time behind the long laboratory table. "The substance that

I have concocted here," he announced as he raised a large Petri dish with a gelatinous

emerald colored mass inside that was about the size of a golf ball, "is a mystery even

yet to me! Quite frankly, I'm not completely certain just what I have here."

     A series of three soft, but distinctive chimes broke the silence and the enchanted

group of students snapped back into reality. They scurried to their feet swiping up

an assortment of lap tops, Ipads, recorders, and other scholarly paraphernalia as they

prepared to leave the classroom. At the foot of the auditorium Miss tartan sweater had

stopped to confront Van Poog:

     "What will you name it?" she asked as she stared down at the glass cylinder.

"I mean, what the heck do you call this stuff?"

     The buxom redhead had his undivided attention in spite of having added this last

word which made him cringe.

     "Well, young lady," he felt awkward and rather unfortunate that he had to address

her in this stilted manner. "I guess I haven't given that much thought. Any suggestions?"

     "How about Glubber?" she said covering up a grin with the back of her hand. "It

could be the sequel to--"

    

     "Flubber—I get it!" he said, now feeling somewhat embarrassed.           

     "What's the matter professor… no sense of humor?" she slapped at the arm of his

white lab coat.

     Van Poog studied her waxing moon-like blue eyes and wondered if she in fact was in

possession of all her faculties.

     "I've enjoyed our little chat miss...but I'm afraid I have a staff meeting across campus

and I really must be going," he sighed.

     "My name is Stevens--Mary Beth Stevens," she chimed in, "I'll be sitting up front

from now on professor. "Will that bother you any?" she asked coyly.

     "I shouldn't think so Miss Stevens," he tugged at his collar with a solitary finger.

     "Mary Beth, okay?"

     "Fine, fine--Mary Beth. Don't forget your ass... assignment for our next class."

     "Don't you worry professor, I'll come up with a name for it," she declared as she

rotated her curvaceous body around and flicked some farewell fingers over her shoulder.

     Van Poog stood there for a moment, his arms hanging useless down at his sides as

he watched her sashay up the polished concrete steps and ease out the auditorium double

 doors far above. He shook his head slightly in amazement. “Now what brought that on?”

he murmured to himself. Then he looked over at the little dish of green goo on the long

chromium lab table. What the hell have I got here? he puzzled as he picked up the glass

cylinder and disappeared through the door that lead to his back chambers and laboratory

facility.

                                                 

                                         The very next day

     Professor Van Poog was in no way prepared for the scene and circumstance that
faced him in the classroom that morning. There seated right up front in the very first
row, as promised, was the smiling, effervescent Mary Beth Stevens. The auditorium
was standing room only…almost all women!
      “Uh…good morning ladi… class,” he stumbled a bit as he affixed his wireless
microphone to the lapel of his white laboratory smock, then dipped into his pocket and
withdrew the mysterious glass of green goo. “I’ll begin this morning by— ”

     “There he is girls…and he’s got the googalglue!” Mary Beth shouted as she exploded

out of her seat.

     “Wow! I can feel it from way up here!” from the rear of the auditorium.

     “I can’t believe it! I gotta’ have some of that!”

     “Let’s get him gals!” Mary Beth screamed with a John Wayne-like charge hand gesture.

     And, at that, they stormed the stage and surrounded the little chemistry professor. They

had in fact gone completely mad…mad with desire. He backed off up against the spreading

blackboard. He was wiping out some of the chalk equations and formulas with his back as he

tried desperately to escape their assault. He held high the goo as he turned and cowered

against the board.

     And then they were on him. On him like…glue!

                                                          _____ The End _____

THE COOKIE MONSTERS

DOUG DONNAN

Executive Editor/OMNI-GENRE+MAGAZINE!                               

donnan.doug@yahoo.com

                            

                        THE COOKIE MONSTERS

                        

                                                by

                                                   DOUG DONNAN

                                     

 

          Vista Lago, Florida

    

     “I’m just a chemist here at Green Acres Corporation Mr.

