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Tommy Dietz paced in the waiting area of the WZPP (aka “ZAP105”) radio station, and checked his watch for the third time. BeeBo had yet to arrive, but the interview would go on with or without the big man. He had to make nice with the locals, especially with the kickoff to the new season imminent.
The brunette—wait, did she have blue hair?—stood behind the glass partition. She leaned forward and spoke with a nasal twang. “We’re ten minutes away from air. Where’s your guys?” The smell of a peppermint-scented candle clogged the room. She finger-combed her metallic blue nails through the matching streaks in her wavy hair.
“On the way; don’t worry. And I can fill in until they get here.” The radio show could barely be heard in the waiting room but grew louder when he walked to the counter and leaned toward the receptionist. Dietz eyeballed the nameplate on the desk. “After all, Anita, I’m the host with the most, and the brains behind Hog Hell.”
“Yeah, that’s great.” She waved one hand in the hair to speed the drying time of the nail enamel. “But Fish wants the stars. He wants the on-camera characters the listeners recognize, not the producer or director or whatever. No offense, but nobody cares about you. They want to hear all that down-home redneck talk.”
Dietz hid his irritation with a bright smile, the practiced expression calculated to melt female hearts. “You like the redneck attitude, do you?” He turned up the wattage, knew that his blue eyes proved irresistible to women of a certain age. His bad boy good looks and expression promising a dangerous good time had booked him countless TV commercials back in the day.
Anita cocked her head and stared at him for a long moment. “Nice try, honey, but I’ve been schmoozed by the best. Better save your A-game for Fish if your talent is a no-show.” She returned her attention to painting the nails on her other hand, holding up the middle finger in a mocking gesture. “I’ll give you another two minutes, and then y’all need to get your cute boy buns back to the studio.”
His anger seethed and he turned away and took several calming breaths. That’s what he got for working with amateurs.
He’d turned BeeBo, Felch, Sunny and the others into stars, but the fickle tastes of the public could reduce them to has-beens twice as fast. Never mind the network ordered another six shows—they could and would cancel in a heartbeat if sponsor money dried up, and the whiff of scandal puckered wallets faster than anything. He couldn’t let that happen.
In a way, Felch did the show a favor by getting rid of that rumor-mongering reporter. As long as Grady kept everything under wraps, the show had nowhere to go but up. Sponsors would beg for a dozen more episodes, book two or more years out. When that happened, he’d sell the property outright and be set for life.
“Hey there, Mr. Dietz, you ready? I’ll let Fish know you’re going solo.” She arched one thinly plucked brow and pointed toward the security door, releasing the door-lock buzzer with the jab of one blue nail. “Down the hall, glass studio booth, wait for him to wave you in. He’s live right now.” She smiled with sympathy. “He’ll want to cut the interview short. Probably would’ve given the lovely Sunny a whole hour.” Her expression soured a moment before she added, “But I’ll buzz your guys in right away if they show.”
Dietz ignored the heat that warmed his neck. He grabbed the door handle and hurried through before she changed her mind. BeeBo would pay for this.
The radio show that had been muted in the waiting area overwhelmed the hallway at full volume. The host’s voice boomed in a basso profundo so low that Dietz could feel sympathetic vibration in the studio windows.
“I have a tasty treat for you today, boys and girls. We’ll be talking to the stars of the hit reality show, locally filmed Hog Hell. So hang tight. I’m Humphrey Fish, and we’ll have a scrumptious knee-slapping interview after this brief message from our sponsor.”
Dietz paused, surprised by the host’s appearance when a bowling ball-shaped man waved for him to enter the studio. Fish hopped off the tall stool, and held out his hand to shake.
“I’m Fish. You must be Tommy Dietz.” His bald head barely reached Dietz’s shoulder. Fish jutted his red goatee toward the door. “Where’s BeeBo? And what’s-his-name, the other guy?” He made a point of craning his neck right and left, pretending Anita hadn’t alerted him to the situation.
After shaking his hand, Dietz took the chair Fish indicated. “I told Anita they’re on the way. Thanks for having us on the show. We wanted to give you the scoop and first crack to share the exciting news.” He knew Fish craved the limelight as much as his TV colleagues. After last month’s notoriety with the Blizzard Murders, the glorified DJ considered himself a journalistic star in his own right, and a bit of flattery couldn’t hurt. Fish’s show, now syndicated and aired both live and via the internet, reached a wider audience than the local TV affiliates, and his audience shared similar tastes with the viewers that had put Hog Hell on the map. “Nobody else could do the story justice.”
