I was walking down the street one day. It was rural and there was nothing but trees. Ah! Fresh air! There was no sounds of traffic jams. the random cursing from road-raged taxi drivers was missed by no one.
The only reminder of city life was the broke bark of my hound-dog Husky. It sounded like a police-car siren blaring. Many a night I woke up thinking some prison escapee made his way into the woods and was being chased by U.S. Marshalls.
I attempted to climb a small hill. It had a half-trekked trail and the top had several pecan trees just right for providing shade.
I made it to the top and sit down on the duster jacket I threw on the ground. I looked out towards the horizon and saw nothing but miles and miles of trees. It would take a local citizen such as myself to explore without getting lost. I was the resident for 20 square miles.
Just when I began to take a bite out of a bologna sandwich I shoved in my pocket I saw something that looked like a meteorite that fell from the clouds. I was too tired to go chasing the trail of debris leading to ground-zero. Naturally, I outsourced the job.
I walked back to my cabin and grabbed my cell-phone. Even hillbillies have those now. I called the operator and had her connect me with the closest F.B.I office. They ensured me an agent would show up immediately to investigate. “Agent? I yelped. Hell! I just want the police.”
I sit there for 5 dang hours before a black van with government liscense-plate pulled up 2 feet from my porch where I was sitting.
All that time Husky was roaming around in the woods like always, probably sniffing out a old cow-bone. To my surprise he walked up 5 minutes before the ‘agent’ with that very same meteorite object between his teeth. I was holding it in my hand when Special Agent Watkins took down my information and began to ask me some questions.
It struck me odd that someone who drives 5 hours is ‘special’. My father drove a diesel truck 42 hours each way for 37 years. They never made labeled him ‘Special Driver’. He did have a gun. But unlike the pea-shooter this feller was packing, he carried a .44 magnum revolver.
‘My dog came out from the tree-line with this in his mouth.’ I claimed. ‘His tail was wagging faster than a celibates tongue at a strip club.’ The agent gave me a go to hell look. Agent Watkins prodded, Where exactly in the woods did your dog find this rock?’ I blurted, Rock, I thought yous were smartened. It’s a meteorite. He still wasn’t buying it.
He pulled his black sunglasses out of his coat pocket and placing them on his face as if I didn’t already know who he was by our previous introduction. He asked again in a deeper tone, “WHERE EXACTLY (Waving his hand) did you dog find that specimen?” “Oh! Now It’s specimen. Well agent! I didn’t think to ask him where he got it and he didn’t say.” I answered with a straight face.
“Now we are not going to have any of that. This is a serious investigation.”
Copyright © Dustin Poteet