Boink for Biodiversity

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Pillbottle.” Elizabeth Huffington-Huffington was thin as a Pocky Stick and had hair wispy as cotton candy. They say inbreeding caused the Habsburg chin. If that was the case, her forebears must have engaged in a lot of it because Elizabeth Huffington-Huffington had two of them. “Care for a sherry?”

“Sure.”

She motioned to the butler who brought two glasses. The sherry was sweet and cloying as Ms. Huffington-Huffington’s perfume.

“A sex cult took my niece and I want her back.” Ms. Huffington-Huffington sipped her ghastly sherry. “It’s called Boink for Biodiversity. They make porn and donate the proceeds to save the planet or some such nonsense.”

“Shouldn’t she make her own choices?” I looked for someplace to ditch my drink but setting it on the eucalyptus-wood desk would leave a ring so I downed it in one gulp just to get rid of it.

“Oh, want another?” Elizabeth Huffington-Huffington snapped her fingers for the butler to bring me a refill. “Amanda’s been in and out of sanitariums for years. Despite the best medical care, she still suffers from delusions. In three months, she’ll be twenty-five. Then the trust fund will revert to her and we won’t be able to help her. How does a thousand dollars a day sound?”

“Better than ten-percent off at Denny’s.” I set down the sherry glass by the foot of my wingback chair.

“That depends, of course, on how much you order at Denny’s. Here are your plane tickets to Wyoming.” She handed me an envelope. “Our local contact will meet you at the airport.”

***

I spotted a Great Pyrenees Mountain Dog holding a placard with my name on it in the arrival hall at the Jackson airport. His coat was white and he had floppy ears and a long, broad muzzle. From his warm, brown eyes, I could tell he was gentle with children and devoted to his family but due to his size and strength would need lots of training and socialization. 

“You Morris Pillbottle?” he asked.

I nodded. “What’s your name, big fellow?”

“Grantham Snooterbox.”

“Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?” I scratched him behind the ears.  “Are you related to the Snooterboxes of Penobscot, Maine?”

“No, those are New England Snooterboxes. I hail from the Rocky Mountain Snooterboxes,” he said with pride bordering on arrogance as if no canines who lived below five-thousand feet had the right to call themselves mountain dogs.

Tail wagging, he led me to a white Jeep Cherokee in the parking lot and got behind the wheel. I tossed my bag in the back seat and climbed in beside him. This raised several questions like how did his paws reach the gas pedal and how did a dog get a driver’s license in the first place? I wasn’t here to enforce Wyoming’s traffic laws so I sat back and gazed at the mountains that rose from the horizon like scores of high-rises made of Precambrian metamorphic rock. Snooterbox drove well for a dog except for his habit of sticking his head out the window.

When we turned onto the Belvedere’s access road, I was looking forward to a hot shower, a steak, and a little cable TV. Imagine my disappointment when Snooterbox passed the lobby and parked in by a doghouse in back. It was a wooden structure with a sloped roof and covered patio. Being built for a massive dog, there was plenty of room for an elephant or a blue whale but with Snooterbox inside it was too cramped for the two of us.

“We need to set out while we still have daylight left.” He saddled up with a backpack and pointed to mine.

I swapped my rubber-soled shoes for a pair of hiking boots and shouldered my pack.

“Better take this.” Snooterbox handed me a 10 mm Smith and Wesson. “That lentil shooter of yours will only make the bears angry.”

I holstered the pistol even though its recoil would make it impossible to hit the broad side of a zeppelin hanger even from the inside. At least, the noise might scare the bears away.

After a thirty-minute drive, we parked at the trailhead for Mt. Dagger. As soon as we stepped out, a group of sage grouse surrounded us

“Guard your car, mister?” the largest knucklehead asked. “Be a shame if your windshield wipers were gone when you came back.”

“Thanks for looking out for us.” Even though I hated getting shaken down, I handed him half a granola bar. “You’ll get the other half when we return.”

Not long after we started walking, we approached a chipmunk sitting by the path.

“Spare some cornflakes, mister?” When I shook my head and walked past, he said, “God bless.”

My hiking boot started chafing my heel. I sat on a rock, took my boot off, and covered the blister with a band aid. Wyoming had pretty scenery if you go for that kind of thing. Dogwoods and sagebrush had proliferated as ruthlessly as burger franchises. Only the aroma of bacon, eggs, and coffee could make the clean air smell better. Snooterbox rested his chin on my thigh and I scratched him behind the ears. When I stopped, he batted me with his big paw demanding more.

“See that?” I pointed to a turkey vulture circling like a police helicopter. 

“Yeah. He’s been tailing us for the past half hour. Nothing to do for now but keep going.” Snooterbox set off at a quick pace.

The trail grew steeper and sweat soaked my shirt under the backpack. The dry air was thinner than I was used to and I stopped frequently to drink water and catch my breath. I heard a godawful racket.