Gilbert. I do research on algae,” Professor Lamprey sighed as

he performed a small circular parade there in his tidy fourth

floor office. In his starched white cotton lab coat he resembled

some great white stork or crane as he flapped about in his frus-

tration. “If you want a baker…you should try visiting a bakery!”       

    Gilbert pulled repeatedly on his clean-shaven aquiline jaw.

He had traveled a long way to this muggy hellhole in nowheresville

Florida to consult with this half-baked, crackpot who, apparently,

was one of the world’s leading authorities on algae research. His

intelligence people back at BakroTek in Seattle told him, in no

uncertain terms, that this Professor Lamprey character was the go to

guy when it came to cutting edge research in the emerging field of

Element Exchange and Radical Algae Permutations. Knowing all this,

he still felt the urge to stand up from his chair, grab Lamprey by

his starchy lapels and read him the riot act about the reality of

the cutthroat fast snack business industry. But, he somehow managed

to keep his cool and try a subtler, less physical approach.

     “Now let’s be honest about all this professor,” he said in a

level, but pointed tone. “I work for, in fact, am part owner of what,

for all intents and purposes, is a very large bakery. BakroTek. I’ll

just cut to the chase on this. Our in house research and development

people have concluded that a vitamin fortified green tea and algae

biscuit, a super cookie if you will, is on their hush-hush drawing

board. But the vast majority of those R&D folks have strongly sug-

gested that it would be in BakroTek’s best interest to somehow get

you on board. We’re going all in on this revolutionary product, and

I’m prepared to make you a very generous offer to join our team.”

     Lamprey stopped for a second and gave Gilbert a perplexed look.

“This whole thing seems a little unclear, maybe a bit hazardous to

me,” he said softly as if someone might be eavesdropping on their

conversation. “Why am I getting Soylent Green feelings about this?

     I mean, as long as we’re being honest, green tea, algae, super-duper

cookies for Christ’s sake? You can’t be serious. Please forgive me

sir, but it seems to me that what you probably need to help you out

with all this is a maniacal group of little elves. Maybe you can get

the incredible Hulk involved. He’s got all those muscles and he’s

about as green as they come. Get him involved in your ad campaign!”

     Gilbert colored somewhat at all this, but managed to remain

calm. He reached into his suit coat pocket and extracted a gold ball

point pen. He jotted something down on a yellow Post-It on Lamprey’s

desk, then handed the little sticky to the professor. “Maybe this

will convince you just how serious we are at BakroTek.”

     Lamprey accepted the slip of paper and stared at it for quite

some time. His mouth formed a little circle, like the entrance to a

birdhouse. “You must be insane,” he half-shouted. “That’s a lot of…

that’s a real lot of…money.”

     “More than you’ll ever make in a lifetime at this little piss-

ant cement aquarium,” Gilbert replied as he pushed back in his chair.

And, as to the question as if I’m insane or not, I can assure you

that I am in full possession of all my faculties. However, I am very

determined professor. Bakrotek must have you.”

     “I must admit Mr. Gilbert,” Lamprey said as he seemed to sand-

crab-step a bit around the seated CEO. “I’m flattered at your offer,

but I’m afraid I can’t accept it. And I mean really afraid.” Lamprey

replied. “I’ll let you in on a little secret Mr. Gilbert. This kind

of thing has cropped up before. There is a little upstart bio-fuel

company just outside of San Francisco called Solazyme. They were

working on developing an algae base as a building block for a green

gasoline substitute. In this algae experimental business, as in many

other businesses, serendipity plays an uninvited, but some times wel-

come roll. They produced an algae derived flour. To make a long story

short, they were able to produce an assortment of cookies, snack

drinks, sauces and such. The folks at Solazyme haven’t as yet gone

forward on their discovery, but it’s surely just a matter of—”

     “We are well aware of Solazyme’s… efforts professor,” Gilbert

rudely cut him off. “They’ve stumbled upon a kind of pita flour.

