Fecal Creek, this sweltering armpit of a town, is a place where the heat doesn’t just sit on you – it climbs inside you, like some malevolent spirit, and starts rearranging your organs for sport.  It’s the kind of heat that makes you question your life choices, your ancestors’ life choices, and whether or not you’re actually in some kind of purgatorial simulation designed by a sadistic deity with a grudge against mammals.  But hey, 105F is practically a cold front compared to the usual Dante’s Inferno we call summer.  So, I guess we’re supposed to be grateful?  Grateful that the sun has decided to only lightly roast us this year instead of slow-cooking us like a brisket?  Sure.  Fine.  Whatever.

But let’s talk about the real problem here: the goddamn wildlife.  The coyotes, the mountain lions, the feathered sociopaths with wingspans that blot out the sun when they fly over.  They’re all out there, lurking, scheming, waiting for the moment you let your guard down.  And let me tell you, dear reader, these fuckers are getting bold.  The mountain lion on the Ring cam at 3 a.m.?  That’s not just a thirsty cat looking for a drink.  That’s a declaration of war.  That’s nature saying, “Hey, remember when you paved over my hunting grounds and built your little stucco McMansions?  Yeah, well, I’m here to collect.”

And those goddamn hawks.  These aren’t just majestic symbols of freedom soaring through the skies.  They are airborne thugs, feathered enforcers of some avian mafia, circling overhead like they’re auditioning for a Hitchcock reboot.  They don’t just look at you; they size you up.  They calculate angles, trajectories, wind speeds.  They’re running the numbers on whether they can snatch your 7-pound puppy and still make it back to their perch without breaking a sweat.  And the bastard turkey vultures are the cleanup crew, the ones how show up after the hawks have done the dirty work, picking the bones clean and leaving nothing but cold Darwinism.

It’s not just the animals, though.  It’s the principle of the thing.  The sheer audacity of these creatures to act like they own the place.  And maybe they do.  Maybe they’ve earned it, what with us humans being too busy sipping oat milk lattes and debating pronouns to remember that we’re supposed to be the apex predators here.  But I’m not about to let some coyote or hawk or mountain lion punk me out in my own backyard.  Not today.  Not ever.  Fuck no.  I’ve got a sidearm, a shitty attitude, and a deep-seated need to remind the animal kingdom that opposable thumbs and firearms trump fangs and claws every time.

So, yeah, dear reader, I suppose I’ll be out there until the rain comes again, scanning the skies, patrolling the yard like some deranged suburban commando, ready to thrown down with anything that moves.  Because this is Fecal Creek, goddammit, and if the heat doesn’t kill you, the wildlife just might.

Post Script:  Holy shit, dear reader!  I was talking about the arrogant wildlife in The Creek with a friend over lunch, and said friend told me something I could not believe: there are both scorpions and tarantulas in Fecal Creek.  Jesus!  Of course I assumed he was fucking with me, because I’ve lived in this part of California for almost all of my life, and I have not once seen either scorpions or tarantulas.  I just assumed we were too far north for such wicked creatures, but no!  I was wrong.  According to the interwebs: “the California common scorpion, Northern scorpion, and the Black hairy scorpion can be found around residential homes.”  And “the tarantulas around here live in burrows and come out at night to hunt for food, which can include insects, lizards, and even small mammals,” like 7-pound puppies!  So this means during full moons when I go out back wearing nothing but a sheen of Vaseline, a cowboy hat, and a smile, and dance around like a savage that I might be trodding upon a fucking tarantula?  Well, fuck that, dear reader!  I’m going to have to find more suitable accommodations post haste.

N.P.: “Headhunter” – La Muerte