I started a new writing project this week. For fun, I’m trying to see if I can write a vampire romance novel. Of course, it’s gonna be written in a way that I would like to see something like that written. That means, it’ll be unconventional. Still, it requires me to write real actually romantic stuff with vampires in it, which has been a struggle.
Anyway, here’s the prologue to the story. It doesn’t have that much to do with vampires or romance and it still needs some sweetening, but I’ve alweays wanted to write a scene like this, and it was fun. See if you can pick out the references.
Sheriff McClusters was in a foul mood before he even set foot out of his prowler. He stared straight ahead through his windshield at yet another smoking crater, another shrapnel-strewn incident scene. He turned off his gumballs, and stepped out of his car.
“Clark”, McClusters called out. “Clark, where are you?”
Cattle mooed in the distance. McClusters stepped carefully across the pasture surface, yet his shiny black boots still manage to find a fresh cow pie to step in. McClusters grumbled, dragging his foot through the grass to clean it off.
“Clark”, McClusters called out again.
A skinny, thin mustached deputy stepped forward from the crowd milling about the crater. “Yeah, boss”, he answered.
“How many is this”, quizzed McClusters.
Clark’s eyeballs rolled star-ward and his tongue protruded as he did the figures in his head. “Thirteen”, Clark answered. “Six in the last week.”
“What in the Sam Hell is goin’ on here”,. McClusters piped, to no one in particular.
“Sheriff”, a voice rang out from about a hundred yards away. “Get a look at this.”
McClusters tapped Clark on the chest, bidding him follow. They strode past a group of cops erecting a flimsy police line around the crater. The yellow tape flapped helplessly in the soft breeze. McClusters and Clark arrived at a young officer kneeling over the carcass of a cow, face nearly buried in its underbelly. “What you got for us, Wilcox”, McClusters erupted.
Wilcox toppled over head first in the gut of the cow and dragged himself to his feet, looking like a mis-puppeted Muppet as he did so. He wiped down his face and straightened up like a ramrod. “Sir”, he announced. “Dead cow.”
“Lots of cows die, Wilcox”, McClusters countered.
“Not like this one”, Wilcox responded. “The throat’s been slit wide open.”
“You sure bloat didn’t cause that”, replied Clark.
“Sir”, answered Wilcox, “the wound appears to be surgical.”
“And it would appear that way, wouldn’t it”, a loud booming voice broke through the night air.
“Christ”, groaned McClusters. “Knox.”
A hairy-faced gent in a hoodie and horn-rimmed glasses stepped up next to McClusters. He stopped to look over the poor dead beast. He stood back up, cleaned his glasses off on his hoodie and drew in a deep breath. “This animal did not die a natural death”, he announced.
“What? You think when the blistering sun was cooking Bessie here from the inside out, she thought it was natural”, joked McClusters.
“Bloat would blow out the guts, but I’ve never seen it slit a cow’s throat.”, Knox said.
“You think little green men did this”, asked Clark.
“Maybe. If that’s who was in that pod over there”, answered Knox.
Knox led McClusters and Clark over the the incident area. Embedded dead center in the crater was a spherical metallic object. A portal was open in the top side of the object, revealing the pearloid interior. Shards and scraps of the object’s exterior peppered the the pasture grass. “Wasn’t your father on the scene at Roswell back in ‘47”, asked Knox.
“That was a weather balloon”, McClusters shot back.
“Not what I heard”, interjected Clark.
“And you watch too damn many movies, Clark”, McClusters grunted.
McClusters kicked at a piece of debris. “So Knox”, he asked. “What’s you theory?”
Knox pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. “My theory is that a career law enforcement officer should know better than to disturb evidence.”
McClusters chuckled. “Evidence of what? Aliens? Crazy pod people? A bunch of nerds with nothin’ better to do than screw around with a bunch of country folk?”
“I don’t know that I believe any of those explanations”, answered Knox. “But something is at play here, and I’m not sure it’s of this plane of existence.”
McClusters shot a confused look over to Clark, who could only offer a shrug. “Thank you, Mr. Knox. That was very helpful.”
Knox grinned and shuffled off to his car. He popped the trunk and retrieved a metal briefcase. He set the case down and pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. He then produced a long, gun-like apparatus with a hand-like claw. He strode back over the the officers, still smiling. “Mind if I get a few samples”, he chirped.
“Knock yourself out, Knox”, McClusters approved. He and Clark watched Knox practically skip over to the incident area. They turned and looked over the scene, still crawling with cops combing the area for clues. “I suppose the G-Men will be here in the morning”, Clark said.
“If not before”, answered McClusters.
“That’s not ideal”, Clark said.
“It surely is not”, sighed McClusters. “It’s times like these, I wish I would’ve listened to my mother and joined the ballet.”