I'd stopped by to check on my old friend, Sherman "Hamhock" Holmes, on a cool autumn day last year and walked in to find him chattin' with a pudgy ol' codger - puffy cheeks, well-worn dirty overalls and hair as red as a sunburned robin. After gettin' a cold beer and apologizing for the interruption, I was about half out the front door when Holmes grabbed me by the shirttail and pulled me back inside.

"Hey, there, Bubba! You're right on time," he said, in that tone that told me I was gonna have to do somethin'."

"You look busy."

"Yep. real busy."

"Then I'll just go outside and set on the porch."

"Like hell you will. Mr. Wilson, this feller here has been my partner and go-fer for a real long time. He can be a big help in solving weird little problems like this'n here."

With that, the chubby old guy sorta struggled to stand up, and then decided it was too much like work. He gave me a quick "Howdy" and then thudded back down into his chair.

"Set yourself down, Bubba," Holmes said to me. Then he proceeded to push back in his LazyBoy and tap his fingers together like he always did when he was cogitatin' on something.

"Bubba, I know you like the peculiar stuff as much as I do. This here is another one I think you'll be wantin' to write up in The Weekly Dogwhacker."

"Yep, you do tend to attract strange characters," I answered, looking over at the fat man in the chair.

"Like I told you the other day, it ain't possible to out-peculiar real life. If you want to see strange around here, just roll down the window and spit."

"And I believe I told you that you was full of it."

"Yeah, you did," he chuckled. "But I'll wear you down over time. Every day with me is a trip through the Twilight Zone. Take ol' Jay Dubya Wilson, here. He's been tellin' me some stuff that's so weird, I swear on Aunt Edna's bunion pads, I don't know what to make of it. How's about startin' from the top, Jay Dubya, so Bubba can hear the story, and I can make sure I heard what I thought I heard. You know, I thought I'd seen just about everything that a criminal could possibly think of, but this one beats all."

Wilson puffed out his chest like an ol' banty rooster, and pulled out a newspaper clipping from the back pocket of his overalls. While he was focusin' in on a certain little classified ad, I was focusin' in on him, tryin' to think like Holmes and make sure I didn't miss anything.

The way I saw it, I wasn't missin' a thing. The geezer looked like your average garden tool salesman - fat, full of himself, and slow as molasses in February. His overalls were stained and baggy, and his wristwatch was one of them cheap digitals they give away with fast food deals. The only things I could see that were unusual about him were the fiery red color of his crewcut and a look on his face that told me his boxers was bunched up somethin' fierce.

Hamhock Holmes noticed that I was noticin' very little worth noticin'. He smiled, shook his head at me and said, "Not much there, Bubba, except for the in-your-face obvious. He dips snuff, worked the tobacco fields, has a satellite dish, has been to Moultrie, and spends a whole lot of time writin' stuff down. Except for that, I don't know much at all about Mr. Wilson, here."

Ol' Jay Dubya Wilson just about jumped out of his chair. I pretty near busted a gut tryin' not to laugh at him - it looked like his head was just about to explode.

"How in the name of Cousin Pearl's holy sausage stuffer did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?" he asked. I worked tobacco for years, but I had to quit a little while back when I had that run-in with a bunch of renegade fire ants."

"Your hands, Mr. Wilson. They're stained clean across with tobacco. Even your fingernails. If you was just a smoker, there'd only be stains between your smokin' fingers."

"Okay, then, what about the satellite dish and the snuff?"

"Your boots came from the Shop T' Home Network, and satellite is the only way to get that channel. When you first came in, I could see the round outline of a snuff tin in your back pocket."

"Oh, I guess that kinda makes sense, but how about the writin'?"

"Hell, man, you got ink stains all up and down your right arm. If you want to keep that a secret, you might want to consider washin' up more than once a week."

"Okay, Mister Smarty Britches, how'd you know about Moultrie?"

"You got a tattoo on your left arm. There's only one place in the world that spells "Mama" with three Ms and a W: Johnny-Ray Jim-Bob's Tattoo Parlor and Suds in Moultrie, Georgia."

Jay Dubya Wilson started laughin' like an asthmatic mule with a bad case of gas. "Well, cut off my legs and call me Shorty," he said. "Here I thought you was real clever-like, but you ain't all that after all."

Holmes looked at me and sighed. "Geez, Bubba, maybe I should've kept my mouth shut. Atfay oybay isay ummerday anthay irtday. I have to protect my reputation."

Jay Dubya was fumbling with the newspaper.

"You havin' trouble findin' that there ad in the paper, Mr. Wilson?" Holmes snapped impatiently.

"Just now got to it," he said, stabbing the paper with a grimy finger. "Why don't you read it your own self?"

I took the paper and read:

"Wanted, Alabama-born redneck who wants to work, but not too hard. On account of Ezekiel Hogbugger's passing away some time back, we got us a vacant opening for someone who wants to make good money for doing diddly-squat. All real redneck men who can spell kind of good and are old enough to buy their own beer can come on down and try out for the job. Come in person, Monday morning at 11:00, to the office of the Red-Necked Bowling League. Route 1, Napperville Trailer Park and Dump Station, Space #3. Ask for Dunkin D."

Holmes laughed. "Weird, ain't it? Now, Mr. Wilson, why don't you go on and tell us about what happened when you answered this here ad?"