Hardcastle surveyed the bongo hippies, time-wasters and looky-loos trampling the little park across from the Bakersville Library. His rough count estimated the Irregulars' story in the morning paper had drawn out the whole damn town. A crowd seethed behind yellow-tape, officers urging them backward. Lemuel longed for the solitude of his tree stand and a compound bow. Didn't these people have jobs? Kevlar and megaphone felt inadequate; he'd need a pith helmet and a goddamn bullwhip to tame this circus. "Uh…," Hardcastle hemmed through his megaphone, uncertain how best to address a 6'4" Barbara Streisand. "You over there! Funny Girl! Off the sidewalk!"
Though generally peaceful and a firm believer in 'innocent until proven guilty,' Hardcastle longed to punch the Irregulars' noses for conjuring this clusterfuck. Christ, he was a go-karting Shriner and a Tilt-o-Whirl shy of a damn street fair.