“My name is Zeke and my beak is orange. My voice it squeaks like a rusty door hinge.”

I looked up at a Steller’s jay beatboxing in a lodgepole pine. He wore blue, had his feathers cut in a mohawk, and had pierced his wing with a safety pin. 

“Better get your asses out of here. This is Sky Reapers’ turf. Yeah, I’m talking to you! Don’t you walk away from me!” the jay yelled at my back. “Hey, 1946 called! They want their trench coat back! Squawk! Squawk!”

Squadrons of jays leapt from the trees and commenced their bombing runs. Each dove at eighty degrees from the horizontal and pulled up with feet to spare as if Snooterbox and I were the aircraft carriers Akagi and Soryu. We had no choice but to retreat. By the time we made it back to cover, I looked like a statue covered with pigeon droppings.  

“If we can get past that clearing and into the tree line, we’d be okay,” Snooterbox said. “But we’re going to need help.” 

***

A dozen bald eagles turned and a lone osprey dropped a trout fillet onto the campfire’s embers when we approached.

“You boys look like you fell into a vat of organic fertilizer,” the biggest eagle said.

“Smell like it, too,” the osprey added.

“Maybe you’d better head off somewhere downwind,” the biggest added.

“Sorry.” Snooterbox lowered his head. “We were just trying to defend the reputation of America’s national bird. The jays said that you couldn’t stop a French grandmother with one leg from cooking you in orange sauce only you wouldn’t taste as good as a duck.” 

“Yeah!” I responded to Snooterbox’s cue. “They said they want to ban pickup trucks, serve vegan burgers in school, rename the U.S.S. Ronald Reagan after Nancy Pelosi, change the national anthem to ‘Born This Way,’ and put RuPaul’s picture on the twenty-dollar bill.”

The eagles’ white feathers turned crimson with rage.

“Let’s go!” The leader and the others took off.

Snooterbox gobbled the abandoned trout and we followed.

The eagles were powerful birds that could overpower anything in a dive but they were big and slow. At low altitudes, the jays outmaneuvered them, pecked them on the backs, and sent them fleeing like Huey helicopters from the U.S. embassy in Saigon. This was no concern to Snooterbox and me. The distraction was all we needed to slip past and continue on our way.

***

“Now Jade, I’m going over your performance review.” The bull elk examined the document he held in his hooves. “Appearance – good. Grooming – good. Customer satisfaction – poor. You know what I want you to do now, honey?” He waited for the cow to shake her head. “Get your ass out there and don’t come back until you earn me some tree bark!” The cows in the bull’s harem cowered while he threatened Jade with a diamond-tipped cane.

The bull called himself Hundred-Point Slim but he was neither slim nor had he a hundred points. He wore sunglasses, gold chains, platform shoes, and a purple, ankle-length coat made of velour. A homburg with a leopard-skin hatband perched between his antlers. 

“Snooterbox! Haven’t seen you since we ate those fermented gooseberries. Passed out in some camper’s tent. She scared me as much as I scared her.” Slim scratched Snooterbox under the chin. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Morris Pillbottle. He’s a private detective.”

“Any friend of yours is a friend of mine. Need a little female company? It’s on the house.” Slim motioned to a cow in shorts and a bustier. “Hey, Cocoa! Come over here and show my friends a good time!”

 “Lovely though she is, we have other business.” I showed Slim Amanda’s picture. “Have you seen this woman?”

“Oh, yeah. She and a bunch of hippies camped out about a year ago.” Slim lit a cigar and exhaled the smoke. “Couldn’t stand the winter, though. After the first snowfall, they headed home.”

“Thanks,” Snooterbox said. “We’d better check it out, anyway.”

“Much obliged.” I touched my hat brim and followed Snooterbox up the trail. 

After hiking for fifteen minutes, I heard a rustling in the bushes.

“Psst. Over here.” Jade called from between black hawthorns. “Slim’s lying. I saw that girl just days ago.”

“Where?” I asked.

“I’ll tell you if you make it worth my while.”

Snooterbox clawed some bark off a maple and returned with it in his jaws.

“Slim sent me and the others to their camp about a day’s walk up the trail. That girl and her friends made us do things, terrible things.” A branch cracked close by and Jade sprinted away.

***

Startled out of a dream, I sat up in my sleeping bag. We’d camped by a stream and dined on cowboy coffee and a trout that Snooterbox had caught in his jaws. I unzipped the tent flap and looked outside. The Milky Way gleamed like a Las Vegas casino in the crisp, cool air and our campfire had burned to embers. More disturbing were the yellow eyes gleaming from the shadows. Hackles raised, Snooterbox stood and let out an earthshaking bark. A gray wolf stepped forward to challenge him.

