The Case of the Vampire Vacuum Sweeper by John R. Erickson

faced them. “I think you’ve got Creeping Terminal Entropy. Let’s check some symptoms. Have you ever suspected that you have only four legs?” They nodded. “And only one tail?” They nodded. “Only two ears?” They nodded. “That’s pretty boring, isn’t it?” They nodded.
    â€œAnd have you ever felt more like you do right now than you did a while ago?” They nodded. “Well, there you are. You’re in the early stages of Creeping Terminal Entropy. But I have some good news, guys. I think I can help you.”
    They went into another whispering session. Then Snort said, “Rip not feel so swell, want to hear cure for Creepum Termite Hoopem-Hikem. Hunk better have good cure or might end up for coyote supper, ho ho.”
    â€œOkay, guys, here’s the deal.” I moved closer to them, even though I could hardly stand the smell. I dropped my voice to a whisper. “I guess you’ve heard the old saying, ‘Music soothes the savage beast,’ right?”
    Snort shook his head. “Coyote plenty savage but not like beets.”
    â€œExactly, that’s my whole point. You hate beets so you must love music, right?”
    They talked this over in mutters and mumbles. Then, “Coyote not give a hoot for love.”
    â€œOkay, but you like music, right?”
    More whispers. “Coyote not like all music, only trashy coyote song. Not give a hoot for pretty foo-foo song.”
    â€œGreat! I think this will work. Don’t you see, Snort? If you hate beets and foo-foo music, a trashy coyote song will pull you out of this terrible Hoopem-Hikem.”
    They exchanged puzzled glances and shrugged. “Sound pretty crazy to Rip and Snort.”
    Yeah, well, it sounded pretty crazy to me too, but I could see that it was working. I plunged on into Phase Two.
    â€œOkay, Snort, I think we’re ready. You guys have the rest of the night to come up with a trashy coyote song. Then at dawn’s first light, or heck, even later, you can, well, sing it.”
    He grinned and poked me in the chest with his paw. “Ha! Big joke on Hunk. Guys too bored to sing. Want to hear Hunk do song.”
    â€œMe? No, now wait a minute, Snort. See, I don’t have a song and . . . well, I don’t do my best composing under pressure. I’m sure you can understand that.” I searched their faces for . . . something. Compassion. Understanding. Sympathy. It wasn’t there. “You expect me to come up with a song out of thin air?” They nodded. “That’s outrageous, it’s impossible, it can’t be done. Sorry.”
    They stood up and began licking their chops.
    â€œOh, what the heck, I guess I could try. But I don’t have a subject to sing about.”
    â€œHunk not sing about foo-foo or love.”
    â€œOkay, now we’re cooking. No songs about foo-foo or love. Got it. Tell me more, and take all the time you need, guys. I’m in no hurry. Honest.”
    They sat down and went into a whispering conference. When they turned back to me, Snort pointed to his nose. “Snort got pork-um-pine quill in nose.”
    â€œYes, I noticed that right away.”
    â€œPork-um-pine quill make big hurt on coyote nose.”
    â€œI can imagine.”
    â€œSo Hunk do song about pork-um-pine, ha ha.”
    I searched their faces again. They were serious. “You want me to do a song about porcupines ?” They grinned and bobbed their heads up and down. “Snort, listen. There is nothing musical or inspiring about porcupines, honest. I mean, it’s just im­possible to . . . I can’t possibly . . .” They raised their lips into snarls. “Porcupines, huh? No problem. Give me two hours and I’ll come up with something.”
    They shook their heads. “Give Hunk five minutes and better have good song about pork-um-pine.”
    Gulp. “Five minutes, huh? That’s . . . not much