“My listeners expect the best. Let’s not disappoint them.” Fish motioned to the engineer, and reclaimed his tall perch. He pulled the football shaped fuzzy mic closer to his mouth and signaled Dietz to do the same with his. “We’re live again in fifteen. I’ll intro, pitch to you for a quick comment, and we’ll go from there.”
Dietz tugged at his collar. No matter how many media appearances he’d done over the years, nerves never went away. He noticed Fish sipped something murky from a puce colored mug, and wished he’d thought to stop for a decaf chai. He’d been trying to cut down on the caffeine and finally found a local cafe that did justice to his favorite blend.
“We’re back, gentle listeners, and as promised, help me welcome Tommy Dietz, the producer, show host and creative genius behind Hog Hell, a reality show that’s made stars out of local hunters BeeBo Benson, Randy Felch, the lovely Sunny Babcock and a host of other characters. Welcome to the show, Mr. Dietz.”
“Call me Tommy. Thanks for the opportunity.” He licked his lips, took a breath, and settled into the prepared pitch. “Hog Hell has won a huge following thanks to fans like your listeners. The show began as an experiment in edu-tainment that celebrates the unique culture of the hog hunting community.”
Fish widened his eyes. “I didn’t know hogs had culture. But that show really brings home the bacon.”
“Ha, right. Good one.” Dietz faked a laugh, and pushed on. “Feral hogs damage property and cause enormous financial hardship to the tune of $52 million a year, and that’s in Texas alone. Nationwide, conservative estimates of annual cost damages due to feral hogs reaches $1.5 billion—yep, that’s with a B. Hog hunts help manage the problem, and combine a dog sport—everybody loves dogs—with a worthy charity that benefits the community. The pigs harvested during the show go to local food banks. That barbecue is not only tasty, it’s a win-win for everyone.”
“The pigs might disagree.” Fish slurped his coffee. “Listeners, what do you think?” He nodded over at the engineer. “Caller, you’re on the air. Do you have a question?”
A female voice spoke with soft determination. “This is Gracie. I listen to your show all the time, Humphrey, it’s such a delight. But I watched that Hog H-e-double-toothpick show one time after my son turned it on. Disgraceful!”
Dietz started to reply, but Fish held up a hand to stop him. “What didn’t you like?”
“Everything! The guns, the violence, the vicious dogs biting those poor little piggies. Those Pit Bulls are killers, you know. Now my son wants one.”
“Thanks for your call.” Fish pointed at Dietz to speak.
“We take great care to manage the hunt in a humane manner.” This wasn’t the interview he’d envisioned. “The pigs are not dispatched on-camera. Feral hogs in this situation are much more dangerous to the people and the dogs than the other way around.” He’d bet a year’s salary the caller wasn’t local. Probably some bleeding heart wanted the piggies adopted out in some hog sanctuary.
“Caller, you’re up. What do you have to say?”
“Thanks for taking my call, Mr. Fish. I’ve got real problems with these so-called sportsmen playing target practice with the pigs. That won’t solve the problem.”
“Is that right?” Fish again held up a hand, cutting short Dietz’s comments. “You have a better solution? And what’s your name, sir?”
“Fred Jones, I’m the County Ag Agent. Now, I agree the rooting behaviors cause no end of habitat destruction, but shooting a stray pig now and then won’t control them. Only way to control ‘em is to round up and trap the whole sounder.”
“Sounder?” Fish cocked his head.
“Sounder, that’s a herd of wild swine. One sow can have two or three litters a year, or about thirty piglets, and even with fifty percent attrition, that’s fifteen more pigs for every sow. Feral pigs are so smart, if you only trap one at a time, you educate the other pigs to be more wary and avoid the traps. The best way to control them is to trap the entire sounder at once.”
Dietz sniffed. Viewers wouldn’t tune in to watch a corn-sprinkled pig lot and wait for the piggies to stroll into the trap. But he’d play along. “Mr. Jones, we’ve had this conversation before. We’re on the same side. And I applaud the job you’re doing with the traps, and we’ll keep on going after our pigs one by one.”
“Sounds reasonable enough. Next caller, what do you have to say?” Fish twirled his finger in the air, and the engineer cued up the next guest.
