After chasing her lazy eye in one direction and feeling the stab of her glare from her functioning hazel orb, I locked my gaze firmly on the clerk’s forehead: a bulbous monster resembling the front of a sperm whale. 

All I had asked for was the truth, a request which upset her immensely. It sent that loose orb into manic contortions.

“And why can’t I see 911 log? It’s public record.”

“You’ll need a subpoena for that, sir.”

I don’t know where to get a subpoena. All I know is that last night more unholy events unfolded in Ugly John’s yard across the alley. Screams perforated my dreams until I woke up and stumbled toward the window and caught shadows shooting off like fireworks. A plume of guilt remained, mocking Hiroshima. As I hurried to the sheriff’s office, dawn illuminated Ugly John’s driveway:  blood trails, feather boas, Chinese food containers. 

“It’s public record, I looked it up online. What’s your name?”

“That doesn’t concern you, sir.”

Time to plant my flag. “You have a hideous personality. You represent the worst in public service. You should be fired. Left to rot on your public pension.”

My words sent her eye into unruly orbit. No amount of dishwater hair brushed up front could obscure its nasty inflammation. She grew meek, flashed passive, then transformed into stone, a wall of cruel professionalism.

“You’ll have to speak with the sheriff. He won’t be back till later.”

“Where is he? On vacation?”

“No, sir, he’s out on a call.”

“Taking reports of occult sacrifice, no doubt.”

Her eye lazy crazy eye grew calm as a glassy lake.

“How did you know?”

So, Ugly John did it again. Might he ever stop?