Diffle County Report: Murder and Deer Sausage - 2nd in a Series

Part 1:  http://themutantmousechronicles.blogspot.com/2011/07/diffle-county-report-body-found-in.html

In Pennsylvania We Eat Our State Animal

Written By Rick Fisher

Aunt Carol was stirring the crockpot when Big Don arrived home.  "Honey, the phone has been ringing off the hook for the past hour."  The phone rang as she spoke.

Big Don picked up the receiver and barked "Hello!"  After 10 minutes of answering “Yes”, “No”, and “No, thank you”, Big Don hung up the phone.  "Well, that was a producer for The Nancy Grace Show on CNN. Nancy wants me to be on her show tomorrow night.  Told them,  Thanks but no thanks."   Don shook his head as he sat down for dinner. "I'm thinking we might have to barricade the highway by tomorrow morning."

"NANCY GRACE?!  YOU WERE ON THE TELEPHONE WITH NANCY GRACE?!?!?!  Aunt Carol dropped a spoon, then she dropped the bowl of Deer Sausage Soup. Then she ran out of the room. Don didn't have to worry about the phone ringing the rest of the night.  Aunt Carol took care of that. By midnight, every living person ( and a few near-dead ones) in Diffle County knew about Linda Malone being found dead in Fletcher's Pond.

After cleaning up Aunt Carol’s mess, Big Don helped himself to three bowlfuls of her world famous Deer Sausage Soup (which is a variation on a Dutch recipe created by the Women's Auxiliary of the Friendship Hook and Ladder Company of East Greenville). The meat was perfectly smoked and the soup tasted delicious- “Never better!”, Big Don said out loud, a happy old grin on his face.

“Hey Auntie, is this Father Figure’s sausage?” Big Don hollered to the living room, then murmured to himself “I doubt it is, this is much sweeter and juicier.” Aunt Carol hollered back from the living room.  “Squirrel brought it over. Such a sweet, yet odd little man!’  Don was too busy chomping down soup to offer his affirmative reply.

Aunt Carol kept the phone lines humming half the night. Some folks swear they saw phone lines smoking on the telephone poles.  Big Don finished dinner and then headed upstairs for an early bedtime.  Tomorrow was going to be a long day.  “I don’t know how I do it!” Don chuckled to himself a short while later, just before falling asleep.

The next morning, Big Don had to drive across Bernie Sharp’s sheep farm to get to Maruice Candelharp’s driveway. From there he crossed Beaver Dam Rd. to enter Creek Lane, which is really nothing more than a dirt trail. He then drove his truck through a thicket of blackberry bushes that had overgrown the trail’s end, his truck climbing up the shoulder and onto the pavement of N Fletcher Road which led directly to the rear of the Grinold Township Municipal building.

The State Police had closed the main highway one mile North of Creek Lane, and one mile South of the Township building after 75+ news vans, satellite trucks, and thousands of rubbernecked lookie-loos in cars and trucks of all sizes descended on the pond. Big Don pulled into the township building, having avoided all the congestion.

When he got out of his truck, he was immediately surrounded by reporters.  “Are you in charge here?  Do you have any comment on the Malone murder?  Are you going to provide us with regular updates?  Is it possible to get an interview with you live on our news program? 

Big Don kept walking, a blank look on his face.  “Sorry folks, I’m just here to pick up a permit.”   The reporters melted away, realizing they had the wrong man.  Big Don walked inside and greeted the makeshift police department assembled in the meeting room, then walked out back to the township garage.  The big trucks were lined up, snow plows firmly attached, ready for the coming winter.

At the back of the garage, four worn-out lazy-boy chairs were waiting, though three were already occupied.  Larry, Squirrel, and The Kid were lounging and talking about Linda Malone, each one arguing the merits of the case.

“Thanks for the deer sausage, Squirrel. Aunt Carol made her world class sausage soup. I’m still feeling it.”  Big Don burped.  

Squirrel smiled.  “No problem, Big Don. I had plenty extra.  Tell her to save me a bowl of that soup.  Never had it before.” 

State Police Captain Jonathan Jenkins walked back into the garage. He had been up all night managing the media circus while searching for evidence.  His usually crisp uniform was wrinkled and his tie was stained with tomato sauce, his salt and pepper hair disheveled from a 3 A.M. attempt to nap in one of the lazy boys.

Big Don leaned against a work counter and greeted Captain Jenkins, "Hi John. You look a little tired. Are you close to catching the killer?  I will want my township building back eventually.”

Captain John managed a grin.  “We have some evidence, found some ATV tracks on the lake path. The path leads back to State Game Lands and the parking lot on Carter Hill Road.  We found more evidence in the parking lot. We made a cast of the ire tracks and I have men walking every square inch of the woods in between. We have no idea why someone would have chosen this location to dump her body.  It’s a missing piece in the puzzle, the mot-.”

Captain John paused, realizing he didn’t know everyone in the room. He turned to Squirrel and, without smiling said, “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Captain Jonathan Jenkins, Barracks Commander of the Pennsylvania State Police.”  

“Nice to um..meet you, Captain.” Squirrel managed to say.  They did not shake hands.

Captain John looked at Squirrel and frowned. “Everything I just said is confidential, understood?  My words never leave this room.  I’ve known these boys a long time.  It only takes one screw-up to get yourself kicked off the need-to-know list.”  Captain John turned to Big Don.  “Don, we are holding a press conference in about 30 minutes.

"Need to Know List," Larry repeated, like a parrot.

"Don, we’d like a local official to answer a few general questions about Grinold Township,”  said Captain John.

"Local Official", Larry repeated.

Big Don smiled and nodded.  “I think we can find someone for that.”   Captain John thanked him gave a general wave, and a longer than normal stare at Squirrel before walking back to the office area.   

Big Don sat down, yawned and stretched. “Well kid, we can do it with you or without you. Squirrel, looks like you made a lifelong friend at the State Police barracks. Better not drink and drive.”   Squirrel shrugged, his gray-blue eyes slightly larger than normal.

"Do it with or without you", repeated Larry

The Kid shook his head repeatedly. “I’m not going up there, Don. No way.  I’m just a Township employee.”  The kid squirmed in his chair, adjusting the John Deere cap on his head.


“I will tell you what to say.  Remember that time you needed a gift for your girlfriend and we helped you pick it out?  Don was smiling so hard, his face was about to crack.

“HELP ME OUT?  You told me to buy new equipment for bow hunting.  That she would appreciate the fresh meat.  She was furious!”   The Kid kicked at some dirt on the floor.

"Help you out.," said Larry, as he read the Diffle County Daily Reporter.

“We didn’t think you’d actually go through with it.”  Big Don laughed out loud.  “OK, here is what you’ll say.  Grinold Township has been around longer than most can remember.  We have clean water, beautiful lakes and streams, plenty of hunting and fishing.  Now, if you need more information than that, Diffle County has elected officials who need votes. Go talk to them.”

The kid shook his head.  “I ain’t goin’ up in front of those cameras, Big Don.”

Thirty minutes later, The Kid, also known as Timothy Westin, Grinold Township Public Relations Director, talked for 30 minutes about hunting and fishing in Grinold Township.  Most of the reporters had already left by the time The Kid was finished with his speech.