 “I like those backpacks.” The alpha wolf snarled showing a gang tattoo on his gums. “Give them to me and I might let you live.”

I reached into tent for the pistol.

“Leave it, Pillbottle.” Snooterbox snarled. “I got this.”

A half-dozen wolves emerged from the dogwoods to back up their ringleader.

“Stay out of this. He’s mine,” the alpha said.

“So, we meet again, Drool Follower.” Snooterbox circled the alpha. “Haven’t seen you since I sent you crying from your momma in Bozeman.”

“You don’t have a posse of ranchers to help you this time.” Drool Follower juked left and went for Snooterbox’s neck.

The big dog dodged and Drool Follower’s three-inch fangs closed on empty air. This gave Snooterbox an opening to snap the wolf’s spine by clamping his jaws behind Drool Follower’s neck. The wolf sidestepped but not before Snooterbox tore off one of his ears. Howling in rage the wolfpack advanced toward Snooterbox.

“I wouldn’t!” I leveled the pistol at the wolves and they cowered.

By now, both combatants were wounded. Blood smeared Snooterbox’s white fur and he limped on his left foreleg. He turned as if in agony. Sensing an easy kill, Drool Follower rushed in. Snooterbox evaded, knocked Drool Follower to the ground, and snarled, fangs ready to tear the alpha wolf’s throat.

“All right. All right. You beat me.” As Drool Follower and his crew slunk away, he muttered, “Next time, Snooterbox.”

***

“Give it to me, baby!” a woman moaned up ahead. “Give it to me!” 

Snooterbox and I crept forward and peered around the bend at the porn set in the clearing. A guy in overalls hitched his thumbs through his toolbelt as two naked women rolled around on a zebra-skin rug. 

“Somebody here have a clogged drain?” He dropped his toolbelt and then his pants but his pipe wrench was not up to spec. “Sorry, I need to understand my character’s motivation.”

“Cut!” eco-activist, Junichi Radler, yelled in a voice that would be at home in Berlin’s Little Tokyo. He had a nose like a schnitzel and skin the texture of vegetable tempura. “Your sadness about the plastics in the ocean causes you to seek comfort in women’s bodies.” He sighed. “Get the fluffer.”

Snooterbox and I stepped into the clearing and a half-dozen porn stars, Amanda among them, turned.

“Is this a bad time?” I asked. 

“We’re not auditioning right now,” a red fox holding a clipboard said before regrading Snooterbox. “Although I could make a personal exception for you, big boy.”

“We’re not here to audition.” Snooterbox hunched his shoulders and looked at his feet.

“That’s right.” Figuring the honest approach would get us nowhere, I put a hand on Snooterbox’s head to keep him quiet. “You’re not auditioning but I am. Let me introduce myself. My name is Pugsley Vauxhall and I produced such films as The French Erection, Sound of Pubic, and The Importance of Being Harnessed. I’m a fan, a big fan. Like you, I want to save the planet so I’m starting a venture in the Southern Hemisphere. It will be a reality show where the challenges are sexual in nature. We have local contestants lined up but a few cameos by your performers would give us major street cred. The lucky few will leave the winter cold to spend the southern summer on a tropical island by the Great Barrier Reef. Of course, we will compensate Boink for Biodiversity with a generous share of our profits. If there’s someplace to meet privately, we’d like to hear each of your reasons why you should appear Eco Porn Island.”

Radler escorted us to a set of camping chairs by some spindly tomato vines and a few emaciated corn stalks. The sound man brought some water and a bowl of kibble for Snooterbox. The first interviews were unimpressive. Male talent with stage names like Rod Cox and Dick Long bragged about their prowess. The women weren’t much better. While my erotic tastes ran vanilla, they described sex that brought chicken sashimi and sauerkraut ice cream to mind. After nine of these, it was Amanda’s turn.

“So, what’s the prize?” Amanda asked. She was short with wide hips and wore a sleeveless sweatshirt that gave generous glimpses of her tiny breasts. Acne decorated her cheeks, a nose ring pierced one nostril, and her dirty-blonde dreadlocks hung a little below her ears.

“The prize?” I replied.

“Yeah, what does the winner of your reality show get?”

“We haven’t decided between a Tesla or installing solar panels on the winner’s home,” I said. “I’m going to let you in on a secret but don’t tell anyone else. The real reason I’m here is that Quentin is making a movie about an eco-activist’s trial for torching a bunch of SUVs. Brad and Leonardo are already on board. Anyway, the casting director wants real activists for authenticity and your name came up. Maybe you could recite a few factoids about the climate crisis off the top of your head so we hear how you sound.”

“There will be more plastic than fish in the oceans by 2050. A third of arable land has been lost in the pat forty years. Ninety percent of large, predator fish are gone.”

“Convincing.” I looked at Snooterbox. “What do you think?”

“She might work,” he said.

