John Gabriel Adkins

The zoo animals — tigers, koalas, others (and loudbird) — had been retrieved and recaged after busting loose the day before, all but the yellow giraffe. The catch-men had cornered the giraffe in a dark corner but it had lowered its head low, muttering and mouthing human words, mesmerizing the whole gang. They returned with sad hands completely empty. The zoo folks phoned in a favor: the baddest, roughest ex-detective in all Montana: Ex-Detective Hughes. If anyone can crack that giraffe — and so on and so forth.

Ex-Detective Hughes cottoned-up his ears and approached the cornered shadowy giraffe, still headlow, still muttering human. I’m here to bargain. Nod if you understand.

The giraffe nodded.

Back to Ex-Detective Hughes. I get what this is. Okay? I’ve crossed the line before, I’ve done time before. I’ve been in a cage. I don’t want that for you. Do you understand?

The giraffe nodded.

Ex-Detective Hughes held out his hand. Then come with me. We’ll hit the road. We’ll lose the cages. Just you and me on the freeway. What do you say?

The giraffe nodded, raised its head, trotted out, got into Ex-Detective Hughes’ 1976 Cadillac Eldorado convertible with 14,000 miles and the top down, and Ex-Detective Hughes took the wheel, and they just went.

To this day, the giraffe exhibit languishes completely empty.

JOHN GABRIEL ADKINS is a Pushcart-nominated writer of anti-stories, microfiction and other oddities, and is a member of the Still Eating Oranges arts collective. His work has appeared in Squawk Back, Literary Orphans, Sick Lit Magazine, Three Drops from a Cauldron, The Sleep Aquarium and more.