The lipid profile of the flour is very similar to olive oil. An admirable

accomplishment indeed. However, they were just fooling around

with what they had. As for your apprehension about all this, I feel

it is unwarranted. Be that as it may, we are dead serious about our

research and development intentions professor. I can assure you that

Bakrotek is very determined,” he finished with a chilling leer.

     “I see,” Lamprey said cautiously.

     Gilbert dipped into the inner pocket of his suit again. “Here

is my business card. I’m staying at the Ramada Inn just outside of

Islamorada. Think things over. Don’t share our little visit here with

anyone, but be advised professor I must have… we want you on board.”

                                       

                                Later that evening

     The dusty hood of the little Honda Accord was still warm as

Professor Lamprey fell back into the driver’s seat. He had already

broken Gilbert’s code of silence rule by letting his wife Alicia

in on the big money deal with Bakrotek. But what real choice did

he have on that he thought as he backed out of the driveway. It had

only taken her one sip of her box wine to make up his mind for him.

‘Algae…shmalgae!’ was her tipsy exclamation after he showed her the

Post-It note from Gilbert. ‘You just drive on out to that Ramada Inn

and tell that Bakrocheck guy we accept his offer.’ As he drove off

and got back on the bustling highway he soon thought to himself that

what he should do is accept the offer, move up to Seattle or where-

ever it was and leave his dipsomaniac wife behind. But, it was too

late for that now. The better part of an hour had passed before he

pulled into the asphalt drive of the subtle and spacious neon motel. 

He eventually found himself leaning up against a ridiculously long

laminated wooden reception counter tapping on a little silver bell.

     “Halloo,” he tried innocently.

     A portly young fellow dressed in a dark blue suit emerged from

somewhere in the inner office. He looked more like a fully prepared

home plate umpire than anything else. His obligatory smile and de-

meanor were as artificial as the bending palm plants in the rattan

and tinted glass front lobby.

     “Sir,” he said coolly in a dubious form of salutation to a

finger-drumming Professor Lamprey. “May I help you?”

     “I hope so Mr.—” he strained somewhat to read the young um-

pire’s nameplate. “…Peter.” Lamprey scanned the counter for some

type of registration book, but only the dull tan back of a computer

monitor was present. “I have an appointment with one of your regi-

stered guests— a Mr. Gilbert,” he announced as he presented the

Bakrotek business card that Gilbert had given him as if it were some

sort of ticket.

     The young man hesitated a bit and then began to peck away at

the computer. At long last he looked out at the diminutive professor.

     “Mr. Gilbert has rented out the courtyard pool for a time. You

should be able to find him out there,” he pointed to a far off glass

exit door.          

     “He rented the whole pool?” Lamprey replied with incredulity.

“Does he have any… guests?”

     Peter bent down some over the top of the computer tower. “No,”

he declared as if any more questions would be at the askers own risk.

     “Okay,” Lamprey peeped and then made for the door. “Thanks…

Peter.” He threw back over his shoulder as he walked away.

                                         ____________

     Outside in the darkness he soon came to the white metal fence

and bush lined courtyard swimming pool. Lamprey thought it rather

odd that only a very few of the periphery phosphorescent tower lights

were turned on above the spacious smooth cement pool. A scant few pin

lights lit the fringe of the red brick edges. He reached the chain

link entrance gate and hesitated a moment. He saw no one.  

     “Halloo, Mr. Gilbert?” he called out through cupped hands. “Are

you here?”

     Lamprey quietly pushed open the gate and started to walk around

to the little brick cabana at the deep end side of the pool. As he

reached the halfway point, marked by a stretching stringer of blue

and white floats, he froze in his tracks as he looked down into the

shimmering water. A dark elongated shape seemed to be whirling, per-

haps gliding below in the depths. Around and about it went almost

effortlessly. Was this Mr. Gilbert? Professor Lamprey watched and

waited. Finally, after almost ten minutes, the submerged swimmer

surfaced.

