In Cahoots

Small town, Cahoots, Mississippi. A burb near Tupelo. My shift was over. I, being a police officer, Rollin Field Jr. It was 2:30 AM. The temperature and humidity stifling. Driving my assigned cruiser into the gravel driveway of our tiny two-bedroom doublewide trailer bungalow. Parking behind a rusted old Volkswagen dune buggy. Hitting the blue lights to let Mimi, my wife, know to start the bacon. Bacon was a code word, meaning to put the Pop-Tarts in the toaster.     
     
Opening the car door, the Queen of Rock, Tina Turner was screaming. "Big wheel keep on turnin'. Ooh, the Proud Mary keep on burnin." Blaring from the radio. Loud enough to deafen the crickets. Interrupting a pair of squirrels. While doing their best interpretation of the Kama Sutra on our patch of grass front lawn.      
     
Thinking, that Ryan Seacrest must be visiting. Walking toward the backyard gate. Lights were flashing like in the movie Saturday Night Fever. I was expecting an aged John Travolta to leap out of the bushes. But! it was our neighbor Shirley Barry giving her best impersonation of Stormy Daniels. Naked and wearing no bones, just a body of naked flesh at 2 in the frigging morning. She was drinking from a bottle of Manischewitz and singing off-key. "Oh, I left a good job in the city. Workin' for the man every night and day."        
     
Then I saw Mimi, President of the June Clever Auxillary. Naked and moonwalking like Michael Jackson. She was wearing her Walmart high-heels. They were playing pickleball. The only light was from a used bug zapper. The net was an old cracked commode going to be our garden to grow Rudabega. She had retrofitted it with Christmas tree lights. It was an eye sore but she only gave 3 dollars for it at the Flea Market.      
     
Opening, the gate, I had failed to see two naked Octogenarians standing over a roaring hibachi roasting wiener schnitzels in front of a pitched pup tent. Thinking they were Grandpa and Grandma Walton but strangers to me. I saw two Hara Krishna robes and jingle bells at their feet. Now I knew who the Volkswagen dune buggy belonged to.          
     
I had met Shirley on the first day we moved in. She welcomed us to our new home, handing us a bowl of creamed cucumbers. A gift certificate to Arby's, as her pet inbred Chihuahua gnawed at my ankle. He resembled Mr. T from an old TV series. Its name was Mongoose. I thought it eccentric that the mutt was wearing a baby bonnet.      
     
I turned the radio down and stepped between the two naked swans, stepping in a pyramid pile of doo-doo or Grey Poupon Mustard. Like a psychotic, Mongoose was in attack mode. Raising a scrawny hind quarter pissing on my uniform, now tarnished shoes.         
     
"It may be presumptuous but can I ask a simple Question? WHO ARE THE TWO NAKED OLD FARTS THAT ARE EATING MY OSCAR MAYER WEINERS? WHY IS A NAKED WOODEN ANATOMICALLY CORRECT VENTRILOQUIST DUMMY WITH AN ERECTION, SITTING IN MY FRIGGIN NEW LAWN CHAIR?"