Afterwards, Captain and Big Don had a private talk in Don’s office.  The only unusual thing in the woods that the police observed was a deer had been killed and gutted not far off the ATV Trail. Hunting season was at least two months away. Big Don didn’t think much of that until he burped.

Smoking Deer Sausage

All characters are fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental, incidental, and not meant to hurt, harm, nor offend your tender sensibilities.  

Diffle County Update: Aunt Carol's Deer Sausage Soup Recipe

This writer has had a busy week after our perfect vacation. Because of that, my characters in Diffle County have been less than cooperative.  While I almost have the entire murder story figured out, I still have to talk to the Reilly clan and maybe Big Don one more time to make certain I have all the facts straight. In the meantime, why not take a look at Aunt Carol's recipe for Deer Sausage Soup!  

And remember, if Deer sausage is out of season (not likely in Diffle County), you can use regular, boring smoked sausage.  If you do, try to use one of the local butchers like John Hemstattler & Sons, over in East Greenville, just past the traffic light on the left.  Look for the cow in the window.

Aunt Carol's Deer Sausage Soup

4 lg. potatoes, peeled and diced (like for potato salad)
1 lg. onion, diced
1 lg. green pepper, diced
1 lb. smoked deer sausage, cut into small pieces
Cover with water, add salt and pepper to taste, cook until potatoes are
done, then add: 1 can red kidney beans (don't drain)
2-3 Tablespoons of sugar
Heat to boiling point and thicken with flour water (just thicken slightly)
**sausage can be browned before cooking, if desired)

Diffle County is a work of fiction, however the recipe is true.  All characters reside in the mind of the author. Any resemblance to persons now living or already gone to meet their maker is purely coincidental, incidental, and not worthy of your frivolous lawsuit.  Spend your money on something worthwhile like a vacation. Go somewhere nice, like Washington State, or perhaps, Diffle County, where you thought you were in the first place.

Diffle County Report: Aliens Spotted on Spoot Mountain

Story by Rick Fisher Copyright 2011 All Rights Reserved. All Characters are fictional. Any resemblance to folks living or dead is purely coincidental and not intended to reflect poorly upon the good non-fictional people we know.

A bad storm came through Diffle County last week.  I always know when a summer storm is a bad one by my telephone.  Since I live in Nother County, the boys don't call me in to help out unless they are desperate.  I can accept that.  Big Don likes to say, "Ricky, we can do it with you or without you."  Mostly they do it without me.

But eventually, being the back-up to the alternate to the part-timer to the full-timer gets you called on the phone after a nasty storm.

Big Don on the phone:
"Ricky, what are you doing today?  A bad storm came through.  Ol' John is down with a bad knee,  Arthur is in Florida, and Father Figure, well..he's on a mission...you aren't on the need to know list so we will leave it at that."

"What about Larry Lohman?  Isn't he available?"  I was trying to think of an excuse.  It was 5 a.m.

"Larry has a lawn maintenance seminar to attend . Ricky, we know you aren't busy at five in the morning.  You might as well come in."  Big Don believes that sleeping doesn't count as doing something.

There were a good number of trees down over roads, and large branches too. As soon as I got into the office, Big Don and I grabbed chainsaws and hopped in the Township truck.  He drove and I rode.  He knew where he was going. Here is how the system works: All night long, trees fall down. All night long folks who should stay home in a bad storm but don't dial up 911.  All night long the State Police call Big Don.

"Is Walt (our esteemed zoning officer originally from Long Island) out helping too?  I asked, as we bumped along on the back roads.

"Ricky, how many New Yorkers do you know who can handle a chainsaw?"  Big Don replied with feigned irritation.  After that we kept our conversations to the business of cutting limbs and clearing roads.

We were cutting a large Oak limb on Weldon Drive when Big Don's cell phone started playing "Made in America" by Toby Keith.  "Ah, it's Melissa."  (All women are named Melissa to Big Don. It's kind of catchy,  you should try it at home.)  He spoke with a couple of "uhuhs" and "okays" and a "whew" and then a "thank you Melissa" before hanging up the phone.  We finished carving up the branch and tossing it into the woods at the road's edge.

"Ricky, Melissa says we'll have to go rescue Marcus Spoot."

Marcus Spoot is a  true mountain man. He owns seventy-six acres of woods on a small rise surrounded by gentle valleys.  This is the same seventy-six acres that his daddy owned, his Pappy owned, and his great Granddaddy owned.  Before that, there is a missing deed (Chief Running Bear's deed, according to Native Americans and their casino backers), then a John Becker, and back even further, and not surprisingly, the property (along with half of Pennsylvania) was owned by the Honorable William Penn.

Marcus  Spoot had a driveway made of legend. Only 4-wheel drive vehicles could easily ascend to the top. Once the mountain snow and ice arrived, the Spoot homestead was only accessible by snowmobile and ATV's.  In the winter, Marcus Spoot parked  his old Dodge truck next to the mailbox down by the main road.

If he needed to go somewhere, Spoot ditched the snowmobile in Clawney's old barn, across the highway, hopped in his truck and drove. During the warmer seasons, the Dodge carried junk, tons of junk, picked up every trash night throughout the county, then carted up the mountain and tossed on the ground- new treasures every week.

Spoot's daddy was a junk collector.  Spoot's grand-pappy was a junk collector.  Spoot's Great grandfather collected metal and wood. The first pile is still there, rusting an decaying.  On top of Spoot mountain, there are over 5 acres of  Spoot-declared treasure- from half a piper cub to a 39 foot sailboat jacked up on cinder blocks with paint peeling faster than a drunken pee. Four generations of junk sure can add up.

Over the years, Spoot Mountain has also accumulated 55-gallon plastic barrels and Marcus has put them to good use fermenting peaches, sugar pears, apples, grapes, and more. It is the most unsanitary winery known to man. Fly strips full of winged insects hang from the ceiling of his makeshift garage, and a thousand more circle the barrels.  If you saw it, you wouldn't want to drink it.

Yet the wine is 150 proof and an absolute delight as long as you only sip half a glass or pour down more than two glasses. You don't want to drink enough to remember your reaction, friend. Or you want to drink enough to forget your reaction, babydoll.

Spoot had fancy names for his wine.  "Applenesia"  "Sugarpear Snare", "Grape Sinner" and "Peach Plowed" are some of the names Spoot has used in the past.  "Hey Marcus, what kind of wine is this?", I asked one day when he dropped off a couple of jars for the boys.  "That red one is "Strawberry Snatch".  They be snatching your children away from you after you drink some of that.   The yellow one is Daffodil Dyke.  Drink a few glassfuls and you be hitting on all the wrong girls in the bar. A few more glasses, and you be dancin' in the wrong bar, and a few more, you be shaving your head and marching in the parade."

He once invited the State Auditor, a lovely, professional accountant, over to his "winery" for a tasting.  A connoisseur of fine wines, she naturally agreed.  They found her 2 days later in Stopton, 40 miles away, wandering down the middle of Main Street in search of her car.  Spoot says he warned her.  "I told her, this one is Elderberry Eraser- erase your mind as fast as you drink it down.

