Chapter One

I trusted my shrink almost as much as anyone, but this appointment I was determined to miss, electroshock therapy just wasn't me. Besides that, I knew that Parsley's recent purchase of power company stock probably had something to do with his sudden turn in treatment programs.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not psychotic, I just believe that my cow can talk and teleport, nothing weird about that. Though if you try and tell any doctor that he'll hook your left one to red and your right one to black and turn up the voltage. Personally, I could do without that. Let him try to find me.

I sloshed down the narrow alley behind my apartment building distorting the half-dozen audible footfalls behind me. My building was in a small complex in what I thought was a good section of town, the Oak section, made famous by its oak adorned vendors. I had gotten maybe five steps away from my door when a guy in a vest made entirely of oak bark approached, "Would you care to exchange some monetary value for my apricots in mint sauce?"

"No thanks. I just got off a strict apricot in mint sauce diet and am a bit burned out on the dish. You wouldn't happen to know anything about pork belly futures, would you?" I asked shrewdly. I always looked for my commodities forecasts from the Oak people.

He laughed, "Ribbies would have no pork, but ham is another story. He eats no red meat you know." Then he ran off, flailing his arms wildly.

Sound advice, looking back on it now I suppose I should have ran with him to my broker, but my arms were tired and in no condition to flail wildly. Unfazed, I walked further down the alley coming upon a door made of pure sugar cane with a large trout guarding it. As I approached I noticed the clouding of her eyes. I knew her well and she was anything but a fresh fish. Her nickname was Midget Rodeo mainly because of her job. "Hey partner, would you like to play a hand of poker in the all-new Super-Secret-Midget-Society?" she asked, scales gleaming in the dim light.

Not immediately recognizing the request as a jibe at my height, only three foot nine, I said no. I was unusually good with my hands and didn't want to take advantage of such a gift.

"Are you sure? It's Slurpee Night!" the fish responded with a slight lilt to her voice.

"Say no more my sea-faring friend. Deal me in!" I said handing her a few drachmas, relieved to have something to get my mind off my missed appointment. Midget Rodeo had lassoed another one. I marched in with the large spoon straw that I carried for such occasions at the ready. My pet cow Vance followed behind.

Vance was your average cow, average cow height, average cow weight, he even had average cow spots. That was all rather deceptive because he was anything but average to me. It pained me deeply to have to buckle under to the separatist ways of my midget brethren, but I had to before I even got a glimpse of the 20-gallon slurpee that awaited me. I left Vance at the cow check and reached for my reward: liver and spleen, my favorite!

Happily I surveyed the area as I drank my slurpee. It was crowded with light Disney music playing in the background, something about a small world.

"So you think you're pretty fast with a spoon straw, eh?" said a midget from the far corner.

A low murmur went through the crowd. I had unwittingly stumbled into a spoon straw shoot-out and soon artificially colored liver and spleen would be flying through the air. Then it hit me! A severe brainfreeze gripped my head leaving me helpless in the crossfire.

A witness to my inaction, Vance bolted from the cow check and grabbed me as a large splotch caught my left arm. "We have small rigfarters to the west!" he sharply mooed and after a distorted instant, we stood in a large field of mechanical bulls. For as far as the eye could see there was nothing but these damn mechanical bulls, all going at full speed. The electrical whine and sight of them against the horizon reminded me of my youthful battle on a renegade some time ago. I was stuck on that bull for six days going at full dial; evidently some buttwhack left their tube of rubber cement on the seat before I got on. Boy was I sore after that.

The bulls made me shiver as I looked about. A form of reverie fell over me and I pondered to myself the chances of having a cow able to teleport as a pet. It sure did come in handy at times though the thick backdraft that was the lone side-effect made my eyes tears. I once suggested he try teleporting the buttwhiff away, but he just gave me that dull cow look. I forgot that at times he liked the smell, an acquired taste I guess.

It took us hours to get to the highway and the thought of filleting Vance crossed my defrosting mind more than once. The talent that won him several dozen ribbons grated on my nerves. He had been a champion tap dancer in his native Ribmeat, but now his taps were driving me nuts, even in the soft field of the mechanical bulls.

To the south a hazy cloud of dust billowed skyward as the rumble of gasoline engines vibrated the air. A large pack of biker-shrimp rolled ever closer and it wasn't long before they noticed us. They approached to do what they did best, make fun of cows. "Hey boys, look! A walking container of moo!" said their merciless leader.

