Chapter 3
Dead Twig's number-one man, Sheriff Bungle, awoke abruptly to the clatter of his black rotary telephone ringing on the bedside table. "Gawd dammit," he grumbled as he rolled his rolly polly body over to grasp the receiver. "Bungle," he said into the crusty old phone.
The cigarette-cracked voice of Sherrylynn Monroe, Dead Twig's police dispatcher, informed him of an emergency phoned in by his brother-in-law, Mr. Kibble, down at the Piggly Wiggly. Something about a lady's wig catching on fire and death threats.
"Well now, that sounds perty serious," he drawled. "Death threats. Hm. Tell ya what, Miz Mon-roe, why don't you call them there big city cops who are in town for that kiddie porn bust. They'll know what to do." He hung up on Sherrylynn, rolled over on his back and quickly slipped back into Sunday morning dreams of super-sized Dairy Queen Butterfinger Blizzards.
*********************
Meanwhile, a girl named Fashion sashayed her way to the Piggly Wiggly in a tight polyester mini-skirt and halter top. She was 14, but looked much older if one noticed her prematurely seductive gait and the weight she carried in her eyes. She lived in a crumbling house about a mile outside of town, along with a revolving count of foster brothers and sisters and cars rusting on blocks in the front and back yard. But Fashion was determined to break away from all of that. Thoughts of a life of fame and fortune and cheering fans played in her head as she twisted and swayed along her route to the grocery store.
**********************
Elliot Stabler's cell phone chirped its digital song and snapped him out of his daydream of discovering what geometric perfection lay beneath the fabric of Olivia's cashmere shirt. "Ahem, Stabler. Yes, Mrs. Monroe, I understand. The Sheriff is tied up and he needs us to respond to the scene. We'll be right over." He snapped his cell phone shut and said, "Well, partner, are you ready for a little action in this sleepy town?" He inwardly cringed at the undertones of his statement, which belied his true intentions.
"What an asshole," Olivia thought, but her placid and stern expression did not change. "Sure, what's up?"
"Oh, some brouhaha just down the road at the Piggly Wiggly," he said with a wry smile. "This should be amusing."
They left enough cash on the table to cover the breakfast bill plus a generous tip for their waitress, Betty, an old battle ax with too much lipstick and black hair dyed white in a stripe just down the middle of her head.
"Let's roll," Stabler said, and cringed again.
Dead Twig's number-one man, Sheriff Bungle, awoke abruptly to the clatter of his black rotary telephone ringing on the bedside table. "Gawd dammit," he grumbled as he rolled his rolly polly body over to grasp the receiver. "Bungle," he said into the crusty old phone.
The cigarette-cracked voice of Sherrylynn Monroe, Dead Twig's police dispatcher, informed him of an emergency phoned in by his brother-in-law, Mr. Kibble, down at the Piggly Wiggly. Something about a lady's wig catching on fire and death threats.
"Well now, that sounds perty serious," he drawled. "Death threats. Hm. Tell ya what, Miz Mon-roe, why don't you call them there big city cops who are in town for that kiddie porn bust. They'll know what to do." He hung up on Sherrylynn, rolled over on his back and quickly slipped back into Sunday morning dreams of super-sized Dairy Queen Butterfinger Blizzards.
*********************
Meanwhile, a girl named Fashion sashayed her way to the Piggly Wiggly in a tight polyester mini-skirt and halter top. She was 14, but looked much older if one noticed her prematurely seductive gait and the weight she carried in her eyes. She lived in a crumbling house about a mile outside of town, along with a revolving count of foster brothers and sisters and cars rusting on blocks in the front and back yard. But Fashion was determined to break away from all of that. Thoughts of a life of fame and fortune and cheering fans played in her head as she twisted and swayed along her route to the grocery store.
**********************
Elliot Stabler's cell phone chirped its digital song and snapped him out of his daydream of discovering what geometric perfection lay beneath the fabric of Olivia's cashmere shirt. "Ahem, Stabler. Yes, Mrs. Monroe, I understand. The Sheriff is tied up and he needs us to respond to the scene. We'll be right over." He snapped his cell phone shut and said, "Well, partner, are you ready for a little action in this sleepy town?" He inwardly cringed at the undertones of his statement, which belied his true intentions.
"What an asshole," Olivia thought, but her placid and stern expression did not change. "Sure, what's up?"
"Oh, some brouhaha just down the road at the Piggly Wiggly," he said with a wry smile. "This should be amusing."
They left enough cash on the table to cover the breakfast bill plus a generous tip for their waitress, Betty, an old battle ax with too much lipstick and black hair dyed white in a stripe just down the middle of her head.
"Let's roll," Stabler said, and cringed again.