It was hard for us to believe that Spoot needed our help. But when we arrived we saw there were dozens of trees down over his driveway, which was mostly washed out.  And Spoot was feeling poorly, fightin off some serious chest pains. An ambulance and crew waited at the driveway entrance to take him in, while we went to work at clearing those trees.

Dave got on cellular and called George Watkins, who lived nearby. "George, we need the big machine. Over at Spoots. Yep. Okay. Send the bill to the Township. Yep. Melissa says Howdy. Bye now."  We stood around chatting with the ambulance crew for a few minutes when the sound of thunder started rolling our way.



Within minutes, the thunder became a clanking roar of yellow iron and rust- George Watkins had arrived on top of his 1957 D8 and, without so much as a wave, attacked the trees on Spoot's driveway- breaking trees and pushing them aside like little twigs, then scraping the dirt and pushing it forward, filling the ruts in nice and tight.

We followed with our chainsaws, cutting back a limb here, tossing minor branches aside there- while Watkins and his mighty D8 carved a new driveway to Spoot's front door.  Within an hour we reached the old man, and there he was sitting on a half-finished deck, feet hanging over the edge, naked down to his tighty-whiteys, a half-empty jar of Mighty Melon Masher in one hand.

"Howdy boys! Took ya long enough!  I thought I was gonna die and so I thought I'd better get to drinkin' and not remember my ending...then the aliens came and they took me up in their spaceship and poked at me with funny white sticks.  I shared a jar of my Masher with them..whooee, they was happy after that..knocked down all them trees in the driveway trying to get back to the sky...then a cat and an otter showed up looking for some armor.   I found them a couple of nice oven doors from a couple of stoves my pappy picked up on the Johnston farm a few years back..."

Marcus Spoots vitals were checked out by the EMT and he politely refused a ride to the hospital, "..and don't even think about charging me for a house call!"   George turned his dozer around and  gave a sweep back down the mountain for a final grade, and Big Don and I declined a glass of Melon Mash, but Big Don did remind Spoot that we fixed his driveway and to stop by for hot dogs next Tuesday, oh and don't forget to get those aliens registered to vote, election's coming up and Big Don sure could use a few extra votes.

The next morning, the Diffle County Reporter ran the front page headline:

"Wobbling U.F.O. Spotted Hovering Over Spoot Mountain"
State Police Confirm Sighting of Leaf-Covered Disc in Sky

Diffle County Report: The Jimmy Deagan Story

Diffle County Report: The Jimmy Deagan Story

A story by Rick Fisher 


Jimmy Deagan was an angry kid. His father was a drunk.  It was a family
 tradition. He had his father's eyes too. Tall, dark, and dangerously
handsome, Jimmy could have passed for a All-America High School
quarterback, except for those eyes.  Deep-set under dark eyebrows with
long, black lashes; they were piercingly beautiful. They were painful and angry.
They were unpredictable and deadly. They invited girls to ruin.


When Jimmy was twelve years old, he stole magazines from the local 
drug store. He didn't get caught.  Then he invited Robert (Bobby) Jenkins
 to steal magazines and laughed and ran away, while Bobby sat handcuffed
to a chair, waiting for his parents to take him home.  Jimmy showed that
stupid kid how to steal the wrong way, just for kicks. read more here ...
http://difflecounty.blogspot.com/2011/08/diffle-county-report-jimmy-deagan-story.html

Diffle County Report: Moving to Our Own Blog

Diffle County Reports is moving to it's own blog.  In order to allow Diffle County residents and loyal followers to to find their favorite Diffle County stories, we have moved Diffle County  to a new blog site:

GREETINGS FROM DIFFLE COUNTY 

In the next few weeks we will be moving our Diffle County stories to the new site.  Then we will begin adding more stories, including the climatic ending to the current murder mystery.  This is the first in a number of positive changes planned for TMMC over the next year. Our goal is to provide the best fiction/non-fiction story blog for your personal enjoyment.

See you in Diffle County! 

Diffle County Report: Body Found in Fletcher's Pond

"Everybody gets dead, it was his turn." -John Wayne, as Hondo

There is a great spine that runs, like the back of a dinosaur, from Georgia to Maine. Across it's most inaccessible pinnacles, winds a small walking trail, officially known as "The Appalachian Trail". Plummeting down it's ravines and swales, around, over and across several mountain tops are thousands of small, rural communities -  This is Appalachian country.    

Folks who live near the trail rarely walk upon it. We have enough big rocks to climb over in our own backyard.  We sure as hell don't need a trail to remind us of where we live. Besides, Appalachian folk prefer trails that cater to ATVs and snowmobiles.  We don't want to hear a coyote howl unless we are chasing it down.

From stick-built cabins deep in woods to the brick-fronted buildings on Main Street, Appalachia is more than a place. The mountains and rural hills along the Eastern mountain spine are the epicenter of family, history, folklore, and friendship. We celebrate our lives with food, music, art, snowmobiles, atv's, guns, and blue dog politics.  Diffle County sits comfortably in the upper Eastern spine of the Pennsylvania Appalachian mountains.

In the heart of Diffle County, nearly cut in two by the Appalachian Trail, sits The Old Grin, i.e. Grinold Township.  The Townfship of Old Grinolde was founded in 1783 by  Walter and Louis Grinolde, two wealthy brothers from Philadelphia in search of adventure. Soon after arriving, Louis was killed in an Indian attack (this fact is disputed by some in the Grinolde family).

Louis did not live long enough to meet his sister-in-law Lois Fletcher.  Walter met Lois at a social in Easton and courted her for two years. They were married in Easton and honeymooned in a tent on the edge of a small lake in the Townfship of Grinolde. In honor of the love of his life, Walter Grinolde named the lake Fletcher's Pond.

Now there's a body floating in Fletcher's Pond and  The Old Grin is about to be fished out.

Captain Johnathan Jenkins of the PA State Police was standing in the doorway to his office at the East Greenville barracks when the 911 call came in.

"Diffle County Control Center, What is the nature of your emergency?"
"Jill, it's Uncle Larry.  Get the State Police on the horn,  get me Captain John right away." 
"Uncle Larry, I need to get the basic information first.  I can transfer you after that."
"Jill, there's a dead girl floating in Fletcher's pond.  I'm at the Grinold Township building, now patch me through to Captain John."
"Ok, transferring now. Say hi to Aunt Carol for me."


Within 40 minutes of receiving the phone call, Captain John Jenkins and  Homicide Detective Ralph Gower  were interviewing Bobby LaFleur about his discovery while two patrolmen carefully removed the girl's body from the lilly pads.  Diffle County Coroner  Jim Gehler stood at the water's edge, waiting to examine the body.  An ambulance stood at the ready.  The fire police were on the scene, directing traffic around the crime scene, which now occupied  the shoulder and South-bound lane of old Route 39.

This was bad, real bad.  The girl appeared to be in her twenties.  Her hands had been duct-taped behind her back and more tape was across her mouth. There were signs of strangulation on her neck. A few minutes after the coroner declared her dead, the State Police Regional CSI unit arrived to secure the site and gather evidence.  Captain John called in the Diffle County Search and Rescue to dive under in search for more evidence.  Coroner Jim Gehler thought the girl looked "awful familiar" but there was no identification on her body.

