The Cow Chronicles Part 4: The Confronation

Farmer Joe’s farm was surrounded by a worn-out, wooden fence. A few years ago, he had tried to build a barbed-wire topped wall around the farm to protect the cows, but the zoning commissioner had put a stop to that idea. Not to mention, the cows decided that living inside a barbed-wire fence would make the farm feel like a forced-labor camp, rather than a dairy farm. So protection of the farm had remained in the hands of the old fence. That is, until a convoy of government vehicles smashed through it, reducing the fence to splinters.

Agent Wachowski drove his SUV through the rolling field, his eyes scanning every last blade of grass for the threat, whatever it was. The laser cows lay on the ground, lifeless as rocks.

Farmer Joe watched on in horror as the harsh headlights swept over the farm. He frantically ran to his wardrobe, and, with some difficulty, heaved out a dirty metal safe. He punched in the combination, and pulled out a small cardboard box. "To Farmer Joe, From FGB", the peeling mailing label read. He thrust the lid off, and pulled out a plastic, fish-shaped weapon.

Once Farmer Joe was outside, the staff sprang to life. A camera located in the fish’s eye scanned the area for heat signatures, and fired something into the air.

Meanwhile, the government arrived at the farm. CIA agents sprang out of them, and ran towards Farmer Joe, aiming guns at him.

“What’s the meaning of this? You know me! I’m Farmer Joe! I thought you boneheads swore to protect me and the cows!”, Farmer Joe shouted, pointing his fish-staff at the agents.

“We did no such thing”, Agent Wachowski said, calmly walking towards the farmer.

“Did too!”, Farmer Joe replied. “As I remember, the government promised to provide protection for me and the cows! You can’t just walk back on something like that!”

“We can and we have”, replied Agent Wachowski, producing a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. “We’re under new management, and have been for quite some time. According to a person around here, you have terrorist connections.”

Farmer Joe narrowed his eyebrows. His finger tensed on a button on the fish-staff.

Slowly, a wicked grin crept across his face. He looked up into the black, cloudy sky. Agent Wachowski lowered his assault rifle, confused.

“Why are you smiling? We’ve uncovered your plot, you filthy terrorist!”, barked Agent Wachowski, confusion quickly turning to anger on his face.

“You’re scared, aren’t you?”, asked Farmer Joe, calmly leaning against the farmhouse wall.

“No! I’ve been a government agent for eleven years! I fear nothing! I have become a soulless killing machine, with no desire other than to serve my Director and my Agency! I know no emotions but rage, patriotism, and love of country music! The word fear has no meaning to me!”

“If you actually weren’t scared, you would have detained me by now”, replied Farmer Joe.

“I WAS GETTING TO THAT!!!”, Agent Wachowski roared, running towards Farmer Joe. Farmer Joe pressed the button on his fish-staff.

Through the dense clouds that shrouded the night sky, a glowing, white dot marked where the moon was. This dot was joined by a second, which was smaller and pulsating red.

A laser beam fired from this dot, towards Agent Wachowski. There is no point going into detail about his death, as he ceased to exist in precisely 0.00000000000034 seconds.

Sitting about 8 meters away from Farmer Joe’s house was his barn. Like the fence and house, it was old and wooden. Farmer Joe dashed behind the barn, machine gun fire ricocheting off the barn walls. Why was it that nobody in the government could fire a straight shot?, he thought to himself as he arrived at his destination.

The barn was built into a hill. Also built into that hill was a flight of concrete steps descending to a rock wall, into which was set a steel door. Above the door, TOP SECRET was stenciled in jet-black lettering. Next to the door was a small, green button.

Farmer Joe ran up to the button and jabbed it. Somewhere behind the door a buzzer went off.

“Moo?”, a voice said from a small grey speaker above the buzzer. Farmer Joe recognized that the moo had come from Mr. Chuckles, one of the most important cows.

“Let me in, Mr. Chuckles! It’s me, Farmer Joe! I’m on the run, tell you about it inside.