All twenty of the bikers (Yes, a full pack!) erupted in laughter. Vance had never taken well to insults, even the good natured jabs I gave him about us going to McDonald's for some thick burgers.

The biker's taunts went on: "Get me the special sauce Doby, we havin' red meat tonight. No ham for us mehearties!"

Much like a shark's when it kills, Vance's eyes rolled back. Vance had reached his breaking point and could take the browbeating no longer. In a twinkling, he whipped out his butterknife bringing a hush over the startled shrimp. Then the leader, regaining his courage said, "You're only a cow, how did you ever learn to wield such a mean butterknife?"

Vance tapped forward proudly and said "MOO!"

"Ah, looks like we got us a talker here boys, lets show Mr. Moo here what we do to talkers!" With that command, the other shrimp hurried into their saddlebags. Within moments they all carried shrimp forks and packets of tartar sauce. All I could do was regret Vance and his bold words, though I tried my best.

"Wait!" I yelled at the top of my voice, "my hasty friend here meant that in the nicest way." I turned to see Vance shaking his head no. Vance always did have a death wish. It started after he had been unable to prevent his best friend Mookie from dying in a senseless pencil sharpening accident. It was my personal theory that Vance blamed himself for Mookie's death; he had, after all, been sharpening Vance's pencil.

The shrimp encircled us at the points of their forks.

We were at their mercy until Vance mooed again: "We have small rigfarters to the west!" I don't think he had to say that to teleport, he just liked saying it.

Again we found ourselves in a strange area, but this time the air had more than the usual aroma. It was downright fruity this time! I prayed to our twinkee god, Merf, out loud: "What had Vance eaten now?

We stood in a large parking field about a mile from an empty mall. I looked at Caution, my watch, and it said about a quarter to pheem. I hated trying to convert Universal Standard Cow Time back to Earth time; the written formula always got thrown away with my gum wrappers. Ah, the perils of interspatial travel.

The walk was long and I nearly dehooved Vance, but we got to the sliding glass doors. The store was one of those new automated boomerang outlets. A pile of old 'rangs sat piled at the door. I, to this day, wonder how boomerangs work and why they always return to their point of purchase. We went in to check out the newest selection of boomerangs or as Vance liked to call them, "moo."

As we entered a buzzer went off immediately and a robotic voice blared out of an intercom, "No cows allowed!" Once again the prejudice of the establishment had consigned Vance to the cow check room, a room he was all too familiar with.

I went on without my companion hoping that somehow I could find something in the "moo" fashion department to wear without his keen bovine sense of coordination. The synthetic salesperson looked at me with bionic eyes: "Cow blood detected! Safe levels: You may enter. Shop well."

It was true; cow blood did course through my veins.

Once a few dingbars (Something like earth years, but better, like Charmin) back, I needed a blood transfusion and good ol' Vance volunteered himself.

I was dragged screaming into the transfusion room, which closely resembled an Earth Jiffy Lube, and that, though the mechanics couldn't explain it, is when the telepathic link between us was established. Touching story really but, every once in a while I still get a craving for a good bowl of cud. Luckily for me it was only a trace of cow, I was permitted to stay, but I was watched like a paroled rapist in an all female nudist colony.

Despite the rash of fashion shows, the selection was especially limited at this time of year. Only two choices existed: one, you could go with one of those flashy garbage can bodies -all the rage back in the landfill districts of Willyville- or two, you could go naked. Since I was already naked (and enjoying it), I decided that a fashion statement was all that I needed and went with an accessory, a neon scarf I'd been eyeing since I was unstuck from that bull.

Having made my selection, I patiently waited to be fitted and had my feet scraped at the same time. (This truly was a full service outlet.) A glance at Caution told me it was time to leave so I grabbed my scarf and made certain not to forget Vance at the cow check.

We strolled casually outside the mall and made a shocking discovery; someone had stolen the parking lot! An officer had recently arrived, "You know this is the fifth time this week someone has stolen a parking lot on my beat. Damn! Retirement a few months away and somebody is collecting lots to piss me off. Hey, do me a favor and make sure you and your midget don't leave town." he said apparently to Vance.

As if in answer to that, Vance peed on his leg. Not a dog pee, but a long cow pee, one that takes an entire roll of Bounty to dry off. Vance always did get cranky in the cow check and even more so when I wasn't treated with the respect due someone of my stature, mostly he just had to take a whiz though.