Meanwhile, the telephone wires were burning up, first in Grinold Township, then all across Diffle County. A reporter and a photographer from the Diffle County Reporter arrived, skirted past the police tape, and snapped a couple pictures before a patrolman ushered them across the street.  The crime scene was extended, closing Route 39.  A detour route onto 2nd street and through the Township parking lot was quickly arranged.

One of the CSI unit investigators, Sgt. Becci Nillson, recognized the victim, and quickly took Captain John by the arm, deliberately walking him away from the scene and out of earshot of everyone there.
"Becci, what have you got?"
"Captain, we will need back-up, all the support we can find, public relations, top investigators, the best in the State.  That girl is not just any girl, the girl is Linda Malone."
Captain John's mouth dropped wide open.
"The girl who killed her son then went on a 10-day cruise? The one who was found not guilty?  But she was from Georgia. Oh shit. This will be a circus before tomorrow morning. Thanks Becci"

Captain John  Jenkins called the entire team together.

"We have temporarily ID'ed the victim." announced Captain John Jenkins to the team  "From this point forward, I would advise you to keep your mouth shut and do your job. Do not discuss this with anyone. Do not make any comments to the press, unless you want to find yourself answering to the District Attorney."

Captain John looked over at the reporter and photographer standing just outside the yellow tape.

"Get that reporter at least a block away from here. Move the whole crime scene back. I'm calling in every off-duty patrolman to canvass this town and the lake.  Ladies and Gentlemen, If  Sgt. Nillson is correct, our victim is the infamous Linda Malone."

There was a moment of silence and then a collective gasp as the reality of the situation became clear. Six months ago, Linda Malone was acquitted of drowning her own 5-year old son in a case that captivated America. For months the media saturated the public with the story of a murderous drowning, a basement burial, and the 10-day Bahama cruise.  Convicted in the general public by a bloodthirsty media, she was found not guilty by a jury of her peers.

The defense successfully argued that the crime scene was tainted by sloppy evidence gathering and an expert pathologist stated that the evidence pointed to an accidental drowning. Her lawyers insinuated that her ex-husband might be the true killer, that she could not have dug a grave in such hard ground. Finally, they argued that there simply was no hard evidence to convict.

The jury agreed but America disagreed. Death threats were sent across social media platforms like spam. After the verdict and her release from custody, Linda Malone climbed into a private Lear jet and disappeared into the night sky.

Rumor had it that she was living in seclusion somewhere along the East Coast, writing her 10 million dollar memoir, and travelling into a major city once a month for plastic surgery.  In truth, the press and the general public hadn't seen her since she was released from prison.

Fletcher's Pond was the last place anyone expected to find her.  The Old Grin bore a wicked smile.

Tim Cardin, recently college graduate with a degree in Journalism and now a poorly paid reporter, shook his head. He watched the police gather together as the crime scene expanded like a balloon filling with air.
"Something's up, Kerry. This is weird. I don't think this is a drunken boater who fell overboard."

Kerry Nordstrom, local photographer and occasional stringer, nodded in agreement. She scrolled back to look at the two pictures she snapped before being moved out of the crime scene.  She whistled and then burst into a short laugh, beaming at Tim. "Are you ready for this?, her blue eyes were full of taunting mirth, "Better yet, do you think you can handle this? She readied her Cannon camera for HD video, checked her batteries, and started running back towards the crime scene.

"What are you doing?  Wait a minute! You know who the victim is! Spill it, Nordstrom!" He followed behind her as she moved closer in preparation to film the body and crime scene.  "Who is it?  Tell me!"  Tim Cardin caught up and grabbed Kerry's shoulder, slowing her down. She turned to him, her face bursting with excitement.

"Linda Malone!  The dead girl is Linda Malone! Now come on.  This is the story of our life. Call your Editor. Call CNN. Get your recorder out. Tonight, we are the national spotlight. And inside my camera is a million dollar photograph!"   Kerry ran towards the yellow tape, camera in full record mode.  

Back at the Grinold Township building, Big Don was about to kill the lights and close up shop when Captain John walked in.  "Big Don, I'm going to need the Township building as a temporary base of operations. Mind if we commandeer the building""

Big don chuckled, "Sure can, Cap. There's a coffeemaker in my office and a fridge with sodas and a few heartier liquid refreshments. Help yourself. Just don't try to drive the trucks.  I don't think you have a CDL license and we wouldn't want you getting a ticket."

Captain John laughed. "I won't drive the trucks.  Listen Don, prepare yourself. The victim is famous or infamous, depending on who you talk to. This is going to be the biggest circus you've ever seen."

Big Don smiled at Captain John.  "Well, let the circus come.  No hotels within 25 miles, no cell phone reception, and only Fletcher's Pond Inn for food and drink. Folks travelling here aren't going to find it very comfortable. Now I gotta get going.  Emma's made deer sausage soup for dinner. I'll check in on you later. Should I bring back some soup and fresh bread for you?"

"Thanks but no thanks. I'll grab dinner at the Inn." replied Captain John.

"Your loss", said Big Don as he walked to the front door. The Township phone rang and Big Don stopped to answer it.  "Grinold Township. What? Who is this? ABC News? No, I don't know anything about that....yes, I've heard of her....( Big Don winked at Captain John).....no, sorry there isn't anyone here and I'm late for dinner...you too..Bye now."

Big Don hung up the phone and walked out, got into his Ford F-150 and drove home. Captain John checked his cell reception, then pulled a Township phone over to the meeting table. Before he could pick up the receiver to dial out the phone started ringing again.

This is a fictional story. All characters are fictional. Any resemblance to real-life folks is incidental, accidental, and completely unintentional. For directions to Diffle County, please use Google maps. Perhaps there is a street view of my house there.  Written by Rick Fisher. Copyright 2011, All Rights Reserved.

Diffle County Report: Another Day in Grinold Township

Joe Turner was hanging around the Grinold Township building the other day along with Supervisor Larry Lohman. Sitting around the office, waiting for something to happen has become a daily ritual for the old boys. Since the crash of '08, activity has slowed down to a baby's crawl  in Diffle County, especially in Grinold Township, known to locals as The Old Grin.

Flectcher's Pond

A quiet refuge of trout-laden streams, shimmering spring-fed lakes, dark, wet peat bogs, and old, empty hunting cabins, The Old Grin is located in the upper reaches of nowhere special, in the far Northeast corner of Diffle County. You have to take exit 389 off the Interstate, then drive twenty-five miles up a winding mountain road to reach the township border. The road is never in good shape; constantly washed over with rocks and dirt. A state road, it is commonly listed last on the schedule of needed improvements.  Grinold Township residents like it that way.  "You'll lose your behind on Route 39", The Old Grin boys like to say.

The largest town in The Old Grin is Fletcher's Pond, population 546. Not much larger than a village, it is perched on the edge of State Route 39;  houses on one side of the two-lane road and Fletcher's 30-acre pond on the other side.  A few side streets are hidden from view behind the very large, early 1900's houses that rest on the edge of the highway. Most of those homes were converted into apartments many years ago.

