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hs01150.jpgbuy prints of select halfsquatch photographs at etsy or dawanda. day 1

That’s the thing about Rebecca, her infinite empathy for things — like bruised bananas, and homeless, thrift store dolls, the ones with lazy eyes and butchered hair that’s been streaked green by bored children armed with fat felt-tipped pens. So it came as a surprise to no one when she was arrested with Dave Thompson for stealing the mummified cat from under the glass at the bar at the Capital Hotel. And had this not happened the same night Tucky Thompson shot the Lady Sasquatch, it would have been the biggest news in town.

Word of Tucky’s kill spread through the police station, distracting the officers from the nightly cast of drunks and tweaky crack heads.

“He just pulled in from Teslin with the thing strapped to the hood of his car,” one of the officers said. “Heard he’s down at the lodge.”

“I’ll bet it weighs a fuckin’ ton,” said another.

“Shit,” said Dave to no one in particular. It figured that his dad would finally bag a Sasquatch and leave him stuck at the police station, waiting to be claimed. Worse, this could only mean his mother was on her way.

Beside him, Rebecca sat quietly, slouched in a chair waiting for her father to pick her up or sign her out or whatever he was required to do. She’d been fingerprinted, lectured, and her mug shot taken no less than four times by a female officer who had grown increasingly frustrated trying to snap a crisp picture, ultimately to no avail.

The mummified cat, however, had been freed and was back under the glass at the bar. Tourists resumed tossing back Petrified Pussy shooters, toasting its return, leaving Rebecca feeling defeated and sad. Poor thing. Stuck in that basement under the floorboards all those years, cold and alone. She could have cried, but then:

“Stück Scheiße, Wichser, Verdammtes Arschloch, Verdammter Idiot, Verdammte Scheiße, Vollidiot, Arsch, Verflucht nochmal!”

Dave winced and tried to switch off his internal translator. Piece of shit, fucker, fucking asshole, stupid fuck, fucking shit, moron, ass, god damnit!

“Hey, mom.”

“Hi, Mrs. Thompson,” Rebecca said. She didn’t look up.

Andrea Thompson glared at Rebecca, then at Dave, pushing heavy breath through her nose. Her anger was only betrayed by the sticky smell of sugary cinnamon buns that wafted around her. “Your father,” she said, her long nose pointed accusingly at Dave’s face. “Your father and myself are not happy, David.” Her English was near-flawless, but heavily accented in rage and when presenting European tourists at the lodge with an appropriately exotic Northern Canadian experience in exchange for good tips and positive write-ups on travel opinion websites. “You should sleep the night here and think about what you’ve done. Verdammter Idiot! But your father needs you at the lodge.” She smacked the back of Dave’s head just enough to smart, and to interrupt for a moment the hum of station chatter. Dave burned with embarrassment and let his long bangs hang into his face as his mother huffed away, to arrange for his release.

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                                                                                                                                                          ©2008 pamela klaffke