Hillmomba Ain't In Kansas Anymore

Holy moly! Hillmomba is undergoing a crime wave!

Thursday morning, as I sat in my front window firing up my internet connection, I spied a parade of vehicles churning up dust on our gravel road. Not the usual neighbor cars lagging behind so as not to founder on their predecessor's dust. A black club cab truck pulling a closed-in white trailer was first. I assumed that it was a construction worker. They carry their fancy tools in such trailers. Next came a couple of SUVs, a van, a couple of white cars. There was a line of eight cars total. Again, I assumed it was construction workers on their way to a site. I wondered which of our neighbors were getting renovations. This is not a through road, but a kind of loop that will eventually take you back toward the exit of our private compound.

Two hours later, I was off to town to pick up The Pony, who had spent the night with his grandma. On the county blacktop road, which is now a major detour due to bridge work on the lettered county highway, I encountered a conga line of odd vehicles. I know this is a detour now, but my major issues have been over-wide dually trucks, and hay trailers. This procession was led by a backhoe, followed by a truck pulling a Porta-Potty, followed by a big septic tank sucking truck, followed by a dump truck with its bed raised. I pulled off on a gravel side road entrance to give them room on the curve. Some days are smooth sailing, and some days Even Steven yanks my chain.

Nothing eventful happened all day. The Pony let the goats out later than usual, having just returned home in the afternoon. It was too cool for swimming in Poolio. At 4:45 I ascended from my dark basement lair to make big sandwiches for supper. As I was sawing through some wheat sub rolls, Farmer H breezed in the door. "I heard on the radio they found a body in the septic tank of the log house. I talked to my guy up the road, and he said they've been looking for that missing person since December. Said the sheriff, the FBI, and the coroner were up there digging out the septic tank all day. I'm going to check on it. Supper can wait." Farmer H took off to pump Guy for more information. Apparently, I had witnessed the march of the crime scene vehicles.

Seriously, people. I've been in that log house. We've picked up a woman who slid her car off the snowy county road and taken her to that house. That house is where Farmer H's acquaintance lived who butchered things in his metal shed. The one Farmer H was going take one of his "wild hogs" to for butchering a couple years ago. It's less than a mile from the Mansion. Probably about a half-mile if you're a flying crow. Now the thing is, this house has been vacant for a while. But nobody should know anything about it unless they have associations with people up in here. So it's kind of unsettling.

Farmer H returned with the latest news from Guy. Wednesday night around 9:00, Guy heard knocking at his door. His dogs were going crazy. Ours were going crazy in solidarity with their canine compatriots. Guy had already gone to bed. He's an early riser. He wondered who would be up in here that late at night, since peddlers are not allowed. He thought of getting his gun just in case, but he looked out his peephole and saw two guys in suits. He was not happy, but he figured it was just the Mormons making a call. Never mind that the Mormons never come up in here because the gravel is hard on their bicycle tires. Guy opened the door, and a suit said, "FBI. We need to ask you a few questions." Who knew they talked just like the movies? Guy said he'd have to see some identification before he'd let them in. They produced. They had heard Guy was acquainted with the property owner. Guy said no, it was his bud up the road, who had gone to school with the property owner. So the FBI followed his lead.

There I was later Thursday evening, complacently watching Big Brother, when a news break on commercial showed an aerial view of our compound! On the early news, Channel 2 showed the log house. From ground level. Who let them up in this private compound, I wonder. Can reporters go anywhere they please? The issue I had was the voice-over saying the owner declined to speak on camera, "...before speeding away in this silver truck." It showed the guy driving away from his own property, in our private association. I didn't notice if it showed his license plate. The thing is, why should they expect him to comment on what grisly find was made in his septic tank? He does not live there. The property is vacant. He has only owned it for a couple of months. The previous butchering owner has not lived there for about 18 months. The next-door dude was interviewed. He's the one who patches our road holes with dirt from the creek. At least he represented himself well, speaking proper English and calling the reporter sir.

I will be glad when the authorities get to the bottom of this septic tank mess. Word on the gravel road is that a local tattoo artist went missing in December 18, and that the whole situation smacks of a drug deal gone bad. Pertinent details about the body are also being bandied about, which I will omit, and simply say rope, duct tape, and broken bones. Hometown hillbilly scuttlebutt. The info may already be out by the time I let this publish. But as of 11:00 Thursday night, details were still pending.

Hillmomba ain't in Kansas anymore.