Bobo Trufant walked out of our precinct humming Abba’s “Mama Mia” after he’d fed the children he’d stolen to alligators. We all knew it, though the DA thought the presence of Bobo’s showtunes posters in the kiddie porn photos we found online to be circumstantial. We just didn’t know what to do about it.

The NOPD 5th District precinct revenged Bobo’s release in our own ways.

Homicide Detective Hendrick Andsell, who still had court-warranted access to Bobo’s house, hid three pounds of freshly dead crawfish throughout the syrup-colored shotgun shack: Crawlspaces, vents, insulation, behind the stove, and a whole colony in the wall behind Bobo’s headboard.

He gave the calendar a greedy look every warm morning that Spring.

Patrol Sergeant Durham Mahoney, who oversaw the installation of the crawfish, finished by removing Bobo’s toilet tank lid. He dropped trousers, carefully balanced and laid a turd in there before replacing the lid.

He told one of us about this—Andsell—once, and never spoke of it again.

My partner, Narcotics Detective Hakkon Barbosa, used a spamming program he downloaded to sign Bobo up for magazine subscriptions online. Some of the eight-dozen magazines were humorous—Bear Magazine, Zeus, Butt—and some—US News and World Report, Vogue Italy, Chinaberry—were not.

Hakk would drive by Bobo’s daily, frowning at the piles of mail, increasingly disappointed as the days at the syrup-colored house grew hotter and Bobo prepared to move away.

I waited four months and cut Bobo’s tongue, fingers and balls off while he was sleeping.

As the TV show said, different strokes move the world.

~ fin ~

Matthew C. Funk

Matthew C. Funk writes for a living because range fees don’t pay themselves. He stores his online writing and other live rounds at his Web site.