“This is BeeBo Benson, y’all. Don’t you be talkin’ down my dawgs.”
Dietz started. “You’re supposed to be here, doing this interview.”
“Sorry, Tommy. My best dawg got sick, so Grady drove me over to the vet.” His voice caught on the last few words. “I don’t think he’s going to make it. But I can’t have Mr. Fish’s listeners thinking bad about my dawgs. That’s a shitty thing to say about a man’s dawgs, especially when they’re sick and all.” He paused and blew his nose. “Mr. Fish, I am right sorry that I missed out meeting you. I got to go now, but maybe I can make it up to y’all sometime?”
Fish shrugged a “what can you do?” gesture. “BeeBo, thank you for calling in. I’m sure all the listeners out there will send some positive vibes out to your dog.” He turned pointedly to Dietz. “What do you know about this rash of sick critters everywhere? Now even your star hounds are affected. Some of my listeners complain about diseased raccoons and coyotes out and about, maybe infecting their pets. Since you and BeeBo are out amid the varmints, so to speak, is it contagious to pets? Did BeeBo’s dog catch a critter cootie? Rabies, maybe?” His tiny eyes shined with excitement.
Dietz counted silently to five. It was that damn reporter’s fault, raising suspicion for no good reason. “You’d have to ask a veterinarian about BeeBo’s dog. There have been reports of raccoon distemper in the south part of the county, but that doesn’t affect our show in any way.” Had the reporter talked to Fish, too? This was his chance to put a lid on potential bad publicity before it went viral.
Fish was on a streak. “Here in North Texas, guns, dogs and barbecue go together like prom night and shotgun weddings. I kid. Well, maybe not. There’s been some talk that the actors, I mean stars of the show, are scripted.”
“Wait a minute, I—”
“We’re still waiting for your other stars to show up. At least one had the courtesy to call in. BeeBo Benson, the lovable three hundred-pounder with the eagle-eye aim, rock hard gut and soft spot for his hog dogs. Randy Felch, thin as a copperhead with a temper to match. And the lovely Sunny Babcock, hotter than a coal stove even when covered in muck. Are you telling me they’re not from Central Casting?” He glared. “Now, if BeeBo’s dog is sick, my sympathies. Listeners know I’m a big fan of pets—you could say that “putting on the dog” put me on the media map. So I hope your stars will deign to show up and prove my suspicious nature wrong.”
Dietz returned the stony expression. “If they were professional actors, they’d be here. These are real people with real feelings and allowances must be made. That’s the tradeoff for getting the unexpected, exciting show our fans love. Believe me, BeeBo, Felch and Sunny are as real as they get.” He lightened his tone. Wouldn’t pay to piss off Fish before he’d gotten the news announced. “Two years ago to celebrate the wrap of the first season, we held a pig roast and barbecue locally to thank everyone for their help.”
“I remember that. It was over at the Hog Heaven BBQ Restaurant.” A beat. “I wasn’t invited.”
Aha. That explained some of the man’s attitude. “My bad. Let me make it up to you, Humphrey.”
“Don’t be a tease. What do you have in mind?” Fish raised his eyebrows.
Dietz smiled. “The first show of our new season airs Friday, tomorrow night—right in time for Christmas. We’re shipping out a special Piggy Panache Premium Package, official holiday gifts to Super Fans with sausage, jerky, bacon and more samples. You can’t buy these. Viewers must watch the first show to find out the Piggy Password to order.”
“A piggy password?” Fish nearly fell off his stool, guffawing. “Let me guess. Pig-in-a-blanket? Pig-in-a-poke? Porky Pig. Pig Newton?”
“Not even close, Humphrey. Guess you’ll have to watch the show.” Dietz’s shoulders relaxed a bit. The little man had bought into the promotion. “Tomorrow night we have a watch party barbecue celebration once again at the Hog Heaven restaurant with an invitation-only audience. I’ve got spots for 200 guests—199, actually, because Humphrey Fish will be the first guest in the door.” He noted Fish’s pleased expression and continued in a rush. “The guests will also be on-camera in a future episode of the show as extras—so get ready for your close-up!”
“Now Tommy, that sounds like my kind of party. Can’t wait to pig out at the big event! But what about those other 199 tickets? Do I sense a whole hog give-away in the offing?” Fish put his hand to his ear, pantomiming a phone.
Dietz grinned. “You read my mind. What do you say we give spots away to your listeners?”
The phone lines lit up.
