About two months after the G-men visited, I ran across a story of their disappearance in an Ozark newspaper.  I’m unsure what newpaper.  Perhaps the story ran in the Pulaski County News.  

As an aside, Pulaski, a Pole, came to America to make trouble after serving in campaigns to win freedom for Poles.  He got himself hit by grapeshot rallying terrified French troops he tried to lead in an engagement to take Savannah during its siege in October 1779.  Corpsmen apparently took his stupefied body onto the Wasp, a privateer ship. A couple of days later he died at sea. As if anybody then cared.  Despite this poor end of Casimir Pulaski, propagandists kept his name glorious.  If you look, you can find there are plenty of Pulaski counties, including in Missouri, Arkansas, Kentucky, Indiana, Virginia, and Georgia. You’ll notice he’s well regarded in mostly slaver states. 

The striking thing about the disappearance of the G-men was that it was complete of the scrumptious redhead and her brawny partner.  Their car had been found on a trailhead in the Mark Twain National Forest in an area not too far from Cabool.  The coppers arrested a teen girl.  She had left an unfinished homework assignment on the passenger side sideboard.  From police reports I tracked down, she had “borrowed” the car after she noticed it parked and gathering dust in the same spot in the Walmart lot in St Robert, Missouri.  Checked under the driver’s side floor mat and found a key.  God had plainly wanted to gift this car to her.

She drove around and went out to the trailhead in the Mark Twain Forest.  By then, enough of the crack she was using had worn off.  She realized she was driving on fumes.  Scared of being stuck in the forest, she took advantage of a local redneck when he pulled into the trailhead.  In return for a blowjob, he gave her a ride home.  Because he was a generous guy, he shared his crack pipe with her. 

There was a photograph of her.  She was a scrawny, unwashed girl, with dishwater blonde hair, and a chest that appeared about what one might expect on a 10-year-boy.  Her upper incisors were missing, but she gave the police camera a big smile anyway.   Her record included a few arrests at the Phillips 66 Truckstop in Cuba, Missouri.  The girl liked to roam.

Police interrogation of her yielded no info about the G-men’s whereabouts.  I grew suspicious.  Nobody was sure why they had gone to Ozarks.  If you don’t know the area, it’s a dissected plateau just like the Texas Hill Country.  There are no real mountains there, just faux mountains.  I also was sure that the land didn’t have the bodies of the two G-men in it.

I sent an e-mail to Wolverine to ask for a powwow. 

When Wolverine arrived, he was wearing his Cocke Hat, bespoke suit, and held his walking cane.  I blurted out once he got into my space, “What happened to them?”  Wolverine looked at me with sad eyes, then shrugged his shoulders whilst wondering out loud what “them” I had in mind.  “Cut the crap,” a cried, “you know what ‘them’!  It’s the kind of them that carries Glock 19s, is paid on a GS PayScale, and if one of the disappeared agents perhaps had redheaded woman and a brawny guy on the team.”

Wolverine smiled.  “What long ears you have Crockey.  Are in love?  I have heard that some intruders in Pulaski County and its surroundings can encounter misfortune if they wander on private property.  I dare say that the Munitions Galore Household Cleaner units have done well there.?  Wolverine told me his own mother, Constance, had bought herself one to help keep drug-addicts off the Michigan property that she and my papa own. 

Frustrated, I asked, “How many do you own, Wolverine?” 

He shook his head.  “I don’t own any.  Of course, my dear friend Peregrine put a few on my estate, perhaps a half=dozen, as test models.  You know how his love for me makes him something of a fanatic when it comes to my safety.” 

“And how many are still on your estate?” I asked.

“Oh, Peregrine took them away, but he did leave a new generation, a smaller more efficient model in its place.  We like to call it Mr Clean after that bald queer that once made Housewives hearts go thump-thump.  Now there’s a feature story I’m offering you gratis.  Why not forget the disappeared G-men. Write about something people care about.  Write about the vanishing of the Fag hag as a type.  Now there’s a story.”