Page 55 of Shenanigans

Lieutenant Wilson keyed his mike, “Copy S20.”

As I drank my soda, I watched Jerry rotate the periscope camera over to the slaughterhouse’s parking lot. Me, the daughter of a mob enforcer, working with the police. Who knew Fate had a sense of humor?

On the monitors a line of expensive cars pulled into the lot and parked. I shook my head in disgust. “Do they know what happens to the losers?”

“I don’t think they care,” Dutch said grimly.

To my amazement, all the fight fans were dressed like they were going to some Hollywood gala instead of a bloody, death match.

A limo stopped. The driver jumped out and opened the back door. A minute later Vicente Guzman and a young Hispanic woman in a glittering red cocktail dress exited the car.

The El Jefe of the Mexican mafia was a scrawny old man in a three thousand-dollar suit and wearing a ridiculous pompadour hairpiece.

“Don’t tell me Guzman is an Elvis groupie?”

“He is,” Lieutenant Wilson replied.

Dutch inquired casually, “Any pigeons in the area?”

“No, but there is an egg ranch filled with hundreds of free range chickens,” I replied with a grin.

“How far can chickens fly?”

“Not as far as other birds can, but they do shit more,” I responded.

“Perfect,” Dutch said, pure devilry in his eyes.

The Lieutenant smiled. “Call them.”

“My pleasure.” I summoned the poultry. Soon the sky was filled with feathered warriors. I ordered,“Shit ‘em.”

Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat!Chicken crap rained down on the parking lot. The fight fans shrieked bloody blue murder and ran inside the slaughterhouse.

“Bring the skunks in,” Lieutenant Wilson directed.

I sent the chickens home and linked with the female skunk. She had seven three-month old kits.“Defend your burrow.”I turned to the Lieutenant. “Skunks have been deployed.”

“Good.”

In my mind’s eye, I watched the loudly complaining, shit-covered fight groupies enter the makeshift arena. Julio paced restlessly inside the metal cage. Where the heck was Tomas Lopez and El Muerte?

A menacing squeal sounded. Everyone froze when they spotted the skunks. Several women screamed.

“Shut up,” El Jefe shouted.

The skunks raised their tails and stamped their front feet.

Smart people would know to back away slowly, but there’s always some dumbass with too much testosterone.

His hair piece listing to the left, Guzman pulled a Glock and fired at the skunks.

The bullet missed them by a foot and hit a fire extinguisher. A pressurized stream of fire-squelching nitrogen spewed out.

The skunks turned, aimed and fired back.

Guzman took the brunt of the sprays. Gasping for breath, he retreated, along with all the other horrified fans right into the waiting arms of the police.

“S20 to command. All suspects are in custody except for Tomas Lopez and El Muerte.”

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