     It was in fact Mr. Gilbert.

     “Well there professor,” he exclaimed as he draped his painfully

thin arms over the brick edge of the pool. “Quite frankly, I must now

admit,” he cleared his throat and made some strange shielded hand   

movements around and about his puffing, trembling neck. “I wasn’t to

terribly sure that I would ever see you again. Did you have a change

of heart?”

                                                        

     “Let’s just say I became enlightened, and felt it would be in

my best interest to come right on out here unannounced.” Lamprey

replied as he studied Gilbert’s uneasiness there in the pool. “By

the way,” he continued boldly, “I was pretty amazed at your…swimming

technique. You were down there for a good ten minutes! How in the—”

     “Could you toss me those two towels behind you?” Gilbert quickly

cut him off.

     Lamprey retrieved the two large white towels and turned back to

hand them down to him. But, to his complete and total surprise, the

mysterious swimmer was already up and out of the pool, and but a pace

or so from the taken aback professor. He was bent over somewhat and

appeared to be in some type of convulsive pain. The erratic gurgled

coughing was the stuff of nightmares.

     “Say there,” Lamprey almost yelled. “Are you alright? You’re

neck it’s… strange. Hey, you’re bleeding!” he called as he watched

Gilbert drape the towels about his spasmodically wheezing neck. “I’ll

run inside and call a… an ambulance.”

     At that Gilbert agonizingly straightened up. He held the soaking

white towels close with trembling, bony fingers. “No, no that won’t

be necessary. It will soon pass.”

     “But you’re ill man. Can’t you see that? You need—”

     “We need you professor,” he said weakly. “It’s the cookies. We

can’t seem to perfect our combination, our algae to tea ratios. It’s

still much too toxic for production. We don’t have the ingenuity.

It seems our brains aren’t totally proficient enough for the type

of exploration and fruition involved. Our people aren’t capable. 

Only… humans,” he coughed into a scrawny fist of claw-like fingers.

“Only you and others like you can help us. It’s all up to you professor.

It… we can’t exist without you. Do you understand?”

     Professor Lamprey, his eyes now wide with fright, slowly began

to back away. “No, I don’t understand,” he replied with a quivering

voice. “But I do know I was right all along, and I don’t want any-

thing to do with your crazy cookies or you.”

     He reached the chain link pool gate and broke into a determined

sprint. He called over his shoulder as he ran across the asphalt lot.

“You must be some kind of monster. A cookie monster!”

                                      _____ The End _____

The Plant Manager

Doug Donnan

Executive Editor/OMNI-GENRE+MAGAZINE!

donnan.doug@yahoo.com                                                                    

                                                    

The Plant Manager                           

                                              

 by

       

 Doug Donnan

         

          [ 2023 / Poco Madre California ]

   “So what you’re telling me is that you operate 

this whole multi-complex hydroponics project by

yourself?” the reporter asked as he flipped open

his little notebook and struggled to steady his

Bic pen.

  “That’s pretty much correct Mr. Cull,” Robby

replied confidently as he expertly steered the

speeding aluminum golf cart on a sweeping turn

around a veritable sea of towering yellow-eared

corn stalks. “This entire heliotropic government

‘Greenland’ project is my responsibility. We’ve

got it all inside here,” he said as he swept his

left hand skyward at the stretching emerald filtered

glass and photo-cell covering, “corn, beans, lettuce,

dozens of varieties of fruit, you name it and we

grow it.” This solar powered multi-field facility

will turn out enough raw produce to feed the entire

population of several third world countries.”