Of course, that would explain our ride in the back of that cop sled and our accommodations in the prison cell. I was surprised; I had always thought that they kept midgets and cows separated in the prison population, but they didn't. There were a lot of cows wandering the enclosed courtyard along with a healthy complement of midgets. Vance and myself were not allowed out of our cell; peeing on an officer carried a confinement penalty as well as an automatic 90 dingbar sentence.

Growing tired of repeatedly getting my head stuck in the bars trying to see out, I turned my attention towards the inside of our cell. In the cell with us was another cow, named Bruno apparently. My main clue was the tattoo that said "Bruno" on his hoof. Sometimes being short isn't so bad. You don't miss little clues like that. Bruno was a spotted cow and acted as though using them wouldn't be a problem for him. He started immediately on Vance with his threats:

"Pretty cow is nice new meat. New meat gonna have good time with Bruno tonight, you be Bruno's 'special friend?'"

Vance just stood by his bunk pretending to be asleep; he took this verbal abuse well, but I knew it couldn't last forever so I tried to divert Bruno's attention.

"So, what are you in for?" I asked.

"What's it to you midget meat? Can't you see I'm trying

to make friends here with the new cow? You keep your giblets clean around me midget. The cow's the man in here." he remarked proudly.

He partly reminded me of a beef protester I met once at a Mickey D's. I just had to respect that. I decided to try a different approach.

"You mooers are all alike aren't you? Give some milk and you think you're a damn milk giver. Well listen bub, I ain't no milk addict so you can just make your threats to Officer Wetleg over there." I cried making an effort to flare my nostrils.

"What do you know about Officer Wetleg?" he asked with a faint glimmer of fear in his eye.

"We peed on him!" I said with a wide, triumphant smile.

His grayish eyes widened in awe, "You two peed on him?

I heard somebody was in for hosing him, but you two? This is indeed an honor!" he said, vigorously shaking my hand and Vance's hoof, "Can I get you some milk?"

"No, just quiet, we'd like some sleep." I answered.

Vance turned for effect and gave Bruno a curt "Moo" for his part.

We drifted off to the sounds of Bruno whispering through the bars to the next cell over and over, "He da man, he da cow!"

**********

Light shone through the bars and warmly onto my face.

Morning had arrived and we were met with a grand breakfast of ham and eggs along with lots of milk. Being on a no red meat diet, I took the opportunity to eat my fill of the delicious and obviously not red meat, pork slices. Vance ate some eggs but, drank water, not wanting to run the chance of fostering a milk addiction which was hereditary in his herd.

Bruno came by and offered to show us around; the tour took all of two minutes since the little ten by six foot cell had but two pair of worn bunk beds standing side by side, a stained toilet with some corn floating at the water's surface (obviously cows can't digest corn either), and a small xylophone by the door. I could swear Vance teleported somewhere during the night, but I guess it was Bruno playing the 'phone. I could never tell the difference between cow farts and the xylophone -odd.

"Yo confiner, slap dis here door open so me and my friends can inspect our fine pad." yelled Bruno to the guard.

"No way Bruno. They peed on one of our own, no privileges for them." the guard said.

At that, Bruno flew into a rage: "You mean my homecow and his buddy can't see our humble little abode? Well that sucks pewter weeds! Let's riot boys!"

Seconds later the whole cell block was yelling and shouting, "Let them rove, let them rove..."

Bruno was determined and motioned for Peabody, the resident strongcow, to come over. He examined the bars and, in one motion, kicked the door open with a force that would make a donkey proud (Yes, an ass!).

We were loose for the first time in over a day and boy did it feel good to get out of that stuffy cell. It was getting as though Vance had eaten clams again (they always make him "lighter than air").

Everyone in the block looked to us as if we were to address the silent crowd. Vance looked at me and back to the others, raised his hoof and yelled with as much volume as he could, "MOO!"

The others took his cue and all together the mooing could be heard for miles, even the midgets were in on it. The guards looked downright dumbfounded until one shot into the air to call for order. Not to be outdone, the rest began shooting in the air as well. The whole event took on a very dangerous tone, someone was going to get hurt.

Sensing the danger, Vance grabbing me growled the familiar phrase, "We have small rigfarters to the west." and we were gone. I still wonder why he didn't teleport us sooner.

