Hairwolf
Chapter Eleven

The Outhouse is one of Maine’s many Fish and Wildlife outposts scattered throughout the state. The nickname came from previous Game Wardens that walked these woods. In honor of those men and women, the name has been scribed into an old piece of driftwood and hangs over the door.

Situated in the south west corner of Maine, The Outhouse rests just outside a small town

undergoing population growth. It’s a traditional log cabin, set on a cleared stretch of land overlooking a vast area. Many new additions have been added since it’s construction, such as a front and rear porch, several sheds, a barn, and raptor cage which stands abandoned and lined with over-growth.

Game Warden, Brizzbee McCalister exits the cabin to the front porch with three, well used coffee mugs filled with coffee. He places them on either end of the porch, clearly visible, keeping the third cup in his hand and sips from it. He greets the morning sun with a deep breath

and exhales in appreciation of another great day. He’s dressed wearing a Maine Fish and Wildlife patch over green shirt and holstered sidearm over loose-fitting jeans. He’s a handsome man, sturdy and determined. At forty-something, he’s a little on the big side but it’s mostly muscle. He wears a

permanent wind-burned tan on his face, compliments of the many hot summers and cold winters

he’s endured.

Morning birds singing capture his attention. He whistles back in response.

He’s a true morning person and prefers the noise of animals over people. He exchanges his coffee mug for a dried pair of hip-waders hanging over a railing and rolls them up. He drops them on a cooler, but then removes them and opens the cooler lid. It’s filled with bottles of water, juice and milk sitting in a melting bucket of ice. He returns to the cabin and seconds later dumps a full bag of ice into the cooler.

The front porch is lined with an assortment of fishing poles, vintage fish nets and butterfly nets.

Two old rocking chairs sit at the corner of the porch with a small table in between.

In the half moon driveway sits a Maine State Warden’s pickup truck with a boat and trailer

attached to it. In the bed, under a tarp is some kind of large square structure. To the right of the

cabin sits a Ford dually pickup. Both vehicles are covered in morning dew.

Brizzbee crosses to a garden hose and sprays down both vehicles. He then steps to the rear of the cabin and looks over the grounds.

In the back yard sits a picnic table and a barbecue. Off to the side are 4x4 posts cemented into the ground with rolls of chicken wire laying on a pile of 2x4′s. He kicks at the posts, inspecting the cement. It’s dry and the posts are solid. He returns to the front of the cabin.

His main concern appears to be getting the truck loaded and ready to go. He carries the cooler and waders to the eighteen-foot Boston whaler loaded with cargo boxes and camping gear.

Inside the cabin, things are rustic and simple. The walls are lined with a variety of coats for the different weather conditions. Laminated printouts of insects, birds, as well as small and large animals hang neatly and proudly along the walls.

Several vintage, but functional lever action and bolt action rifles are displayed on a wall rack. A brown leather recliner sits facing a television. There’s an old ham radio on a shelf and walkie-talkies sitting in chargers. The computer and printer take up little room on a corner desk.

A large wall-map of the U.S. is dotted with yellow, orange and red push-pins. Reds are the fewest pins on the map with only one pushed into the state of Maine.

He pauses at the map, sipping his coffee with a nod, confident that something is about to pay off. Then, the kitchen beckons his attention.

He removes a frying pan from the two-burner hot plate and dumps the English muffins on a plate.

Fortunately, they’re not that badly burned. He sets the pan next to the world-class Mr. Coffee on the counter. After lathering the muffin with peanut butter and organic honey, he drops the knife and pan into the sink, biting down on the muffin. This is fine dining. He chases the flavor with a sip of coffee, making it even better.

A second agent arrives in a marked Fish and Wildlife pickup truck. Lt. Dave Foster, forty- three, light blonde hair, slender and solid, exits the driver’s seat. He’s an emotionally worn man who appears to carry a hidden pain he keeps inside. It could be from the job or it could be his personal life. What stands out the most is his lack of expectation that happier times lie ahead.

Dressed in his warden’s shirt with the brilliant colored Maine State Game Warden patch, duty side-arm, a sig 357, carried on the outside of his jeans, Foster exits with a coffee and a brown paper bag.

“Brizzbee. Got your coffee and.”

Brizzbee exits the house, eager for his delivery, finishing the last of his muffin.

“Morning, Dave.”

Brizzbee takes the coffee and parks it on the hood. His real treat awaits in the bag which he carefully draws out. It’s a fresh made, powdered, Jelly donut. The jelly drips from the punch hole onto his palm, which he licks clean. More fine dining. Foster removes a toasted, blueberry muffin,

coated with butter.

“Thanks,” Brizzbee says with a mouthful of powder.

“I’m gonna get a head start on the parking area,” Foster says, taking a look at the truck and

gear. He crosses to Brizzbee’s boat, considering all the gear.

“You did this last night? Which means you didn’t go to the party.”