There are more dirt roads than paved roads in this wild and wooded land. The running joke is:  How do you fix a pothole in Grinold Township? Answer:  Add more stone.  City folks swear they can hear that song from Deliverance playing from every front porch. Yet the men are hard-working and honest, the wives are built from hardwood, and the families run back through time to the first settlers of Diffle County.  It is a bad place to get lost and a good place to get found.

Zoning Officer Walt Groner arrives at the township office around 9:30 a.m wearing black, as usual. Joe asks him if he has a full closet of the same outfit. Walt, without hesitation  tells Joe Turner to go "F" himself. Lohman laughs so hard he falls off his chair.  Another day has begun in The Old Grin.

Walt agrees to be 76 years old and admits he is computer illiterate ("give me a typewriter with round, black keys and I'll be fine"). Walt doesn't accept that he is OCD- in the old days  good people were neat and orderly- now it is a treatable illness.

Joe Turner tests Walt for OCD by kicking the leg of one of the folding chairs at the end of the row. They are all  lined up in neat rows for the next town meeting.  Walt stares at Joe from his desk in the corner of the room. The chair is no longer in line with the rest of the row.  Joe smiles sweetly at Walt,  who looks away,  grumbling to himself. A few seconds pass. Walt Groner stares at the awkward chair, then at Joe Turner.
"Joe"
"Yes, Walt?"
"Move the friggin' chair back."
"Why?"
"Because it is ASKEW!"
Joe rests his case.

A few minutes later, Walt files an appeal.  "OCD is a bunch of crap. don't believe in it." Joe walks over to the town meeting table.  It is a large, rectangular table, capable of seating 5 large men on one side.  There is a perfectly arranged stack of newspapers near table's corner, close to Walt's desk. Joe Turner smacks the pile, sending sections of newspaper haphazardly across the table. It is a bit of a mess.  Joe stands at the end of the table, his smile back on solid.

Walt tries to ignore the messy newspapers.  He pinches his nose, he rolls his eyes, he looks over at Lohman for moral support, then he looks down at his shoes.  Inside his head, Walt Groner is having a meltdown and Joe Turner knows it.

Suddenly, Walt jumps out of his chair, grabs the newspapers and repairs the tumbled stack, muttering something about jacks and asses. Then he speaks up. "Don't touch the friggin' newspapers. I have them properly organized."   Another short pause, then Joe displays his middle finger for Walt to see, and everyone in the room breaks down in helpless laughter- including Walt Groner.  

Frank Berger drops in with the mail.  A Korean and Vietnam war vet,  "Burger" drives his Chevy truck over to pick up the mail from the township post office box every day. After years of tagging along with Supervisor Lohman,the township fathers decided to give Frank his own key.   He is their personal mail carrier, a chronic complainer, his thousand facial wrinkles a testament to a long life of serving our country. He is fiercely loyal to his friends. He is equally loyal to their enemies.  This creates friction at times, but Frank Berger remains an  Old Grin Father Figure.

Burger once  thought a broken, ancient, cheaply made drum set had great value simply because it was old and sitting in his attic.  Lohman reminded Burger that age alone does not make something valuable. "Look at you, Father Figure.  You're old.  How valuable are you?" Burger replied with the usual Grinold deadpan, "Happy birthday Don", he chimed out. Everyone laughed.  Happy birthday is not a compliment within the boundaries of this community. Calling someone Don can be considered offensive as well, unless their name is Don, and even then it is only somewhat acceptable.

Besides, Father Figure is very valuable. Every three weeks, Burger drives that ugly brown truck to an unknown airfield, is given a briefcase that is handcuffed to his wrist, boards a military plane, and flies off to the Far East. He is usually home within a week.  He won't reveal anything more than that and everyone knows not to ask.  Burger still serves his country.  He has great value.

Jimmy "The Squirrel" Jackson pulls up in the parking lot.  Suerpvisor Lohman is through the back door and out into the main garage before The Squirrel can open his car door.  Everyone knows the drill.  Since Lohman is not in the room, he is technically not in the office.

Squirrel enters the office and is greeted by Walt and Joe."Hey Jim, Howdy, Jim". The Squirrel returns their greeting while looking around, "Is Lohman here? I have a question for him."   Sounds like a Squirrel complaint is on its way.  Burger answers, "I don't see him here." Turner responds with, "Don left a few minutes ago."

The Squirrel is the only person building a new house in The Old Grin this year.  Life has gotten harder, homes once full of children sit empty, their lawns filled with grass higher than a cow pasture.  Back in the Township office, there isn't much to do and the old boys poke fun at each other relentlessly.  Yet they all feel the undercurrent of despair.  Everyone in Diffle County knows someone who has lost their job, or their house, or their family, or all three. The boys of Old Grin believe it will probably get worse. They call themselves realists.

And so the vegetable gardens are bigger this year, the trips to East Greenville more infrequent.  The State has fenced  all the Game Lands into square mile blocks, numbered each one, and are selling hunting tickets for each block on the "grid". Joe Turner calls it hunting socialism.  Lohman claims that there are fewer deer outside the State fences and the Grinold boys are worried there won't be enough deer meat to go around this winter.

Joe Turner says goodbye, walks out into the parking lot and gets inside his honey-dipper truck. He has been pumping out septic tanks for over thirty years.  Every morning, Joe Turner will drop in during his rounds, drink the free coffee, read the free newspapers, have a couple of laughs, and then move on to the next hot spot.

Back in East Greenville, the Town Council is working on next year's budget. Tax revenues are down 15% while costs have increased 8%. Foreclosures are on the rise.  If the Borough wants to balance their budget, layoffs and tax increases will be necessary.  Mayor Cantonelli scratches his head. "Did you know that Grinold Township has not raised taxes in over thirty years?".  The other budget committee members shake their head in disbelief.. "They even  make their employees purchase their own pencils...and they have 2 million dollars in the bank!"   Quiet profanities are uttered.

Squirrel leaves The Old Grin township office. He turns onto the South side Route 39, waving to a boater out on Fletcher's pond.  Bobby LaFleur is fishing from his rowboat when he sees something big floating in the lily pads near the shore. He pokes the clothing-covered object with an oar and the object rolls over slightly, revealing the face of a very beautiful, very dead young woman.   Life in The Old Grin is about to get a little busier.


This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real folks, living or dead, is purely incidental, or perhaps accidental but certainly not intentional. Copyright 2011 by Rick Fisher Al Rights Reserved.  

Diffle County Report: Jim Lackey Loses an Election

If you've never lived in Diffle County or her Southern sister, Nother County, you might not be able to fully understand how their political systems operate.  If you have lived in either county, you already know you don't want to understand. You just want your roads plowed in the winter and potholes fixed in the Spring- and no new Ordinances.

Diffle County is located in Eastern Pennsylvania, near the border with New Jersey, close enough to the Delaware River that you can smell the sewer outfall pipe from East Greenville's sewage treatment plant. There are three elected County Commissioners, no major cities, six townships, and three boroughs and several unincorporated villages.  