  “That’s pretty impressive by anybody’s standards,”

the wide eyed reporter sighed as Robby finally

slowed a bit to negotiate on to a cut off fork in

the narrow Astro Turf cart path. “But, you keep

saying ‘we’…

  “Robots!” Robby exclaimed as he pointed off in the

distance at a vast cornucopia of domestic and exotic

melons. “You see, I have at my disposal a veritable

army of robotic farmhands. Highly ultra mobile ir-

rigation distributors, or HUMIDS as I call them, a

tireless battalion of photo-tropic pickers, automa-

ton hybrid harvester tractobots, and on and on. And

the kicker is I can pretty much control them all

from right here in this solar powered cart!”

   It’s all truly amazing,” Cull said as he snapped

off a series of pictures from his cell phone.

                        [‘Later that day’]

     As the midday sun dipped behind the far off stand

and steeples of the Santa Ana mountains, the solar

plexi-glass cover of the enormous spreading facili-

ty was beginning to shadow over with a diffuse almost

opaque shroud.

  “Maybe we could stop for a bit of lunch or early

dinner. I think I have just about everything I need

for my write up on your Greenland Operation here

Mr.… say, just what is your last name anyway?”

 

  Robby was just then pulling up to one of the

ubiquitous elongated green and white striped field

sheds. He set the pedal brake on the cart and

turned to face the rotund, belly-rubbing reporter

seated next to him. “Just Robby,” he replied rather

curtly. “Lunch?” he now seemed somewhat miffed,

perhaps offended by the suggestion.

  “Yeh, you know…food,” Cull mimed with a childish

hand gesture to his pursing lips. “You do eat don’t

you? I mean you’re surrounded by the worlds biggest

smorgasbord for Christ’s sake. Don’t you ever sample

the fruits of your labor here…so to speak?” Cull

tried with an impish smile and a playful slap on the

driver’s squared and decidedly rigid shoulder.

  “Food…sustenance?” Robby responded indifferently

with a cold, steely eyed leer not unlike that of a

stalking panther. “We don’t require that sir. Perhaps,

that is why ‘we’ are now in charge!”

             

             _____ THE END _____

LIZARD EYE Chapters 1 & 2

DOUG DONNAN

Executive Editor/OMNI-GENRE+MAGAZINE

donnan.doug@yahoo.com

                

                 "LIZARD EYE"

                (A WESTERN ACTION/ADVENTURE)

                                                     by

                                        DOUG DONNAN

                                             CHAPTER 1

                             

                           

                             [ Poco Vista New Mexico/ 1888 ]

     “Charlie… what?” the tall, angular cowboy spat out in mock bewilderment as he

slammed his whisky shot glass on the oak bar top. “Sounds furin’ to me,” he pressed as he

glanced around his flank for approval from his bar mates. “You from France or some

kinda’ Goddam’ place across the sea?”

     Charlemagne could feel his disadvantage growing and his patience thinning. This moron

was pushing, goading with some cocky drunken purpose. He took a quick look around the

interior of the smoke filled barroom from his isolated position up by the free-swinging

wooden front gates. The now overly curious, copper cuspidor spitting patrons seemed to be sizing

him up with various ‘yeh, what about it?’ looks on their bristled faces. The portly bartender wiped

at the massive back bar mirror with a tack cloth. He appeared indifferent at best.

   

     “My apologies friend,” Charlemagne responded with his own brand of artificial sincerity.

“I must not have made myself clear to you. I go by Charlemagne. My pap’ hung it on me way back

when while I was kickin’ and pissin’ in the crib. He was a book reader. A learned man you must

understand.”

     Charlemagne presented this historical information with the not so subtle implication that his

 current audience was, more than likely, of a lesser caste and conscience than his father. He was alert

to notice a reflective nod and wink from the handlebar-mustachioed bartender. The newly arrived

silence in the barroom was deafening.