“Neither did you,” Brizzbee says. “Cause you wouldn’t be asking me if you did.”

“I’m not the one who lacks social skills.”

“I don’t lack social skills. I just choose not to have them. There’s a difference. We’re game wardens, not therapists,” Brizzbee says in between jelly bites. “I’m not gonna cater to a bunch of city cupcakes. They don’t like the way we do things here let em go back to where they came from.”

Foster’s heard it all before but his enjoyment is in watching Brizzbee treat his donut.

“Just try to be a little more tolerant. That’s all they want. We really don’t need any more complaints.”

“They litter, they speed, they break our fish and wildlife regulations then piss and moan when we give them a ticket. The goddamn tourists treat this place with more respect than these dip-shits movin in.”

“Yeah, well the “dip-shits” are helping pay for our trucks, boats and everything else we need. Just keep that in mind.”

Foster knows Brizzbee’s going to do what he wants regardless of the complaints.

“I’ll meet you at the campsite,” Foster adds. “Let’s hope for …

“...fish on,” they say in unison.

Foster departs in the truck. Brizzbee crosses to the front steps and takes a seat with his coffee and enjoys the morning. It’s not long before the approach of a speeding vehicle gets his attention. He walks casually out to the middle of the street and waits for the vehicle. Within seconds, the SUV

is upon him, swerving, with a blaring horn. The driver locks the brakes causing the vehicle to skid sideways. It comes to a stop and there is silence. Brizzbee motions for the driver to back up.

The driver reverses back to Brizzbee. The passenger is soaking up spilled water from the

sudden stop and is not happy. Both males are in their thirties with stylish haircuts.

“Dude, I almost ran you over,” says the driver.

Brizzbee scans the interior, spying fishing poles and a cooler in the back.

“You wouldn’t have if you were doing the speed limit. License and reg. We got wildlife crossing everywhere.” Brizzbee notices the passenger soaking up the water from his lap. “Spill something?”

The driver reaches over to the glove box, “I didn’t know Fish and Wildlife conducted traffic stops.”

“They don’t,” says the passenger. “He’s supposed to be counting bird eggs.”

“Bird eggs?” asks, Brizzbee. “Pop the trunk. See what you got in that cooler.”

“Don’t,” says the passenger. “He’s harassing you. You don’t have to.”

Brizzbee leans into the window, very relaxed, wiping powder from his shirt into the car, “I may

not have all day for you, but I can definitely find some troopers that would love taking your car apart. They love this stuff. Gives them a lot of practice.”

The driver retrieves the reg and hands it over with his license. He then unlocks the tailgate.

Brizzbee crosses to the trunk and opens the cooler. “Got a fishing license I hope,” he says, counting the recently caught fish in the cooler.

“No,” says the driver.

Brizzbee, through the tailgate asks, “who caught the fish?”

“What’s your problem, man? The passenger asks. “What are you picking on us for?”

“Picking on you? If you showed me your license when I asked the first time, I’d have just given you a warning. But you want to sit there and be a smart ass. Do you realize I could impound

your vehicle over this small amount of fish? But I’m not gonna do that. What I am gonna do is

take the fish, and the cooler, along with your fishing poles. You got anything else you want to say?”

The driver warns the passenger to shut up. They remain silent as Brizzbee removes the cooler and the fishing poles and parks them on the side of the road. An older male arrives in a pickup truck, pulling into Brizzbee’s driveway. He exits and crosses to the boys.

“Hey, boys.” Then to Brizzbee, “they helped me out of a ditch this morning. Nice boys.”

“They did?”

“Ah-yut. Didn’t ask em, none. They just pulled up, got out and dug in. Nice boys,” he says, again.

Brizzbee crosses back to the young driver. “Why don’t you have a fishing license?”

The driver and passenger struggle for an answer. Finally the driver admits, “I got nothin for ya. We have the time, we have the money, we just don’t think about it until we’re asked. By then, it’s too late.”

Brizz looks the boys over, considering the answer.

“Alright. Get out of here.”

“That’s it,” the passenger asks.

“That’s it. Free to go.”

“Don’t you want our fish?”

“Nope.”

“Why?”

“Because he said you’re nice boys. And, frankly, I liked your honesty.”

“What’s he looking for?” asks, the driver.

“Whatever we find left at campsites. He gives them to the less fortunate around here.”

“Will he take our fish?”

“Sure he will. He also runs the soup-kitchen in town,” Brizzbee says, stepping back from the vehicle. “Want to give him some?”

The boys watch as the old-timer collects assorted items stock-piled on the side of the cabin. He

has a pot, kettle and tarps. He walks them to the truck and places them in the back. The boys exit the car and agree to give him all the fish, with the cooler. Then they offer up their fishing poles as well.

Brizzbee reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his leather badge-fold. He removes a photo and hands it to the driver. It takes a second for the driver to understand what he’s looking at. Once he does, he recoils into his seat, visibly upset.

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