The So-Called Agent of One Tyler Wendell Englehart — Part VI

(A/N: based on the story seed “bison stampede” from Seth. I have only the vaguest idea of where this is going.)

“HOLY FUCK.”

I’m on the phone with Tyler, and to say he’s flipping a shit is the understatement of the century.

“FUCK FUCK FUCK HOLY FUCKING SHIT GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!”

Nothing I say at this point is particularly important. In fact, I’m not entirely sure why Tyler’s still on the line during this freak out unless it’s just to demonstrate his creative use of the word “fuck” in various grammatical contexts.

I should explain. I should explain, but honestly, I can’t. I don’t have a clue what’s going on at the other end of this phone call. Last I’d heard, Tyler had for some godforsaken reason hopped on a plane to Wyoming, of all places, and no one had any idea why. I understand that Tyler has to get creative with his job title of “Senior Palaverous Correspondent” for that blog conglomerate he writes for these days, but really? Wyoming? What the hell kind of story was he looking for in Wyoming?

But I guess when you think about it, his “get me the fuck out of here” revelation may not be specific to the situation unfolding on his side of this phone conversation; it could just be the fact that he’s in Wyoming came up and slapped him in the face. What’s in Wyoming anyway?

“Elk,” my brother informs me from across the living room when I pose this question out loud.

“Elk?”

“Elk. The Boy Scouts make arches out of the antlers.”

Somehow I don’t think Tyler’s steady stream of “fuck”s has to do with elk antler arches, but I suggest this into the phone anyway. Tyler doesn’t seem to hear.

“OH MY FUCKING GOD THE FUCKERS ARE FUCKING—OH FUCK!”

My best guess now is that the “fuckers” he speaks of are either the elk antler arches or the Wyomingites in his immediate vicinity, but it’s kind of hard to tell. There is some kind of vague pounding noise in the background, which logically should be attributed to Wyomingites as opposed to the likely static and silent elk antler arches—but if the arches were falling apart in a tumble of elk antlers, I could see them making whatever that noise is. In fact, considering Wyomingites have historically been described to me as pleasantly quaint, this certainly throws more weight behind the deteriorating elk antler arch theory.

“OH FUCK FUCK FUCK I’M GOING TO FUCKING DIE.”

“He’s quite liberal with the word, isn’t he?” observes my brother. He’s bending over the back of the couch to listen in on the call, in hopes of helping me identify the background noise. He is, after all, the leading expert on elk and elk antler arches in the room.

“Liberal, creative, same thing,” I say, scratching around a mosquito bite behind my ear.

My brother pulls a sorrowfully contemplative face as he scrutinizes the sound under Tyler’s monologue. “He’s really polluting the soundscape,” says my brother disapprovingly. “But if it is one of those elk antler arches falling over, you should tell him to stand back so he doesn’t get impaled.”

I suggest this to Tyler, who of course ignores me.

“You know, those could be hooves,” my brother says. “Maybe he’s betting on a horse race and he’s losing.”

I remind Tyler of the dangers of gambling, rattling off the names of some people who got in too deep betting on ponies. Admittedly, we wouldn’t even have Lucky Number Slevin if it hadn’t been for unlucky betting, but take the subsequent bloodbath as a cautionary tale.

None of this advice seems to have any effect on Tyler or the running of his mouth, so I glance at my brother, shrug, and hang up. If it’s really that important, I’m sure he’ll call back.

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