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

time, Snort, and I hope you understand . . .” He bashed me over the head. “By George, I think I feel a song tugging at the shirt-tail of my heart. Hang on, guys, I’ll be right back. Don’t leave.”
    That got a big laugh.
    I turned my back on them and went into deepest concentration. A song about porcupines? For Pete’s sake, was there any subject on earth less inspiring or less musical than a porcupine? I couldn’t think of one. Who could compose a song about a lumbering, dim-witted animal with a pincushion on his back?
    ME, that’s who, and I had to do it in record time.
    You probably think I choked under the pressure and failed to deliver the song, that I was devoured by the cannibal brothers and the story’s over. Ha! Not even close. Not only did I whip up the song in record time, but I also performed it before their very eyes. Here’s how it went.
    The Porcupine Blues
    Now gather around, lift up your ears,
    I’ve got a little song I want you to hear,
    About a guy who’s paid his dues.
    This little guy’s got the Porcupine Blues.
    Now, little Porky has a lonesome life.
    He’s got no friends and he’s got no wife.
    He’s got no socks ’cause he’s got no shoes.
    He’s got a case of the Porcupine Blues.
    If you scratched his back, tried to be his pal,
    It would hurt your paw, it would make you howl.
    It would make him sad but he just can’t lose
    That lonesome case of the Porcupine Blues.
    So he stays apart, wears a coat of needles,
    He lives on bark, grub worms, and beetles.
    If you think that’s great, you’d better get the news.
    It’s a lousy deal called the Porcupine Blues.
    So when you think your life’s a bummer,
    Be glad you ain’t a porcupummer.
    It’s a sad old trail for the feller who’s
    Got a permanent case of the Porcupine Blues.

Chapter Twelve: Once Again, I Save the Ranch

    I finished the song and bowed to the audience.
    â€œThere you are, guys. You wanted a song about porcupines and by George you got it. Pretty awesome, huh?” They stared at me without expression. “Come on now, admit that it was a great song.”
    They shook their heads in unison. “Not great song. Coyote not give a hoot for colors.”
    â€œIt wasn’t about colors, Snort. The Blues is . . . well, it’s a feeling, a mood, a state of mind.”
    â€œCoyote live in Texas, not give a hoot for other state, and coyote not give a hoot for dummy blue song.” He lumbered over to me and poked me in the chest. “Coyote brothers boredomed again. Tired of singing. Do something else.”
    â€œHey Snort, I’m not a recreation director. You can’t expect me to keep you guys entertained all night.”
    He gave me a toothy grin. “Ho ho. Then maybe we have big coyote feast in moonlight, oh boy!”
    â€œOkay, okay. I’ll try to entertain you. What do you want to do?”
    Snort thought for a moment. “How ’bout have big fight? Coyote love to fight, kick and bite, tear up whole world.”
    â€œHey, that’s an idea. You and Rip could . . .” Snort shook his head. “Now wait a minute, Snort. I hope you’re not thinking . . .” He grinned and nodded. “No. I refuse. Absolutely not. I’ve played the part of your punching bag on several occasions and it was no fun for me.”
    â€œHo ho! Too badly for Hunk.” They began creeping toward me.
    â€œWait, Snort, no, hey, we need to talk this thing over and . . .”
    They were closing in on me and I sure thought . . . But just then, suddenly and all of a sudden, the silence was broken by . . . what was that? All three of us stopped and listened.
    Loud footsteps? The snapping of brush? A voice . . . two voices . . . several voices, talking and laughing? Holy smokes, someone was coming, and before I had time to think of who or whom it might be, I found myself staring into the eyes of . .