     “Oh!” the man replied softly, his mouth forming a tiny puckering hole, like the entrance to a

vacant birdhouse. A few chuckles and a snort or two came from behind him as he stumbled to

regain his teetering position of brashness. “Well, let’s see here Mr. Shar—Lee—Mane, if you don’t

mind me askin’, just what is it that brings you to our fair town of Poco Vista? We don’t get many

of your kind down around here.”

  “And just what kind might that be Arlie Wilcox?” A voice called from the splitting double-

 doors. All eyes snapped to attention as she slowly slipped inside, a large double-barreled shotgun

 ported before an ample, leather vested bosom. A thick rope of tied about auburn hair hung down

 in front of her like a long, wild horse’s tail. However, it didn’t cover the presence or points of the

 silver badge she wore, nor did the sweeping bangs from beneath a cocked back tan Stetson hide the

 intensity of her deep brown bedroom eyes

It was Sheriff Carmen Molina.

Her intimidating and room lighting presence did command respect. She was a beautiful woman

 in an unusual yet powerful position. Charlemagne lifted the flat-line brim of his over-sized 

Stetson to her in a gesture of gratitude and admiration.  

The Sheriff did a kind of careful, yet confident, side-step over to the bar and set her shotgun

 down carefully atop the polished brass rail. She appeared satisfied that she had the situation

 under control.

 “Something for you mam?” the bartender said respectfully.

 “No thanks Tom,” she replied without looking over at him. She was eyeing Charlemagne

 n a discreet, but cat-like way that showed more curiosity than anything else. “Just makin’ the

 rounds. Everything alright here?” she asked as she looked around and beyond Charlemagne at

 the now shuffling bystanders.

      “Yes mam, no problems here. I was just about to buy one for everybody. I try to run a fair

 place here at The Wheel—you know how it is,” he declared as he grasped at a stand of beer mugs.

 “C’mon all you guys, belly up to the bar, beer’s on the house—just one though you pirates,” he

 added as the knot of men spread around the embarrassed Wilcox who was holding his empty glass

 out to Charlemagne in a kind of ‘you won that round’ surrendering gesture.

 Sheriff Molina brushed back her hanging tail and looked up at a perplexed, but thankful Char-

 emagne. “Wanna’ go for a walk?” she asked with a slight smile.

      “Is that an invitation Sheriff or a charge?” Charlemagne said as he straightened up 

somewhat.  

“Don’t push it mister,” she flashed back. “I ain’t got no ‘find me’ poster on you.  I’m on your 

 side... so far."

                                                                

                                                        ___ End Chapter 1 ___

                                                ___ Chapter 2 ___

     Outside the powerful blow and pounding current of the Viento del Diablo had its way with

the unlikely twosome as they made their way down the town’s weathered clapboard walkway.

The turbulent gusts of wind did seem to come at them from all possible angles. Walking was a true

challenge. Walking with someone else was damn near impossible! The normaly unflappable

Charlemagne had taken to stutter stepping and grabbing at the intermittent shop roof support

posts as they made their way. His hat had blown off and he soon found himself being whipped

mercilessly by his own long blonde streamers of hair, and being garroted by the rawhide chin strap

of his sweat stained Stetson. He felt his masculinity put to the test as he awkwardly grabbed for one

of Sheriff Molina’s outrigger positioned arms. Her self-assurance and strength were becoming

embarrassingly apparent to him. He began to feel more like some trembling form of handicapped

person than any kind of independent individual.

     “JEEZUS!” he called out as he struggled along somewhat behind her. “This blusterin’ is blowin’

the... eyes right outa’ my—say missy, where’s my horse?”

     Sheriff Molina came to an abrupt halt. She threw him an irritated look there on the windswept

walk. “That Appaloosa pony of yours was looking all but done in Mr. Charlemagne. I had Peck,

my hapless deputy, escort him over to the town livery stable down the street. He’ll be cared for good

and proper there. Mr. Cadwalater knows all horses and their needs. Town is fairly small cowboy, but we

got all the basics here.”