The townships are responsible for plowing local roads in the winter, then fixing the winter road damage in Spring and Summer.  Each township is governed by three elected supervisors. Each Borough is governed by an elected Town Council and Mayor.  The Council conducts the daily business while the Mayor waves from Miss Bettie's Chevy Convertible in the Memorial Day parade.  

Sometimes the Mayor casts the tie-breaker vote when Council is deadlocked.  Otherwise, the Mayor has no real power whatsoever.  It is a common fact that Town Councils rarely need a tiebreaker. Government is run by majority vote, and voters elect majorities. Yet everyone wants to be Mayor.  The reason why is simple and sweet.

Just like Senators and Presidents, once you are elected Mayor, people call you Mayor for the rest of your life- even if you only serve one term. When you die, your title gets all the attention in the local newspaper. For example,  "Former Mayor Dies of Heart Attack"  could be your death headline and the obituary might read "Mayor Paul Pounders, Age 78".  This is cool to some people- even a dead big fish in a small pond is still a big fish.   

But local government doesn't actually operate as described above. Over in Lincoln Township, Jim Lackey, Chairman of the Board of Supervisors, ran his township with an iron fist for over twenty years.  His friends got their projects approved, his enemies got violation notices from the Zoning Officer.  If you wanted to build a house there, you used a local builder from Lincoln Township.  To do otherwise could be costly.  Incomplete design reviews, surprise inspections, and Stop Work Orders were common for those who didn't meet with Uncle Jimmy before choosing their builder.

Finally, a local tomato farmer, fed up with the abuse of power, and also angry that Uncle Jimmy made fun of his wife at a public meeting, decided to challenge  Lackey in the general election. Chairman Lackey was unconcerned.  Chuck "Tomatoad" Tody could win the primary unopposed, but had no strong support base for the general election. Since announcing his candidacy, "Tomatoad" noticed a significant drop in sales at his fruit and vegetable stand on Kidder Road.  Lackey supporters were sending a message.  

Besides, Jim Lackey was busy with the art of governance. Scott Reynolds, a young developer from Harrisburg, wanted to build a small shopping center in Lincoln Township. He wanted to do this legally, without making a cash contribution to Uncle Jimmy's private bank account. This type of upstart behavior was unacceptable.  

Lincoln Township had several issues with the Reynolds Site Plan. Month after month, modifications were denied and the plan was tabled. The common consensus was the Reynolds Shopping Center would never get approved by Uncle Jimmy and Lincoln Township. Some folks grumbled about this, since the township really needed a larger grocery store.  Lackey argued publicly that the shopping center was exactly the kind of growth the Lincoln township didn't need.  Privately, he urged Scott Reynolds to make the required "smooth sailing" payment and avoid further costly delays. Cash in a plain brown envelope, please.     

Since local folks pay little attention to elected officials in Harrisburg, no one in Lincoln Township thought to compare two identical last names. Could Scott Reynolds might somehow be related to State Attorney General Roland Reynolds? In reality, they were father and son and that's a game changer.   

Jim Lackey would have won the election, had he not driven away from the Smithville Inn, firmly planted behind the wheel of his brand new Ford Explorer. Every Friday evening, Uncle Jimmy would drive to the Smithville Inn, enjoy dinner and libations (mostly libations), and then leave the bar from the rear entrance, returning home via Smith Road  (T-0224). 

This back-road journey was an easy-peasy two mile drive and the very same road Uncle Jimmy plowed every winter for Lincoln Township. Jimmy could drive this route blindfolded, drunk, and drugged, with one arm tied behind his back, and a black bear tearing up the upholstery in the back seat. 

At the Reynolds Annual Labor Day Cookout, Scott and his dad had a long talk about Jim Lackey. Roland had high aspirations. He wanted to be Governor one day. He wanted to campaign as an aggressive prosecutor of fraud, white collar crime, and political oppression.  The rise of the Reynolds kingdom could be partially built upon the ruins of  a Lackey fiefdom.  The Attorney General made a few phone calls.

On the Friday  night before the general election, about a half-mile from the Smithville Inn, on a desolate stretch of Township Road No. 0224, the State Police set up a sobriety checkpoint.  For the first three hours, only two cars passed through. Around 9 pm, Jim Lackey's Ford Explorer approached the checkpoint from the opposite side of the center line.

Uncle Jimmy drove right past the State Police officers, smiling and waving.   He failed to notice the photographer from the Diffle County Reporter snapping a picture of him waving off uniformed police officers as they jumped back to avoid getting struck by his SUV.   

The State Police pursued the Ford Explorer and arrested James Johnston Lackey at the entrance to his driveway.  The second photograph on the front page of the Diffle County Reporter was of Uncle Jimmy in handcuffs, bent over the front of State Police cruiser, his smiling, tomatoad face laying flat against the hood of the car.  

Charles Reginald Tody won the election in a landslide. He runs Lincoln Township with an iron fist.

Diffle County is a fictional place. All characters are fictional as well. Any resemblance to the hundreds of politicians I know is merely coincidental and meant to stay that way.

Diffle County Report on The Johnston/Reilly Feud

(Author's Note: Diffle County is a fictional place, located in the Eastern Pennsylvania foothills. All characters are based upon folks I may or may not know. All events are fictional as well, although a truck did get pushed into in a ditch by a Johnston driving a backhoe, while pulling the remains of his neighbor's fence about twenty years ago.  This story has nothing in common with that one-except that they were similar in nature, with alcohol involved and a feud in progress. )

Our story begins...

Back in Diffle County, the boys had a Wikileak problem of their own.  Seems like Charlie Johnston got a little "tired" after too many beers on New Years Eve  and finally decided to remove the fence that Joe Reilly built  on the Johnston property. A witness to the removal called the newspaper, and the next day the Diffle County Record had a page-one picture of  the Diffle County's brand new Ford 150 upside-down in a ditch, along with Charlie's backhoe laying on its side and pieces of fencing scattered like toothpicks all over the highway.

 It all began last summer, when neighbor Joe Reilly decided that Charlie's weekend partying (especially the one that ended with Charlie running around Joe's backyard starkers) was too downright awful a sight to watch. Joe bought and built a six-foot high stockade fence (without a zoning permit) on the property line between them. That property line location was kind of determined by Joe, his step-son Billy, and a string line between two stakes. This did not sit well with Charlie Johnston, not well at all.

Family history

Joe and Charlie go way back, all the way back to Pre-K school at the Garret YMCA.  There isn't one thing one doesn't know about the other.  Now you would think that would make them the best of friends.  On the contrary, they act like two cats in a bag.

Their family history is a tad convoluted too.  Recently, Charlie's niece, Vera Johnston-Reilly  married Joe's oldest brother, William.  The Johnston family now has the singular opinion that William Reilly is a cradle-robbing pedophillic, trophy-wife hunting, loveless, screwed up son of a bitch who has twisted and coerced Vera Johnston's innocent soul and beautiful body into loving him. William also has a ton of money and most local folks wonder which bank he robbed to get it.

If you ask Vera, she will tell you (in hushed tones) that William has three redeeming qualities she can not resist- a 1968 Ford Shelby Mustang GT-350 bright red and in cherry condition, a ton of money, and the biggest "weiner" she ever laid eyes on.  It was love at first sight.

