WHEN PIGS FLY by Bob Sanchez

Pigs Fly   His lies usually began as truths that stumbled on unforeseen events.

A retired cop from Lowell, Mass is now living in the little town of Pincushion, AZ.   He is in possession of the ashified mortal remains of his buddy and partner, — wait for it — George Ashe.  I know.  Already you are smiling, right?  He intends to scatter the ashes of Mr. Ashe over the Grand Canyon.

But there is a bit of a glitch.   Several of the most gormless bad guys come to Pinscushion to find Mack because he has a treasure worth kazillions.   Two of the feckless lads have no idea what it is, just that Mack has it.  The third, a huge, mean, foul-smelling thug knows what it is, and wants it.  They are sure it is in the ashes.

They meet on the bus, and are later joined by an equally clueless dodo, an Elvis impersonator named — are you ready? —Elvis, who is stalking a lady he met, and having put a GPS thingy on her car, has followed her out west where in an coincidence of epic proportions meets Diet Cola the thug, and Ace and Frosty, the two twerps.

One of the stars of the whole shebang is Poindexter, a javalina, which is a species of pig.  It is a peccary —  a medium-sized mammal of the family Tayassuidae, or New World pigs.  They are wild in the desert areas.

Javelina

Poindexter is the pet and companion of a twelve-year-old girl.  He stinks, and he loves Brussels sprouts.  That should give you an idea of why he stinks.  His favorite things in all the world are eating Brussels sprouts and watching American Idol with his young owner.  The young owner’s dad feels that the air quality of the home would be mightily improved if Poindexter were let loose in the wild to fend for himself and maybe find a mate.  Poindexter is underthrilled with this turn of events and spends all of his time in the desert trying to get back home to the food he loves and the TV.  And thereby hangs a tale.

This is a laugh-out-loud funny book, with some seriously clever lines:

At first I thought there was a glimmer of good in her, but I can’t say it was no blinding light.

A box of fruit loops lay on the bed, its rainbow of nutrition scattered everywhere.

Ashes in an urn, a homesick javalina, ditzball bad guys,  and love in bloom.  What’s not to like?

 

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This entry was posted in Fiction.

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