Even the sharp smell of cow chips wasn't enough to warm our new arrival spot. We had 'ported to a strange looking building filled with young people, most carrying books. At last I took a deep breath; there was ignorance in the air. We must have landed in a high school!

I had wished that I'd never see another one of these for as long as I lived. It's not as easy as you might think having a best friend in high school that happens to be a cow. We were both constantly harassed during our time at that hell-hole Scooter High. He must have intimidated too many with his tap dancing abilities and proficiency with the butterknife. Ah, the perils of being the new cow in school.

We walked down the hall and quickly realized that there were no other cows present. I felt Vance hiss "segregation" through our telepathic link. His sensitivity to the way humans used his kind and blocked them with socio-economic barriers was evident. He was a cow with a chip on his shoulder. Who could blame him?

A hall monitor approached, "Excuse me, but shouldn't you be in class? Get there now or I'll..."

Before she could finish the threat, Vance was peeing again. I think he might have sensed another trip to the cow check room, I don't know. In any event, we didn't want to go back to the Big House again as repeat "offenders", so we hoofed it up the stairs and into a classroom.

Inside, we found a full class of biology students and at the front of the room was their teacher, "All right class, now take your scalpels and cut gingerly...there. Now everyone should have their own fresh t-bone!"

Bad timing was running against us again as we stumbled in during a cow dissection lecture. Well, Vance's bladder may have been empty but, unfortunately for the teacher, his colon wasn't. Vance piled a dump three feet high on that instructor which I had trouble even seeing over. This scattered the students, most of which giggled wishing they had thought of it themselves. One looked at Vance and then at his t-bone, then back at Vance. I could swear I heard him mutter an oath about walking corpses. The teacher didn't move so I assumed it was a new sensation for him being under a pile of cow shit. The hearty teachers of my old school would have laughed at a stunt like this and snorted it all in. For some reason those teachers liked cow shit just as much as they like bull shit.

Maybe peeing wasn't so bad after all, it got rid of waste liquid and got the point across. One could even say that he was pissed off (of course, I wouldn't).

Vance's eyes darted back and forth as adrenaline pumped through his veins and bile boiled in three of his stomachs. The strain of being in high school again had him a bit off balance making him seem mad at the entire world. Even his beloved Oreos didn't settle him down so I knew it was something that required immediate attention. We had to get out of there fast and without getting caught. No easy task considering Vance didn't want to use his 'porting power in a high school claiming that it was bad for the books. Cows, when will they ever learn?

There was an empty teacher's lounge across the hall where I got myself a pair of white pants and a sweatshirt while Vance got a disguise. It was a stretch for him but, we had no choice. He had to look, act, -be- a cow impersonator. They were quite common on most school campuses because of the widespread milk problems. The war on milk raged as impersonators went undercover to find and arrest the moo juice dealers.

Cautiously, we left the lounge when the way looked clear. We got as far as the cafeteria before an alert teenager screamed "Marc!" (probably short for marcotics) and our cover was blown. We ran as fast as a tapping cow and a midget could through a door marked "restricted" and found ourselves in a lively nightclub.

Now this was a great marketing ploy, put your nightclub next to a high school and even allow access directly from it. No more playing hooky, the average student wouldn't want those clubbing privileges taken away. Loud music filled the room as a large black bear bouncer turned to speak to us:

"Me bouncer, I have a small groundhog in my pocket!

Like one? My brother always liked to have groundhog in his pocket."

"No thanks Mr. Bouncer, I'm driving." I replied. I looked at Vance not believing that this bear actually WANTED a groundhog in his pocket. Once, about 150 dingbars ago, I got stuck with one and couldn't get it out, a truly horrifying experience.

Vance, much against my advice, stepped forward and indicated that he would very much like one; he, after all, wasn't driving.

The bouncer eagerly reached for a small blue box with holes in it near his post and pulled out a brownish little rodent. "His name is Brophy and he prefers midget pants but, cow pants-midget pants, I don't see much difference."

Brophy seemed to contradict the bouncer when he leaped from Vance's hooves and made a beeline for my pants! It was like 150 dingbars ago all over again. I jumped around like a rabid muskrat in heat until I caught sight of Vance flat on his back laughing. I'd get that cow if it were the last thing I did.