“Moo”, Mr. Chuckles replied.

The door opened onto a wide, low-ceilinged hallway, stretching as far as the eye could see. The wall was lined with doors. A few were open, revealing hotel-esque rooms with panicking cows inside of them. On the ceiling, yellow lights shone, occasionally flickering. Farmer Joe closed the bunker door and stood there, surveying the scene.

Several years ago, some people from New York had attempted to steal Farmer Joe’s cows. Due to this, Farmer Joe had built a bunker and escape tunnel that was capable of sheltering or evacuating the cows. All 2,039,535,096,458,234 of them. Farmer Joe had forgotten where the escape tunnel led, as he had never had to use it. Every time the cows had to go to the tunnel, they simply had to wait out the threat. A chill ran down Farmer Joe’s spine as he realized he and the cows might have to go through the ancient door at the end of the tunnel that was lettered FOR EVACUATION PURPOSES ONLY.

Although most of the rooms in the tunnel were shelters, there was a single door labeled COMMAND CENTER. It was out of that door that Mr. Chuckles came, wearing a military hat, and flanked by two other cows.

“Moo”, Mr. Chuckles told Farmer Joe.

“I see. By the way, can you put your translator mask? My cow-speak is a little bit rusty”

“Moo. . .”, Mr. Chuckles replied, rolling his eyes and walking into the command center. He returned a few minutes later wearing a bulky, plastic mask with a speaker sticking out of it.

“Come into the command center”, Mr. Chuckles told Farmer Joe, gesturing to the door. He followed the farmer into a massive, cavernous room.

The command center was an enormous, dome beneath the hill behind the barn. Inside, rows of desks gently sloped down to a platform where a desk with two chairs sat. At each of the desks stood a cow furiously typing away on a holographic computer. Three massive screens loomed over everything. One was a satellite map of the area surrounding the farm, another showed various views from security cameras around the farm, and the third showed a live feed of Channel 32⅓, a cable channel that broadcast nothing but a commercial for some sort of ladder over and over. Bob Bovinius IV, one of the workers had an extreme obsession with ladders, and had forced Farmer Joe and Mr. Chuckles to install a massive screen broadcasting Channel 32⅓ so he could always see a ladder.

Mr. Chuckles arrived at a desk with a nameplate reading “Mr. Chuckles: Head of Bovine affairs.” Beside this desk was another, with a nameplate reading “Farmer Joe: Supreme Farmer”

“So, all of the cows are down here?”, Farmer Joe asked.

“All 2,039,535,096,458,234 of them”, said Mr. Chuckles.

Farmer Joe switched on a microphone that sat on his desk. “Your attention please.”, he said. The cows instantly quieted down. “Now, I suppose all of you are wondering: What on earth is happening?” There were murmurs of agreement from several cows.

“You see, the leader of the CIA has decided that I am a terrorist, and his agents have taken over the farm.”

At this, shock rippled through the crowd, with many a startled “MOO!” ringing out.

“Stop! This is no cause for alarm!”, Farmer Joe bellowed over the panicking cows. “These people have no knowledge of this location. We’ll be safe in the tunnel until they call off their search. I doubt they’ve even found the-”

Suddenly, the panic in the air was magnified tenfold. A buzzing noise rang over the loudspeakers. The bunker door had been discovered. “Who’s in there? Open up!”, a voice shouted. “We’re with the U.S. Government! We have you surrounded, terrorist scum!”

Horror swept over the command center. Cows ran from their desks and out of the center. Several began frantically pushing every button on every console. Alarms wailed. The video screens flickered on and off. John Piggynose’s hit song “Slaughterhouse Rock” blasted over the loudspeakers, lurching between volumes.

Before long, Farmer Joe and Mr. Chuckles were the only two left in the room.

“Wait. What’s that government guy saying?”, asked Mr. Chuckles, pressing his ear against the nearest loudspeaker. Fear crossed his face.

“We have to warn the cows. They’re going to blow down the door. We have to evacuate. It’s time to use the escape door”