Charlie and Joe's history goes even deeper- something to do with grandparents, a tree, and a monument with a misspelled name.  That is a story for another time.

Why the fence was built

Six months ago, before the fence was built, on a warm, sunny Monday morning, Joe Reilly stormed into the town office. He was ready to raise holy hell.  According to Joe, the following incident occurred: Charlie and his wife, a bleached blonde-three hundred pound screamer named Sheila (with a mean streak wider than Saturn's rings), got plastered on JD and Corona chasers, and snuck into Joe's backyard. They wanted to take a naughty midnight dip in the Reilly's brand-new in-ground swimming pool.  "Let's pop its cherry!" Charlie said.

First they got naked (not unusual) and had loud sex on the pool steps.  Afterwards, Joe took a sweet, long pee into the pool  from the concrete edge. This angered Sheila, who was still in the pool, floating on her back.   As her voice rose to a decibel level usually reserved for planes taking-off, Charlie vomited on a lounge chair.  At about this time, Joe Reilly, usually a deep sleeper, stepped outside with shotgun in hand, shells loaded to the max with rocksalt.

Joe chased them off, with a stinging spread of salt in their naked behinds. He spent the next several hours  cleaning and super-chlorinating his pool.  The next day, he went to the town office to complain. Since Charlie Johnston works on the township road crew, Joe decided this was a community problem and he wanted Charlie Johnston fired.

Big Don, deer sausage therapy

Big Don, elected town father, handled Joe Reilly in the usual manner- with a dose of humor, a shrug of the shoulders, and a reminder to sign up for the recycling containers.  When Joe left the office an hour later (after a free hot dog lunch) he was carrying a pound of deer sausage under his arm, courtesy of Big Don. At that point, Joe had completely forgotten about Charlie Johnston's drunken disaster. "Whew, I'm not sure how I do it!", Don exclaimed, his eyes twinkling with mirth.  We're not too sure either.

Joe Reilly didn't forget his Reilly problem for very long. When he arrived home, Sheila was standing in her driveway, screaming full throttle at her kids, who were either ignoring her or completely deaf as they climbed up into Joe Reilly's favorite maple tree.  The next day, Joe bought a stockade fence at Home Depot and had it installed that weekend.  On Monday morning, Charlie Johnston filed a complaint with the zoning officer.

The township did their job, took Joe Reilly to local court and he paid a five hundred dollar fine.  But he refused to get a permit and a showdown was now brewing in Diffle County Court.  Yet Joe would visit town hall every Monday at lunchtime for a  free hot dog lunch, courtesy of Big Don.


Reilly goes to the shore , Johnston gets creative

On the Saturday following Labor Day, Joe Reilly packed up his tiny peep of a wife, and his 19-year old step-son Billy, and drove to the Jersey shore for a nice, relaxing week at his brother's vacation home in Avalon.  Finally, he would get away from the hoots, hollers, loud music, and wild parties next door.  The only sound he wanted to hear was the surf crashing against the beach.

Five minutes after he pulled out of his driveway and steered his jet-black Altima towards the Garden State Parkway, Charlie Johnston went to work on decorating Reilly's fence.

A short history on Jimmy, the hubcap hunter

A few weeks earlier, Charlie Johnston  ran into Diffle County Senior Judge William Butler at the Moose Lodge.  In early April, Judge Butler arrived home a half-day early from a weekend seminar to find his 18-year old daughter, Jennifer, in bed with 26-year old  Jimmy Beaver.

Beaver was well known for having a grand collection of hubcaps. He spent hours every day on his bicycle, canvassing Nother and Diffle County roads. Jimmy was a hubcap hunter. You couldn't miss him, he always wore the same red and black tartan flannel shirt and a bright orange hunting cap (the one with the fuzzy sides snapped up). His  long dark, greasy hair would be sticking out in all directions, and a bead of water was always hanging off the tip of his long beak of a nose.  Hubcaps were bungied to his bicycle in every way imaginable, and in a few ways no one but Jimmy could imagine.

Jimmy would place these shiny treasures all over his 1/2 acre property- Ford caps on the right side yard, Chevy caps in the front yard, Dodge caps in the left side yard, and Jap/Korean/Yugo caps in the rear yard.  Near the main road, there was a hand painted sign that read, Hupcabs,  2 dolar  Fin em yerself  leeve $ in jar   Next to the sign was a big glass jar- empty as a pauper's wallet.

The Judge was not happy that his daughter (who must have got her smarts from her mother's side of the family) was bedding anyone, especially that moron, Jimmy Beaver (to quote the judge, off the record). Senior Judge William Butler, wielding a #3 wood,  ran a half-naked Jimmy Beaver off his property that Sunday morning.

On Monday, State revenue agents showed up at the front door of Beaver's 1965 brown and tan, single-wide trailer.  They wanted to know why Jimmy Beaver hadn't sent in his sales tax money for his hubcap sales.

On Tuesday, the zoning officer knocked on Beaver's paper-thin trailer door, then hand-delivered a Notice of Violation for operating a hubcap business without a permit, in a residential zone, in violation of setbacks.

On Wednesday, two squirrelly-looking dudes from the Department of Environmental Protection were poking  Jimmy's yard with soil samplers, looking for spilled oil- based on an anonymous complaint they received.

On Thursday, Jimmy received an audit notice from the Internal Revenue Service and he lost electric for 12 hours when a County landscaping crew accidentally dropped a tree on his electric line while clearing brush along the highway.

On Friday, he was pulled over by the State Police and given a $70.00 ticket for riding a bicycle without a helmet.

Senior Judge William Butler's deal of a lifetime

Saturday morning dawned with sun-filled splendor.  Jimmy Beaver was sitting on the rusted metal front steps of his mobile home, drinking coffee, when black Lincoln town car with tinted windows pulled into his rutted, dirt driveway. The rear car door opened and out popped Judge Butler. He walked over to Jimmy and gingerly leaned on the rusted railing.  Their conversation went something like this,

