A sleazy circus magic always stole over Pine Bluff on the morning of the Helldorado Parade. At dawn, the traditional rooster crows were supplemented with clanging cowbells and the squawks of abused trumpets. Everyone in town got out of bed early, most of them with an unwholesome sense of anticipation, knowing they would be getting out of tomorrow’s bed much later, if at all.

Shriners everywhere donned their fezzes and inspected the fuel and oil levels in their go-carts with the solemnity of jet fighter mechanics. The Rotarians garbed themselves in papier-mâché breastplates, women’s wigs, and pointy plastic hats with diminutive moose antlers attached. The hour had arrived for them to be Vikings and swear at the tourists in fake Swedish.

Over at the rodeo grounds, the air was thick with smells of burning sausages and blueberry waffles from the Lion’s Club Annual Helldorado Breakfast. Within the shabby confines of Wilfred Lyon’s General Store, the local cowboys were stocking up on whiskey and prophylactics. As the time for the parade drew near, everyone—locals and tourists alike—busied themselves setting up lawn chairs along the sidewalks of Main Street.

Calydon’s rampage was the talk of the town. Little else was being discussed. It was far and away the most horrific event in Pine Bluff’s history. Six people dead—and Handsome Hank the mailman and poor old Mrs. Andersen still missing. The city council had debated a proposal to cancel the Helldorado Parade, but local business owners objected. Many of them relied on the tourist income generated by the event to carry them through the lean winter months ahead.

A brief exchange—typical of most of the conversations along Main Street that day—took place between Philo’s Aunt Virginia and Uncle Balmeister as they settled into their matching orange plastic rattan lawn chairs with their matching Hawaiian shirts, matching shorts, matching sunglasses, and matching piña coladas:

“Did you hear that man talking about the hair salon murders?” Virginia inquired.

Balmeister tapped his hearing aid. “Virginia, I can barely hear you, much less some jackass spreading gossip twenty yards away.”

Virginia continued, undaunted. “Four women and two homos—all dead. They were thinking of canceling the parade.”

“That would’ve been bad for business. Shop owners would’ve been sore as hell.” Balmeister bent forward, groaning, to pat the head of his faithful basset hound, Theotis, who was looking up at him respectfully, albeit uncomprehendingly.

“Someone said a giant rooster did it,” said Virginia, pursing her lips in disapproval.

“I don’t doubt it for a second…” Balmeister sighed, leaning back in his chair with a luxuriant air of weariness.

“Bal, you’re drunk.”

“I don’t doubt it for a second.…”

“I hope you’re not going to embarrass me in front of Harley and Calliope.”

“I wont be giving Philo anymore exploding hamsters, if that’s what you mean.” Balmeister patted his flabby stomach and dislodged a moist belch. Theotis snapped at it as if his master had just spit up a butterfly.

•     •     •     •     •     •     •     •     •

The Chicken-of-the-Sea float was idling on Bridge Street next to the old bank building, waiting its turn in line. Calliope and Mickelodia were perched on the bow, in front of Charlie the Tuna’s gaping mouth, watching the start of the parade pass in front of them. They were wearing their feathery white chicken costumes, but the chicken heads themselves were lying lifeless at their feet. Seen from a distance, it looked as if both chickens had suffered bloodless decapitations, and now their necks were standing around talking about the weather.

The float carrying the Helldorado Queen and her court went by. It depicted a snowy fairytale paradise littered with beer cans and snowmobiles. Donna Portada-Rupert, the new queen, stood at the center of it all like a monument, seeming quite pleased with her twinkly crown and her torpedo-like enhooterment.

“I know for a fact those boobs are fake,” Calliope said.

“Shouldn’t she be disqualified?” Mickelodia asked in a tone of innocence and wonder.

“Around here it doesn’t matter. Besides, she’s a nice girl. Even if she did blow all the judges.”

“You almost sound jealous.”

“Moi? Jealous?” Calliope clutched her breast with her stubby chicken wings. “Okay, sure, I’ve always wanted to be one of those awesome Helldorado babes. Stand up in front of a bunch of drunks with hard-ons and flash my titties. I admit it, darlingck—” she suddenly shifted into her loopy German accent—“I vant to be a famous sex goddess!”

“It is kind of demeaning.…”

“No more than wearing a chicken suit. God, I’m so thrilled!” Calliope trilled. She tried to hug Mickelodia, but their costumes got in the way. “I didn’t think anyone but Philo would have the balls to dress up as a chicken with me.”

“Do you think Philo will be here today?” Mickelodia still hadn’t met him.

