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Eagle Eye by Brant Goble |
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Eagle Eye Jackson was one hell of a shot, back before his dominant eye blued-over with a cataract and he lost all depth perception. He lost his right hand, too—claims he got into one too many hand-to-claw fights with a Siberian tiger named Rex, but I don't know if I believe him. I do know that County Menagerie can't seem to keep any male tigers around, yet the tigresses keep getting pregnant. I don't ask many questions. My lack of curiosity would, one assume, make me unfit for the position of Sheriff, much less for the combined responsibilities of Sheriff, Warden, Judge, Jury, and Executioner. Yet here I am—Eagle Eye's sole student—the last, best hope for the citizens of Sebring County. I wish I could attribute my having gained the unenviable position of being Eagle Eye's protégé, gopher girl, and unwilling relationship counselor through great talent or herculean effort; I'd have more credibility with the good old boys who seem most inclined to forget that it's illegal for a man to kill an officer of the law (except on the third Tuesday of every month, and only with a permit). Of course, I suppose I could argue that I was ordained by God for this position, seeing as I'm the only living candidate. Or maybe it was the crocodiles. Crocodiles don't naturally live this far north, and certainly not in freshwater ponds—their tolerance for cold is low, and their tolerance for idiots who get hopped-up on Jägerbombs and decide to go skinny dipping at three a.m, screaming nationalist chants, is almost as limited as mine. They don't naturally talk, either. As designated group bromide and drunk-watcher (a position I earned largely by failing to put out for either the libidinous boys or bi-curious girls), I wasn't in the water when the crocodiles slipped in, but I could see them well enough (I thought) and just when I had decided that they were getting too close and was about to bang the official swim-like-a-mother pot (the buzzer having broken long ago): "So you're the odd man out, apparently?" I turned around, seeing nothing in the darkness. Who? A green tail slapped the ground. I reached back, slowly for my .357, cocking it as I prepared to pull it free from my belt. Wherever you are, stay still. I'll handle this. "Handle what, dear? Your revolver?" The green eyes blinked. You can talk? I looked down, still not believing what I was hearing. "I would smile, but I'm afraid you might find that intimidating." I could see jaws working in synchronization with the words. "Mightn't this be less awkward if I could reveal myself. I've always found my conversation easier when I can see the other party. Or would that trigger a disaster?" Arguing with a crocodile, especially a punning one, is harder than one might think. And so Gertrude (her mother's name, she said) shuffled out and into the lamplight, revealing a broad, squat frame that seemed more frumpy than intimidating. Eagle Eye spent the better part of his days (when he wasn't complaining about having to cast his own bullets) trying to explain to me the joys of biowarfare—a concept I could never quite grasp, although I found the thought of hearing an entire platoon simultaneously choking to death on its own super-phlegm compelling in a way. Yesterday, he started in on eye surgery and all the things they could do. I suspect I'll be taking over soon. Of all the subjects to fascinate a crocodile, macroeconomics doesn't seem the most likely. Yet this was Gertrude's chosen field, and she had spent the better part of her life forcing Keynesian Theory down the throats of her little bask (she never referred to them as students). And this week, apparently, she had been invited to deliver a paper on restorative industrial development and production incentivization through central economic planning. As loquacious as she was, I found it difficult to imagine Gertrude giving her speech from the floor, much less anyone being able to watch the articulate snapping of her jaws without a bit of apprehension. But then, we all have our prejudices. Eagle Eye always warned me to stay from animals that were unscrewable (I assumed he meant inscrutable). Apparently, you can't get to know an animal, until you know an animal. He told me this, just before before he started to reminisce about his only trip south, when he had been assigned to dump fifty tons of miscellaneous teratogenic material in the Everglades and met the last decent female he'd known in twenty years—a real charmer, apparently—though, uncharacteristically, he never described her body—this from a man who seemed to have an almost photographic memory for anatomy and a several hundred word vocabulary dedicated exclusively to breasts. Maybe I don't give him enough credit; maybe he respected her. I'd never heard a crocodile curse—it isn't as intimidating as you might think. "Get off my damn snout, twinkle toes." I heard a high, reedy voice yell out and looked up to see Geoff, one of the more thoroughly sloshed deputies-in-training, standing on top of a smallish crocodile with a pinched expression. "Why . . . don't you, ugh . . . you know, make me, Mister Green!" I looked back at Gertrude, who grimaced, visibly embarrassed. Do you think we should do something? "Everyone please settle down," Gertrude sounded awkward, hesitant. Giving orders was painful for her—forced. It was too late, though. The pool was dividing up—crocodile conventioneers on one side, drunk trainees on the other. One of the crocodiles swung his fist (yes, fist) hard into a trainee. It was a beautiful right hook—truly powerful, fast, but somehow familiar, and only someone with an eagle eye could have seen it coming. You can't really learn to fight that way. It's genetic. |
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