Vance slowly regained his composure and managed to delicately teleport Brophy out of my pants and back into his hooves. I couldn't help but turn my attention towards the little groundhog. His dirty tan fur bristled in the openness of his pantsless surroundings. He gazed back at me through tear-brimmed brown eyes and yelled in a panicked hoarse voice, "Please! Please! Permit my entry into your pants!" He scurried around in Vance's arms whipping blunted claws about Vance's ticklish chest. Moments later my poor stolen pants again housed the anxious groundhog. Grinding my teeth, I chose to ignore him this time which was more difficult that it sounds. Long, stiff whiskers made for an agonizingly sensual experience that I have not been able to match in any other way.

We entered the club against my better judgment. The gaudy lighting seemed to highlight the serving wenches that dotted the room carrying their trays of high proof milk and prunes. It became obvious that I was severely out of place here. Cows were all over and none looked at all happy to be served with a midget among them.

Let me tell you my philosophy on clubs. It has been my experience that for the most part they are society's intellectual drip pan. You're not going to find an Einstein or Grubbart the Elk (inventor of the gun rack) within these walls.

"I sentence you to life!" a drunken cow interrupted, promptly passing out while proving my point.

I concluded that this place just wasn't for us so I tried to steer us for the door. As we made our way back, I heard the distinctive howl of, "Hey wait, dey my homecows over dere!"

I turned around to see Bruno standing in front of a neon lit bar enthusiastically motioning for us to come over. The glow of neon created shadows along his bovine nose that made him appear almost noble. Vance gave me a questioning moo, but I figured that we might as well see what our former cellmate wanted (A while later I found that cellmate went great with coffee).

Bruno sat nursing a tall glass of frosty milk, "Bartender, set up mi amigos with some beverages."

I ordered a Bohemian Jungle Tea (named for the now notorious Bohemian Jungle Squat) and Vance had a small pitcher of lemon juice. Brophy seemed content in my pants so I didn't bother to get a drink order from him.

"So Bruno, what happened at the prison after we left?

How did you get out?" I asked after taking a sip of the warming tea.

"It was wild. The guards, every last one of them, spontaneously exploded. Just burst into flames, it was incredibly cool." Bruno said with unexpected articulance.

"Er...I don't mean to insult you or anything, but you're smart now. What happened?" I asked.

"Oh, it was just an act back in the cell. A while back I got a reputation for being smart and everybody would bother me with questions like -Why is clockwise clockwise?- I couldn't take it anymore so I pretended I was dumb." Bruno answered.

"You did a good job." I said.

"Some would say great actors are just being themselves."

Brophy said low in my pants.

Ignoring the comments from my nether regions, Bruno continued, "After the guards turned to smoldering ash, everybody just left. Nobody even asked why they exploded, though I thought that it had to be either their diet of Yak meat or the sight of a cow teleporting."

After hearing that, Vance slapped his hoof to his forehead as if he should have known. He then downed the rest of his lemon juice in one gulp, wincing from the sourness. (Vance told me later that he thought that maybe non-midgets might explode if they witnessed a cow teleporting but, never had any hard facts to base it on).

We sat and talked over the good times with Bruno until a cow interrupted us, "You're looking fine tonight little man. How about doing the lambada with a cow that knows how to move?" apparently singling me out.

Well, having the tact and charm midgets are famous for, I told him to go suck a turnip (not only was he a cow, but a gay cow).

"Oh come on. How can a great looking midget not want to shake his booty?" the cow persisted.

I whirled to respond, "If you don't go away, I'll get the steak sauce out!"

The whole club went dead silent. In seconds there was a herd of angry cows glaring at me, all with butterknives drawn. Something told me that teleporting would be a good choice about now, call it midget's intuition. Only one problem, Vance was hoof-wrestling another cow and hadn't noticed the sudden mood change in the room. The herd drew agonizingly closer and I felt a strange stirring in my pants.

Without warning, a bolt of lightning blasted from my zipper hitting the lead cow!

"He's peeing lightning! Clear the deck!" a cow screamed.

The room turned into a stampede of cows trying to get to cover as another shot rang from my fly!

"Ground the lightning peeing midget before we're all urine-cinders!" cried the bartender.

I soon realized that I wasn't, in reality, peeing lightning (much to my disappointment), but it was Brophy. The groundhog was able to breathe lightning!

In minutes the room was empty except for me, Brophy (in my pants), Bruno, and Vance who was still hoof-wrestling with that other cow.