Judge Butler:   "Beautiful morning!  Why look at all these hubcaps!  You got some business here, Jimmy."
Jimmy:            (frowns) "What do you want?  You need a hubcap or something?"
Judge Butler:   "How was your week?  I bet you got plenty of visitors here, eh?"
Jimmy:            (shrugs) "A few too many this week, Judge, thanks to you."
Judge Butler:   "That may be true or not, but I will tell you this. I can make it all go away with a phone call".
Jimmy:            "I ain't got no phone.  Got cut off,  right in the middle of talkin' to a man from the IRS."  
Judge Butler:   "I think two reasonable men can come to an agreement concerning my daughter."
Jimmy:            "What kind of agreement you thinkin' about, Judge?"
Judge Butler:   "How about I give you a dollar for every hubcap you have here." 
Jimmy:            "Gotta be a string attached to that somewhere..."
Judge Butler:    (interrupting) "You can never have any contact with my daughter ever again."
Jimmy:            "I got a lot of hubcaps, 10,795 of 'em to be exact.  I like to count, Judge."
Judge Butler:   "That's fine. I will write you a check, and I will have someone remove them all."
Jimmy:            "I got a string attached too."
Judge Butler:   "What do you want, son?"
Jimmy:           "I rode my bicycle out to Lincoln township yesterday. 
                       Heard you owned a couple hundred acres there, nice and flat, 
                       big tall spruce trees up to the sky. Sounds pretty."
Judge Butler:  (frowning) "Yes, I own land in Lincoln Township."
Jimmy:            (wiping his nose on his sleeve) "I got a ticket on the way back for not havin' a helmet. Made 
                      me get to thinkin' about that land. I would love to own that land"
Judge Butler:  "I'm not giving you that land, son."
Jimmy:           "I would never ask you to give me land, Judge. I wanna buy it. For 10,795 dollars. 
                      When that check o' yours clears the bank, I'll write one back to you."
Judge Butler:  "That's preposterous! I paid over 200 thousand for that land!"
Jimmy:           "Judge, your daughter Jenny loves me. Told me so on Saturday night, 
                       right before we did it in your bed.  You put the price on love, Judge. So can I.  
                       I could tell her you came here and tried to bribe me." 
Judge Butler:  "But you don't love her."
Jimmy:            (sniffs) "It will be hard to not love your daughter, but with that land, it would be a lot  
                       easier. Would forget all about her, like we never happened at all."
Judge Butler:  "May I ask what you are gonna do with 200 acres of the finest land in Diffle county?" 
Jimmy:           "Am gonna build me an airport. You can land there anytime you like- for free"  

And that is how Jimmy Beaver and Jennifer Wilma Butler broke up, how Jimmy ended up with 200 acres of the finest land in Diffle County, and how Senior Judge William Butler ended up paying monthly rent on a storage unit containing exactly 10,795 hubcaps.

How to decorate your fence for interactive play

At the Moose Lodge, another deal was made. Charlie Johnston accepted the generous offer of 10,795 free hubcaps. All he had to do was remove them from Judge Butler's storage unit.  A whole new plan was born.  Charlie called back into the kitchen, and out walked  Marshall Beets, registered surveyor and Moose lodge manager.  An hour after the Reilly family arrived in Avalon, Marshall Beets surveyed the property line, set two iron pipes on the Reilly side of the fence, and placed his seal on the blueprint- declaring Charlie Johnston as the rightful owner of Reilly's fence.

Charlie made a few phone calls and within an hour, the entire Johnston clan (except for Vera Johnston-Reilly) was standing alongside the fence, hammer in one hand nail and hubcap in the other hand.  It took 3 days and 10 cases of Budweiser, 4 quart bottles of Jack Daniels, a case of wine from the Merranti Brothers Diffle Valley Winery, and a bottle of New York State Champagne for the christening.  When it was all finished, it kind of looked like this:

Hubcap Fence  (typ.)

Joe Reilly returned home late Friday night, and drove directly into his garage, utilizing his automatic garage door opener.  His side of the fence was exactly as he built it- all wood and six feet high. The next morning he walked outside to check the pool.  All seemed normal, nothing foreign floating in the water, no extra large panties stuffed in the pool filter.  Then he saw something gleam through a crack in the fence. It looked like shiny metal reflecting the sun.

Joe walked down his driveway to the end of the fence. There, facing his property was a "No Trespassing" sign posted on a stake, directly behind the orange-painted survey pipe.  Joe peeked around the end of the fence.  Then he stepped past the pipe, passed the sign, walked 10 feet onto Charlie Johnston's property. he turned and stared at the hubcap side of the fence.  He stared for about ten minutes.  He never heard Charlie sneak up behind him until Charlie spoke,
 "She's a beauty, ain't she?"  Charlie said with false pride, patting Joe Reilly on the back.

Joe Reilly never turned around, never said a word, he simply marched back into his house and slammed the door.  Charlie laughed all day long.

After nightfall, Charlie Johnston got a rifle out of his closet. He bought it when he was 15 years old, a BB shooter, powered by a Co2 cannister. Charlie opened his bedroom window, stuck the rifle out, aimed at a hubcap and fired.  The tinging sound rang out through the sleeping neighborhood.  For the next week, every night, when Charlie got up to get a drink of water, or use the bathroom, or just because his alarm went off at 3 a.m., he would open the window, fire a few shots, ring Reilly's bell, and then return to sleep. Charlie Johnston had created a real-world first-person shooter game.

Good for the goose, good for the gander

Meanwhile, Joe Reilly paid another visit to Big Don.  Joe didn't want a recycling container.  He didn't want a hot dog.  He didn't want a story and he didn't want deer sausage.  Joe Reilly wanted Charlie Johnston cited for building a fence without a permit. Also, he wanted Johnston cited for owning a junkyard.  Big Don referred Reilly to the zoning officer, who declined to investigate on account of not knowing for certain who owned the fence, and the fact it was a feud.

Joe Reilly hired a fancy lawyer and sued to have the fence, along with the hubcaps, removed.  Joe Reilly wanted monetary damages too- for pain and suffering.The case was assigned to Diffle County Senior Judge William Butler. Charlie Johnston was ordered to remove the hubcaps, to cease from shooting at anything within the line of sight of Joe Reilly's house.  He was also ordered to not remove the fence, since it was built by Reilly.  Then Judge Butler ordered Reilly to move the fence back to his own property or tear it down. Reilly appealed to the State court and swore he'd take it all the way to the Supreme Court.

After the Hearing, Charlie Johnston drove home, called everyone in the family, and they helped him  remove 10,794 hubcaps from the fence.  He returned the hubcaps to Judge Butler's storage unit. He left one Chevy hubcap on the fence (he was a Chevy man)- in what he thought was his last act of defiance. Joe Reilly sued over that last hubcap too. And he won.

And that's how we got to this moment...

On New Years Eve, having been told that the fence was legally his, Charlie Johnston decided to remove it. He drank till he was drunk and brave enough, started up his John Deere backhoe, tied a cable to four sections of fence, and pulled it over. He repeated this until a screaming Joe Reilly came running out of his house.  He had a handgun and was shooting wildly, apparently trying to kill Charlie Johnston.  Charlie took off down the county road in the backhoe, with four sections of the fence still on the cable, dragging behind him.  Joe called 911, who dispatched the State Police.

Meanwhile, John Primer, Diffle County road foreman, was driving the County's brand new Ford F-150 over to Marin Lane, after getting a complaint of a tree down on the road.  He heard the police dispatch for Johnston on the truck scanner.  That had to be right up ahead, he thought.  Within seconds, he saw a backhoe heading straight for him. John, in a moment of heroism, tried to block the road with his truck, but Charlie Johnston didn't stop. The backhoe's front bucket hit the passenger side of the truck, and Charlie pushed John and the County's Ford truck into a storm ditch on the side of the road.  The truck flipped over, and the backhoe fell on its side. Then, out of darkness, came a photographer to get the picture for page one of the local scandal-rag, The Diffle County Reporter.  

Big Don just wants to know, "Who dropped the dime on Charlie Johnston? Must have been one of those Wikleaks people. Was it you Ricky?" and then, "John Primer should have known, you never block a Chevy man with a Ford." Then, after lunch, "I wonder if Judge Butler has a hubcap for my daughter's 2004 Chevy Lumina?  I better give him a call."  And that is how Big Don ended up with a side business- hubcap sales.