     She took a daring step towards him and looked him square in his good eye. “And, before we go any

further mi amigo, let me give you one little piece of free advice.”

     “What’s that?” Charlemagne asked as he squinted into the wind.

     “Never call a woman, especially this woman ‘missy’, unless that happens to be her real name! 

Comprende?”

     “Yes mam,” he nodded submissively. “Mind if I ask where you’re taking—where we’re going?”

     “Down to my office,” she said turning back into the wind, “Got sumthin’ you might wanna’ see.”

     “I’m all yours…Sheriff!” Charlemagne replied with a sweep of his open palm.

      Finally, they came to the end of the boardwalk. At this point, the wind had let up a bit

and all seemed manageable. Charlemagne had latched onto the final support buttress as if his

very survival might depend on it. He felt as if he had been physically beaten.

     “Here we are then,” Sheriff Molina declared as if they had just taken a leisurely stroll in

the park.

     “Thank God!” Charlemagne coughed out from a crumpled bandana he was using as a facemask.

“Remind me never to go mountain climbing with you miss…Sheriff.”

     “I’ll remember that request,” she snickered as she opened the door to the ‘Jail House’. “Take 

the load off!” came next with a sturdy kick at a side chair. She snapped the shotgun into the wall

rack. “Looks to be like Peck has perked up some relatively fresh coffee.”

     “Sounds good,” Charlemagne exhaled deeply as he shuffled in.

     The two settled down in their chairs; Sheriff Molina behind her plank and box desk and a

hat-in-hand Charlemagne off to the side. They studied each other, seemingly trying to decide what

to do or say next. Charlemagne took a cautious sip from the tin mug of steaming coffee and then

broke the contemplative moment;

     “So please, won’t you tell me,” he sighed as he squinted a curious look over the edge of his cup,

“what’s a nice sheriff like you doing in a place like this—Poco Vista I mean?”

     “You’re a curious mule now aren’t you?” She said with a puckish grin. “I was just about to ask

you a similar question, but you knew that didn’t you?”

     “So many questions,” he said as he set the cup on the desktop. “Listen Sheriff Molina—”

     “Carmen—please!” she cut in quickly as she raised her cup and bent forward. She slid open a    

side drawer of her tired wooden desk.

      “Okay, Carmen then,” he replied as he settled back into the arms of the guest chair. “Listen, I

don’t want any trouble here in your little town and I truly do appreciate you getting those clowns off

my ass back there at the saloon. I’ll be honest with you, I’m just passin’ through. I only stopped

for a drink, maybe a meal and a bunk for the night. I’ll be on my way at first light tomorrow.”

     Sheriff Carmen nodded acceptance of his little declaration and then slowly positioned herself

back in the well of her spring-loaded desk chair. She crossed a pair of curvaceous blue denim legs

atop the blotter and looked out at him from behind a V of pointed, tan-suede cowboy boots. “Fair

enough,” she said, “but, now that you’re here and as long as you’re being honest, would you mind

looking through these and see if any of them seems a bit unusual to you?” she asked as she tossed

a small stack of dog-eared wanted posters his way.

     “Hey, wait just a minute now. You said back there you didn’t have anything on me. What’s this

all about? I got no history on me. ‘Cept this and that which don’t add up to diddly-do. Trust me, I’m

clean sheriff!”

     “Relax,” she said with a pass of her hand. “Just flip through them, slowly. I’m on your side—

remember?”

     Charlemagne reached across the desk and lifted the stack of handbills. He thumbed through them

slowly, studying the faces and particulars as he held them up to the light of the façade window. It

wasn’t too long before he held one out in front of him and showed it to her. Sheriff Molina smiled

back in satisfaction.

     “Any kin to you?” she asked as she looked wistfully out the window.

     “You got good eyes Sher—Carmen,” he said with a crafty double meaning. “Unlike yours truly

here,” he pointed at his faulty left eye. “A fairly good memory too, I’d say. This here ‘want add’ is

well over four years old!”

