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Devil Hunt by Jill Maser
Mosquitoes. Lost tourists. Hard to say which is more of a nuisance this time of year.
Now, if I was to ask those lost tourists, they'd say it's the mosquitoes. But speaking for myself, it's the tourists. See, the mosquitoes are gone with one slap. Those people though…they're downright pesky. Takes some finessin' to get them to move along.
I see my share of lost tourists. Can hear them fancy cars chuffin' up my road for a mile before I spot the headlights. They see me sittin' here on my porch, swattin' mosquitoes, and stop the car. First thing they do is huff and puff a bit. Bluster about some shortcut a friend said would shave fifteen, twenty minutes off their drive.
Then they start to askin' questions. I don't tend to like the ones who try to talk on them little celluloid tellyphones while they're askin' me the way home. Thos gadgets don't work out here. Too many trees and not enough folks who want to talk on one, I s'pose. I don't claim to know all the answers, but I can point them back to the Expressway. Most are just in a big hurry to get back to the tables in Atlantic City or home to Philly or New York.
There's some who like to stay and chat.
Now depending on my mood with the chatty types, I might just invite 'em up for a beer. Tell 'em what they really want to know.
I tell 'em about the Jersey Devil.
Some folks get scared. Some get real interested. Some want to jump right off the porch and go out hunting the poor bastard. I tell 'em no. It wouldn't do to just dash off into the woods. Might spook him right into hiding. No sir, Mr. Lost Tourist. You have to go on a proper Devil Hunt.
I sell 'em a high-powered flashlight, the kind like the cops use, and a copy of my special Devil Hunt Map. I got all the Devil's known hideouts marked up on there. Of course, all the swamps and water holes are marked good, too. At least the ones I know of.
The tourists follow directions real careful at first. They drive on up to the start of the trail and walk from there. It's when they're walkin' that they don't pay much mind to the map.
The hollerin' tends to start up after half an hour or so and I go after 'em. Sometimes I find 'em, like this poor fellow here. He's up to his eyeballs in muck and can't holler no more.
"Course, you know there really ain't no such thing as the Jersey Devil. But thank you kindly for finding this muck-hole for me. I'll make sure to update the map."
I gotta start charging more for them flashlights.
THE END Jill Maser © 2007 |
