Howdy! Welcome to Buffalo Gulch

“The sign says…Howdy! Welcome to… That’s it. That’s all it says. Nothing more. Just, Howdy! Welcome to…”

Three hundred people turn to verify the voice, see that it does indeed belong to Jack Bob Colright, and roll their eyes.

“We’re not here about the dang welcome sign!”

The gavel begins pounding and pounding as Mayor Whitey Whitcome finally stands to his feet. “I want you all to remain—”

“Ah, would ya shudup!”

“Where are the fucking manhole covers?”

“Yeah. Where, huh? Where?”

“No more bull-pucky!”

Bedlam.

“We have been trying… excuse me, we have been trying to get, excuse me — manhole covers but—”

Jake Miles stands. “It’s been fourteen months! Cars are crashing into them holes, blowing tires out, people getting hurt. At least put some orange cones around them manholes!”

“They are stealing the manhole covers,” the mayor says as calmly as he can. “And then they come back. And then they steal the orange cones. These people, whoever they are, would steal the air out of your tires!”

Bedlam.

Fingernails scratch against a blackboard. A hush falls. The man wearing a brand-new cowboy hat says, “I can get you your man-covers.”

Pin-drop quiet. Then: “How much do you think you might want for na-nine manhole covers?” the mayor asks through the microphone.

“I give you a good price,” the man says. "We work out details later." He uses both hands to say, “I got it on sale. I’ll pass the savings on to you.”

Now he’s leaving. He’s tall, unsmiling. Two goons in brand-new cowboy hats following. The hinge on the side-door screeches when he pushes the bar. He turns back to a gymnasium full of silent white people, “I have a hundred eighty-six orange cones I throw in for nothing.” And he's gone.

—298 words—