“He’d better be.” Calliope said, squinting her eyes as if she was auditioning for a spaghetti western. “If he’s not, I’m gonna go slap that Captain Nitt-Witt around some—I don’t care how old he is.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Philo? Oh God, he’s such a handsome kid. No wait—a handsome Young Man. He’s got a real cute tush on him, too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Calliope could see Mickelodia’s interest. “Y’know, now that I think about it, you two might make a sweet couple.”

“Soulmate material, maybe?”

“I don’t know. If he is, you’ll know when you meet him.”

Calliope smiled—a little anxiously, Mickelodia thought. They both bent over to pick up their chicken heads as the float shuddered and started rolling toward the Main Street.

“Now let’s go find that dim-bulb soulmate of mine,” Calliope said, donning her chicken head. “It’s time to see if he’s got any cock left in his cock-a-doodle-doo!”

Calliope commenced a lewd clucking and shook her sensuous tail feathers.

•     •     •     •     •     •     •     •     •

The Pine Bluff High School Marching Band was badly out of tune, but it was sincere. Zephyr Zendada led the band up the street to herald the start of the Helldorado Parade with a raucous, James Brown-inspired version of a John Philip Sousa march. Zephyr was wearing a lacquered straw cowboy hat with a peacock plume band, a rhinestone-studded Lone Ranger mask, and a flapping black trench coat. Every so often he stabbed the tip of his six-foot-long drum major’s baton into the asphalt and twirled around it with a James Brown shout. Then, on a squealing high note from the trumpets, he whipped open the trench coat to reveal his exceedingly thin and hairy body, naked save for a pair of black fishnet stockings and a smiling jack-o’-lantern strapped across his rhythmically thrusting crotch.

Immediately following the marching band came the wigged and moose-antlered Rotarians in their shoddy Viking ship made of old refrigerator boxes and creosote-splattered beaverboard. Already drunk, they viciously hurled peppermint candy at the cowering children and beat their fists against their papier-mâché breastplates, shouting fake Swedish obscenities:

“A saab up thy innardskivvies, ye wee teeny fartschnappers!”

“May Odin smurte ye, ye blusty auld codchaffers!”

The Rotarians were followed by a squadron of equally drunk Shriners tearing around on tiny yellow go-carts. The Shriners had arrived from Fresno—a place where social prestige hinged on the consumption of vast quantities of beer, charcoal grilled meats, and ice cream.

Consequently, their fifty-year-old bellies were so flabby and distended that they shuddered like jelly-filled weather balloons at every turn. Most of the Shriners were so grossly overweight that it seemed incredible the go-carts could even move them, much less zip them around at such reckless speeds. How their tassle-streaming fezzes remained affixed to their balding heads was another mystery.

Following the Shriners was a two-story-high Jack-in-the-box float sculpted from plaster-of-paris and old newspapers by the Mystic Order of the Ocelot, a rogue men’s group that met on the second Tuesday of every month in the Vet’s Hall for ritual kazoo lessons and furtive whining about their relationships with women. The head of the Jack-in-the-box bore an odd resemblance to Captain Nitt-Witt.

Right behind the Jack-in-the-box float was a covered wagon pulled by a team of sixteen freshly-shorn sheep wearing golden wings. The wings were satin—hand-sewn by the women of the Pine Bluff Pioneer’s Club, who followed on a garland-strewn float emitting Bluegrass music from two speakers mounted on top of a white lattice trestle. The trestle supported a garden swing occupied by a ninety-eight-year-old woman in a navy blue ankle-length dress, Millicent Burton.

Millie, as she was known to all, had been the wife of one of Pine Bluff’s founding fathers, Hephaestus Burton. This accident of marriage, combined with her longevity, had conspired to make her the unofficial Grand Dame of the Helldorado Parade for the last ten years running. Each year, the Pine Bluff Insurrectionist ran a feature article on her that dredged up the racy stories from her past and brought readers up-to-date on her present situation. The update was always the same. She was still mostly lucid and thought to be in good health. Occasionally she reported seeing a squid on the fencepost or claimed to have given birth to puppies, but she could still dress herself and had so far refrained from burning down her quaint little gingerbread Victorian house.

Some puffed-up old geezers in indigo blue overalls stood around on the float gawking at Millie with expressions that were meant to be interpreted by the crowd as courtly and somewhat fawning in a robust, rural manner. Here’s Pine Bluff’s living history…

More golden-winged sheep were being led on leashes by prepubescent girls in sequined ballerina costumes. One of the girls had a big silver boom box that was playing a Grace Jones tape called Slave to the Rhythm. The other girls did a synchronized dance to the music as the sheep looked on, chagrined.

Next came the Helldorado Queen float, and then Calliope and Mickelodia masquerading as chickens on the fat lip of Charlie the Tuna.

There was still no sign of Harley.

“That weenie,” Calliope said.