Free Nobody Loves a Bigfoot Like a Bigfoot Babe by Simon Okill Page B

Duane shrugged, "No luck again . . . go figure . . . too contaminated, so Lou tells me . . . just like the other two." He sniggered, "Shame about that." He shook his head woefully.
    MB noticed the look on Lou's face as she stared at Duane and came to the conclusion she was thinking the same thing he was-Duane-o had to be the Phantom Bigfoot.

13
    IT WAS THE START OF A NEW DAY. The sheriff's patrol car sped down the narrow highway. It turned off onto a small, bumpy logging road that led to Little Beaver then made another turn right before entering the picnic area. Sunlight dappled the windscreen as the car passed a never ending line of firs.
    Lou drove with a grim determination for she had hoped with the start of the new day Beau would have shown up. She had no choice but to treat him as a missing person and continue with her investigations, though her gut told her he was still messing around.
    The sheriff slowed down and turned onto a tiny logging road, no wider than her car. Branches swished and scratched the sides of the cruiser as a ramshackle log cabin came into view.
    Dense woods surrounded Duane's isolated homestead consisting of a cabin with ivy creeping all over it. The sheriff's patrol car stopped right in front of the main door of the cabin in a cloud of dust. Lou stepped out of her cruiser and surveyed the wilderness that crept right up to the porch.
    Two other vehicles were also parked outside the cabin-Duane's Harley Davidson and a shiny, new, blue Winnebago campervan gaily painted with large white Bigfoot footprints.
Bigfoot Mobile
was written on both sides of the camper van. The camper was scratched all over.
    Lou stepped onto the porch and tapped the screen door. The floor beneath her feet creaked alarmingly. She kept moving in case she went through the floor.
    A sudden creak of the screen door exposed Duane's beaming, unshaven face. He prompted Lou inside with a wave of his hand and a scratch of his ass.
    Lou followed Duane into the main living area. Not that anyone could call the room a decent place to live in.
Even pigs had better homes than this,
thought Lou.
    She rather gingerly sat in a beaten up, threadbare armchair that smelled real bad. In fact it smelled quite similar to the crime scenes-most curious. She was trying not to pay too much attention to the cluttered living room, but it wasn't easy. Her concentration started to waver with thoughts of tiny livestock finding a new home on her body. She touched an arm of the chair and instantly regretted it.
    Something sticky and quite pungent stained her hand yellow. She sniffed the goo and almost choked on the smell of rotten eggs and stale garlic. She was again reminded of the Phantom Bigfoot. She wiped her hand on the chair, now thoroughly distracted from her task.
    Surely with Duane's money, he could afford a luxury cabin, furniture to match, nothing but the best, and yet he chose to live in such a shabby home. She'd often commented upon this fact, but he'd never done anything about it.
    He was-and there was no doubt in her mind-an incurable eccentric. Money was of no real use to Duane. Keeping up appearances didn't bother him. He didn't care what people said or thought about him.
    She focused her attention on a recumbent Duane as he lay comfortably on the sofa. She couldn't help but notice clumps of cushion and springs poking through the woven material of the collapsed sofa.
    Duane was casually dressed in a faded t-shirt covered in food stains and threadbare, red and navy check long johns. On his feet were disgustingly grubby Bigfoot slippers.
    Lou fidgeted in the gross-smelling armchair. She wondered what that stink was, and worse, what was that yellow stuff. Lou gave Duane a quizzical look.
    Duane sat bolt upright as something dawned on him.
    "Where are my manners today?"
    He sprang to his feet. The sofa gave an audible squeal as fresh springs popped anew through the rotting material. He shuffled off to the kitchen, out of sight.
    The sounds of coffee