The neon sign outside the Grassy Knoll Pub flickered like a drunk firefly as Sheriff Roy Templeton pulled his cruiser into the gravel lot. Mud Lick, Alabama, wasn’t known for high drama unless you counted the time Leroy Buckshot swore the Piggly Wiggly was a front for a 5G lizard conspiracy. Tonight, though, the call from Cassidy, the Knoll’s doorman, had Roy’s hackles up. “Sheriff,” he’d whispered over the phone, “some fella’s in here swearin’ two wrestlers done a murder. You better hightail it.”

Roy adjusted his Stetson, grabbed his Maglite, and stepped into the smoky haze of the pub. The jukebox was blaring Lynyrd Skynyrd, and the usual crowd—mostly locals nursing Bud Lights—had their eyes glued to a wiry man in a trucker hat waving his arms like he was auditioning for a Pentecostal revival. “I seen it!” he hollered. “Them two over there, the big ‘uns, they killed a man! I heard the shots!”

Roy followed the man’s trembling finger to a corner booth where two mountains of muscle sat, grinning like kids who’d just TP’d the principal’s house. One had a shaved head and a neck tattoo that looked like a bar code gone wrong. The other, sporting a mullet that’d make 1980s Billy Ray Cyrus jealous, was sipping a Miller Lite. Pro wrestlers, no doubt—Cassidy had mentioned a traveling indie wrestling show passing through Driftwood County.

“Alright, simmer down,” Roy growled, silencing the trucker with a look that could curdle moonshine. He strode over to the wrestlers’ booth, his boots thumping on the sticky floor. “Evenin’, boys. Name’s Sheriff Roy Templeton. Mind explainin’ why this fella thinks you’re out here reenactin’ a Tarantino flick?”

The bald one, who introduced himself as “Crusher Calhoun,” chuckled, his voice like gravel in a cement mixer. “Just a little fun, Sheriff. Me and Tommy Two-Tons here”—he jerked a thumb at Mullet—“were messin’ around out back. No harm done.”

Tommy Two-Tons nodded, his mullet bobbing. “Yeah, Sheriff. I played dead, Crusher ‘shot’ me with blanks, then he fired a couple more to spook that guy. Thought it’d be funny.”

Roy’s eyes narrowed. “Funny? Scarin’ the bejesus outta folks and wastin’ my time is your idea of funny? I got a Jordan Peterson podcast waitin’ on me back at the station, and instead I’m here dealin’ with your wrasslin’ shenanigans.”

The trucker, still hovering nearby, piped up. “They hid a body, Sheriff! I saw ‘em draggin’ somethin’!”

Roy sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Son, unless these two lugs stuffed a corpse in the dumpster, I’m bettin’ there’s no body. But let’s take a look, shall we?” He motioned for Crusher and Tommy to follow him out back, the trucker trailing like a nervous puppy.

Outside, the alley reeked of stale beer and cat piss. Roy’s Maglite swept over a dumpster, a couple of busted pallets, and a stray that hissed and bolted. No body. No blood. Just a few spent blank casings glinting on the ground. Roy picked one up, sniffed it, and tossed it back. “Blanks, alright. You two idiots think this is the WWF? This ain’t no scripted match. You got folks thinkin’ you’re Bonnie and Clyde.”

Crusher scratched his neck tattoo. “We didn’t mean no trouble, Sheriff. Just promotin’ the show tomorrow night at the VFW hall. Thought a little kayfabe’d drum up some ticket sales.”

“Kayfabe,” Roy muttered, wondering if Nick Saban ever had to deal with this level of stupidity. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna apologize to that fella in there, buy him a beer, and swear on Bear Bryant’s grave you won’t pull this nonsense again in my county. Then you’re gonna hand over that prop gun for safekeepin’ ‘til you leave Mud Lick. Am I clear?”

Tommy Two-Tons gulped. “Yessir, Sheriff. Crystal.”

Back inside, the wrestlers did as told. Crusher handed over a beat-up stage pistol that looked like it’d been swiped from a community theater production of Oklahoma!. The trucker, mollified by a free Bud and a sheepish apology, muttered something about “damn wrasslers” and shuffled off. Cassidy slid a coffee across the bar to Roy. “On the house, Sheriff. You handled that smoother’n a Nick Saban halftime adjustment.”

Roy took a sip, grimacing at the burnt taste. “Cassidy, next time these carny types roll through, you call me before they start playin’ John Woo out back.” He tipped his hat and headed for the door, already dreading the paperwork. As he climbed into his cruiser, he muttered, “Blanks. Damn fools. I oughta make ‘em wrestle Deputy Miranda for penance.”

Back at the station, Roy filed the report, noting the incident as “disturbance, resolved, no charges.” He leaned back in his chair, picturing Crusher and Tommy trying to explain themselves to the VFW crowd tomorrow. “Dumb as a bag of hammers,” he said to no one in particular. Then he hit play on his podcast, hoping Peterson’s take on chaos and order might make sense of a night that felt like a bad episode of Hee Haw.

See you next week!