     “I know my job. I had a good teacher too!” she hooked a thumb over her shoulder at a framed

daguerreotype image of a stone faced, raven-haired man dressed in a long khaki duster. His

lantern jaw and chin held high, he was porting the very same double-barrel shotgun that Sheriff

Carmen carried about and handled so deftly. She sealed her pretty mouth and raised her chin with

obvious pride. Nice lookin’ guy—for a sheriff, wouldn’t you say Charlemagne?”

     “Your Pa?” he asked with a gasp of disbelief, as he squirmed about the circumference of the

low-back, wooden chair.             

     “Augustus Caesar Molina—The good and stalwart Sheriff Auggie to those who knew, and respec-

ted him on the dusty roads and ways of little giddy-up Poco Vista way back when... My dad.”

     “I’ll be damned!” Charlemagne blew out as he threw up his slender hands. “You inherited this

whole thing, this town, from him?” he nodded up at the looming picture.

     “It wasn’t quite that easy my wayward friend,” she fired back, obviously not liking his quick and

rather blunt summation of things. “I was duly elected!”

     “No offense meant,” he stumbled as he met her glowing brown eyes with his lone wide open

blue one. “I guess I just never met a— that is…”

     “A woman that’s ‘officially’ in charge of something?” she finished for him with a wry smile.       

     Charlemagne dropped his head in a pose of embarrassed defeat and frustration. He felt as if

he had been reprimanded by some school marm from long ago. “I apologize mam.”

     “You give up rather easily Charlemagne,” she said as she reached over and snatched up the

wanted poster in question. “That could be good or a bad, depending on the situation.” 

     Now he was totally bewildered, but equally fascinated by it all. His lips parted as if he were

testing the purpose of his mouth. “I don’t know what to say!” was all that came out.

     “Tell me about this man here,” she said as she glanced over the handbill. “Gotta’ be related

to you somehow—hmm? I mean for one thing he’s got that…well, his left eye, like yours, you’ll

pardon me, is kind of—”   

     “Strange?” he finished for her. “Called ‘lazy eye’ by most. The hurtful prefer Lizard Eye. Any

way you look at it, ‘we got one shade pulled down some!’ he would always tell me with a little

laugh and a shrug of the shoulders. My ol’ man was quite a character.”

     “You speak of him in the past,” she seemed to soften somewhat, “should I go ahead and tear this

up then…Charlemagne?”

     He leaned up and did his best to stare at her straight and true. “I guess that’s up to you sheriff.

He never really was ‘wanted’ for much all his natural life, ‘cept by his family—mother and me.

That piece of paper there doesn’t do him any justice. Look at that thing— 'Wanted for ‘questioning

and possible deceptive personage... Reward: Negotiable'! He wasn’t a criminal Carmen. He was an

explorer, an adventurer! We haven’t seen or heard from him in two years. I’m afraid he’s no longer—

     “I think I understand,” she cut in considerately as she balled up the paper and tossed it into a tin 

whicker waste basket off in the corner. “Rest in peace Lionel Copeland Albright. I hope you found

what you were looking for!”

     Charlemagne settled back in his chair and awkwardly dabbed at his good eye. The left eye had

closed completely. It seemed that that shade had drawn tight in a silent moment of reflection and

sorrow.  Finally, with the wind whistling and thrashing just outside, “He did!” Charlemagne said.

     “Did what?” she asked after a sip of her coffee.

     “Find exactly what he was looking for,” Charlemagne came back with a deflated, but proud air of

satisfaction.

     “And I guess that somehow gets us to the point of this little investigation,” she smiled.

     Charlemagne took some furtive passes over his shoulders and then bent over the desk as if he

were going to try and kiss her somehow. “Gold, Carmen! He found… Gold!”

                                 

                                                  ___ End Chapter 2 ___