"You want to holster that thing?" Bruno asked, acting as though he had seen a midget pee lightning before.

"Well, if you insist." I said trying to zip my pants but the zipper was now nonexistent from the sudden bursts of electrical energy. I began to recognize that having a groundhog in your pants was incredibly cool and made a mental note to be sure and keep one handy for just such situations.

"Ooof! That's some hoof you got there." the new-comer cow said after he lost. "Ever wrestle professionally?"

Vance looked up a moment as if trying to remember something far from his memory and replied long and confidently, "Moo."

"Well if you ever consider it, contact me. Here's my card." he boasted as he handed over a thin business card made entirely of lime fruit roll-up. It said simply: Ruby Barnwaft, cow manager. He got up, rubbed his leg, and left through a door near the front of the club.

"Barnwaft, eh?" asked Bruno looking at the card.

"Funny, I got a job offer from a guy named Barnwaft just after I got thrown in the joint. He said to look him up after I got out, want to come? I was just on my way."

I paused for a moment, me and Vance had nowhere to go, we may as well check this out. Besides, the cops would probably be out looking for the people that incited the riot at the prison not to mention who blew up the staff; we had to keep a low profile.

The cowering bartender thanked us as we left, he never liked his patrons and knew nothing short of a midget peeing lightning would get rid of them. Bruno seemed relieved that we decided to tag along with him to Barnwaft estate. That was, of course, before we ran into Officer Wetleg investigating another parking lot theft in front of the club. He turned and smiled.

"My tracking skills are uncanny aren't they? So, looks like I'll be bringing you, Bruno, and your whole gang of wetleggers back to the pen."

Bruno turned white at the thought of his mistaken identity as the wetleg leader. The bounty on a wetlegger alone would be enormous, but no one would leave a wetleg leader alone. I looked over at Vance pleading with him to get us out of here. He telepathically reminded me that there was a good chance Wetleg would explode if we left now and he didn't want that on his conscience. We had to find another way out of this one.

Wetleg approached to cuff us just as a small sled landed to our right past some fruit bushes. Bruno relieved and somewhat urgently said, "Hey! Barnwaft sent a car for us! Let's go!"

In seconds we bounded past Wetleg and were high above what was the parking lot. In pursuit, Officer Wetleg jumped to his sled and the driver's seat made an all too familiar squishing sound. Some cow had peed on his dashboard shorting out most of the controls. The luck of the gopher was with us this time.

Feeling particularly proud and important, Bruno told us what he knew of Barnwaft, "He's a rich old guy living out in Upper Wellbottom, quite the ritzy neighborhood. He dealt in illegal bovine slaves awhile ago, but was working on something alittle bigger the last I heard. I have no idea what though." We would find out soon because the lights at the estate had just come into view and we were coming in for a landing.

We got out of the sled and were met by a pair of bulky bulls brandishing brass bells. It was obvious to me that they knew how to use them with deadly efficiency and lovely musical value. They escorted us to a room where we were told to wait until Mr. Barnwaft sent for us. They did a tango (a damn good one too) and left.

Inside the room were a couple of chairs and a vat of fondue on a table in front of them. I had a seat and Brophy jumped from my pants to the fondue pot. He had a rather extreme craving for it and was gladdened by its presence (I still don't understand why groundhogs like fondue so much). Bruno and Vance were busy arguing over the theory of evolution when a small man, not a midget, entered the room and introduced himself as Mr. Barnwaft.

He was short in stature, but he had a good command of the English language, even spoke a bit of cow which impressed Vance. It wasn't the same guy that gave Vance his card in the club, but his brother, Nubby.

The Barnwaft name was synonymous with the most crooked deeds in history. They were said to be somehow involved in the great cow independence drive, some say they supplied the cows with vital fly swatters. The Barnwhafts had recently settled into a somewhat lower profile and less dangerous operation as the milk kingpins of the Northern Beekliter.

Nubby, as we were urged to call him, wanted us for a job that needed doing.

"I heard of the prison break and need go-getters like yourselves to assume leadership of a project that's giving me a peck of trouble as of late. In case you haven't heard on the news, there has been a rash of parking lot thefts in the area. The police are investigating but, they can't seem to nab who is behind it all." he explained, "What I want you to do is to find who is doing it. They've stolen too many of my best lots to get away with it." Then he slammed his fist on the table, "They'll rue the day they crossed Nubby and Ruby Barnwaft!"