The Cow Chronicles Part 7: Farmer Joe's getaway

The sun lowered down over the fields, casting the shadow of a distant radio tower across the narrow highway. Telephone poles whizzed by, the wires seeming to rise and fall.

Farmer Joe gunned the engines. He had no idea where he was going. If somebody had asked him why he was driving at 79 mph down a rural highway in a police van with sirens blaring, he would have replied “away from prison”

Judging by the angle of the sun, he was driving north. As he did, he began noticing signs reading PLUGERVILLE, followed by a number of miles. Eventually, the rolling fields, farms, and tiny towns gave way to a massive divot in the ground.

Thousands of years ago, when Wisconsin was mostly rolling forests, and the only humans living there were Native Americans, a meteor had hit the future state, leaving a 25 mile wide crater. Years later, when European settlers “discovered”, the area, they came across the crater. After finding extremely valuable materials in the area, they decided to start a mine. As more people came to the area for work, a mine was started.
The people of Farmer Joe’s town hated the people of Plugerville. Although Farmer Joe was neutral on the issue, say a word of support for the local college football team: the Plugerville Plutonium Compounds, and you would be placed on a rung of the social ladder lower than even the people with no cows.

Plugervilles urban sprawl had spilled out of the crater, lining the streets into the city with bars, department stores, and cheap motels.

The neon refracted through the smudged windshield of the police van. Farmer Joe had switched off the sirens on the way into Plugerville, as to not attract attention.

The Majestic Mesa Motel had originally been built in 1953 in the New Mexico desert. Unfortunately, an accident at a science laboratory nearby had teleported the entire motel, and a seventh of the mesa the motel had been built near straight into Plugerville in 1983

Farmer Joe maneuvered the police van through the empty parking lot. The Majestic Mesa wasn’t a popular place to stay, due to local rumors that it was haunted. In addition, many questioned the legality of the business’ existence, as the property deed was for New Mexico, not Wisconsin.

“Come in, Wachowski. Joe’s gone to Plugerville. He’s at the Majestic Mesa Motel”, said the government agent who had been hiding in the back of the van since Farmer Joe had escaped from jail.

“Tell that to the Plugerville authorities. They’ve likely heard of who Farmer Joe really is”, Agent Wachowski replied. He was at an airbase 2 miles out of the unnamed town.

Mr. Chuckles sadly mooed as the cardboard boxes were transported onto the government jet.

Farmer Joe’s cows weren’t the sort of cows that you would see at a normal farm. The cows were as alien as you could get. Not only were they not from Earth, they weren’t even from the same dimension. How Farmer Joe came into possession of the cows is a long and complicated story.

These cows were from an alternate universe, and from a planet that does not exist in our universe. It was possible for them to gain super strength, and, although not all cows had this trait, laser eyes. However, Farmer Joe and representatives from the cows’ native dimension had agreed to deactivate the cow’s abilities, as to prevent the raising of suspicious by people in the area.

However, the cows had a fatal weakness. They were completely immobilized by cardboard. Thus, Farmer Joe had banned all cardboard from the farm limits, much to the annoyance of delivery people. He had even lobbied the city council to ban cardboard from the city limits, but that was quickly condemned by the townspeople, as much of the town’s income came from a cardboard factory.

Meanwhile, Agent Wachowski lay back in the airbase control tower. As he watched the radar for any suspicious activity, he radioed with the jet pilot. “How much of the cows are on board?”, he asked.

“Most of this load. We should be ready to take off in ten minutes or so”, the pilot replied. “There are still a few million still in custody, though”, she added.

“Roger that. I’ll have the team get most of them on the transports. We can take them to the airport at-”

Suddenly, the transmission cut out. Agent Wachowski wheeled around to face Farmer Bob, holding a pair of wire cutters.

“Farmer Joe specifically requested that I take control of the cows”, he spat at Agent Wachowski. “Why are you packing them onto a plane?”

Agent Wachowski’s face turned a deathly pale. “Uh, we were. . .going to take a few to Washington. Examine them. We think that the cows may have helped in the terrorism”

“Farmer Joe requested. . .”, Farmer Bob threateningly told Agent Wachowski as he walked towards him. “. . .that every last cow be taken to me”, He pulled a pen from a desk and pointed it at the government agent’s heart, as if it were a dagger. “Every. Last. One”, he enunciated.