“Here’s the thing.” I turned back to Amanda. “Quentin wants to get this project moving so we need to fly you out to Hollywood right away. There will be lots of preparation but don’t worry, Helmut is the best acting coach in the business. Now, this is just a supporting role but it will be a great stepping stone for a film career.”

“I don’t know,” Amanda said.

“I suppose we could try Greenpeace.” I sighed.

“Or Earth Liberation Front,” Snooterbox added.

“Well, thanks for your time.” I stood.

“All right. I’ll do it,” Amanda said. “But first you have to shoot a porn scene with me to prove you’re not a narc.”

***

“Honey, I’m home.” I let the elk carcass slip off my shoulder. Unfortunately, it belonged to Jade, the underperforming cow from Slim’s harem. “I brought us some meat.”

“I’m more interested in this meat.” Amanda stripped off her deerskin robe and reached between my legs. 

A typical amount of grunting, orifices, and fluids followed until Junichi Radler yelled, “Cut! It’s a wrap.”

The Boinkers roasted poor Jade over a campfire as a farewell feast for Amanda. The smell of wood smoke and barbecue in the clean, mountain air convinced all who’d known the elk to abandon their qualms about consuming the leftovers from a bestiality snuff flick. Claiming post-coital depression, I retired to my tent and ate a few saltines to settle my stomach.

***

The trip down the mountain beat up my knees up more than climbing it, probably due to using my legs to brake against gravity. In any case, Snooterbox led, Amanda followed, and I took up the rear.

“How does Quentin come up with such great dialog?” Amanda asked.

“Sounds like a bunch of stoners sitting around smoking dope. Doesn’t it?” I replied. “I think he comes up with a goofy idea and bats it around.”

“Like what?” she asked.

“Like, I once dated a girl named Anne Hedonia.”

“What did you two do for fun?”

“I drank beer and watched her do my taxes.”

“That’s enough!” Snooterbox shouted.

I looked up from my hiking boots and saw the .44 magnum revolver in his paw.

“What gives, Snooterbox?” I inched away Amanda to make shooting both of us harder.

“It’s the end of the line for you and little, miss heiress. Here’s how it’s gonna go down. Washed-up detective Morris Pillbottle murders Amanda in a fit of rage after learning she taped their sexual encounter and then kills himself out of shame.” Snooterbox turned to Amanda. “That’s right, honey. Morris isn’t a bigshot producer. He’s a private eye your aunt hired to take you back to the looney bin. Only, with both of you dead, she doesn’t have to worry about a sympathetic shrink letting you out some day.”

“But why, Snooterbox? I thought you were my buddy.”

“I’m nobody’s buddy. Sure, I liked humans once. I even put up with the doggy booties and sweaters. Then my owner had the vet replace my manhood with a pair of Ping-Pong balls as if I wouldn’t notice them clicking together when I ran. Since then, I’ve been out for revenge. Once the rich lady pays me off, I’ll hire a human to sleep on the floor and eat kibble while I dine on filet mignon. Say your prayers, Morris Pillbottle.” Snooterbox aimed his revolver at me.

I drew the 10 mm pistol and squeezed the trigger. It went click.

“Replaced the gunpowder in your bullets with jeweler’s rouge.” Snooterbox chuckled.

A howl came from the trees. Snooterbox turned as Drool Follower lunged. The revolver dropped from Snooterbox’s paw as wolf and dog merged into a flurry of fangs, fur, and blood. I scooped up the revolver, aimed, and fired. The bang startled birds out of the trees and I could feel the concussion of the .44 magnum’s blast wave in my chest. Snooterbox didn’t feel anything after the slug tore a fist-sized hole through his heart and lungs. Staring at his corpse I questioned my life choices. I was weary of trolling society’s seedy underbelly where even a dog can betray you. Drool Follower wiped Snooterbox’s blood off his muzzle, licked his paw, and loped away.

“He was right. Your aunt hired me to find you but I consider trying to murder me a breach of contract,” I said. “The way I see, all you have to do is stay out of sight for a few months until you get your inheritance. You can either go back to the Boinkers or hide out with a librarian, I know.” 

“If you don’t mind me saying so, I don’t find you very trustworthy.”

“Fair enough.” I handed her the revolver. “This will persuade anyone else who comes for you to go away. Good luck.”

***

The wind buffeted my office window and I poured the last of the rye whiskey into my coffee. As usual, my bank account was empty as the bottle. Elizabeth Huffington-Huffington had refused to pay because I hadn’t fulfilled my task of dying in a fake murder-suicide. I’d sued her small-claims court but she’d spent several times my fee on lawyers to defend the principle that the rich shouldn’t have to pay their employees. The mail slot rattled. 

I picked up the buff envelope addressed to Morris Pillbottle and slit it open. Inside I found a check for twenty-thousand dollars from Amanda.