“Carry on”, he said in a sarcastic, sing-song voice as he skipped out of the control tower.

Agent Wachowski watched in horror as the engines of the jet started. He grabbed some semaphore flags from the control desk, and ran out of the door, waving furiously the symbols for STOP STOP STOP.

The pilot gave him a quizzical look, and began accelerating. Agent Wachowski took off after the jet. He had no idea about how to stop the plane. Then, it hit him. He pulled his standard-issue 9mm pistol from the holster on his belt, and fired shot after shot at the engines. Nothing worked, and the plane rose higher and higher into the sky. To Wachowski’s horror, he saw wisps of smoke emerging from the left engine.

In the plane’s cockpit, a red light began flashing. Then a loud, obnoxious alarm began blaring. ENGINES CRITICAL flashed over the screen of the plane’s GPS in bright red lettering. The pilot dove the plane down, skimming over the cornfields as she searched for a place to land. Eventually, she came across a near-deserted highway, and turned the plane towards it.

The plane lowered closer and closer to the road below. Savage, orange flames had begun burning from the turbine. The pilot knew she had to find a landing spot sooner. After narrowly clearing a semi truck, she saw an overpass rushing up to the plane. Swearing under her breath, the pilot maneuvered the plane up again. If she couldn’t clear the overpass, she would die. The bridge rapidly grew in size. The pilot could make out the trash littering the sidewalk, and a government SUV crossing the overpass. It was probably headed to the airbase. The SUV screeched to a halt as the driver saw the terrifying spectacle of a jumbo jet flying 15 feet above your head.

Finally, the pilot found a stretch of highway where she was able to land. The plane thudded onto the rough country highway, leaving wheel sized divots in the pavement. The wheels let out a screeching wail as the plane slowed down. A wooden highway sign was ripped off its post and devoured by the engine. Down the road, the pilot noticed cars pulling to a stop.
Finally, she walked into the cargo hold, which was filled to the brim with panicking cows. She opened the door, and stepped into the sunlight.

“. . .narrowly avoided a catastrophic accident on Route 42, when a government plane caught fire mid flight.”

Farmer Joe lay on the pull-out couch in Room 13 of the Majestic Mesa Motel, watching the evening news. He had checked in under a fake name, and the news hadn’t published pictures of his face yet.

“We now go live to Bryson Air Force Base, where the flight took off”, the reporter said. The camera cut to another reporter, standing on the tarmac of the airbase outside of Farmer Joe’s hometown.

“Few were at Bryson Airbase when the plane took off, but the entire event was witnessed by a man who many here in Bovine County will recognize: CIA operative Rick Wachowski.” Agent Wachowski walked up to the reporter.

“So Mr. Wachowski, how did the incident play out?” the reporter asked Agent Wachowski.

“Well, it all started last night. I had decided to help the base staff out, and volunteered to watch the CCTV cameras”, Agent Wachowski began. “Around one in the morning, I saw a figure run out to the plane, and fiddle around with the engines. I figured it was just a mechanic working a night shift, but it was someone much worse”

“I see. Do you have any idea who might be behind the engine failure?”, the reporter asked.

“I know who the culprit is”, Agent Wachowski replied gravely. “You likely don’t know this, but infamous radical terrorist Farmer Joe has escaped from prison!”

“He’s done it again! If I ever find that son of a gun, I’m gonna-”, screamed a person in the room next to Farmer Joe’s. He turned up the volume on the TV.

“Tell me, Mr. Wachowski”, the reporter asked. “If such a dangerous criminal is out on the streets, ought the government to have notified us immediately?”

“There was some trouble. Anyhow, I had a team do a fingerprint scan of the plane engine. We discovered Farmer Joe’s fingerprints”, Agent Wachowski responded. “I believe Farmer Joe implanted a bomb in the plane’s engine”

“That’s horrible! Can you people at the studio get a picture of Farmer Joe onscreen? People outside of Bovine County need to know what he looks like”, the reporter said. A few seconds after, a picture of Farmer Joe flashed across the screen.

“Not again!”, Farmer Joe muttered under his breath as he ran out of his room. He knew that half of the people in America now knew what he looked like.

“Bye!”, he shouted to the motel clerk as he ran into the parking lot.

“Wait a minute-”, the clerk said, looking away from the TV news stream on his tablet.

Farmer Joe ran from the Majestic Mesa, searching for a getaway place. Alas, he was too late. . .