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It was the kind of morning Fort Stockton hadn’t seen since the last time the chili cook-off ended in food poisoning and a conga line. The sun was doing its best impression of judgment, the wind was more suggestion than breeze, and over by the Almost United Methodist Church, Sister Thelma stood in a folding chair adjusting a crooked banner with duct tape and divine patience.

Today was the day. The inspector was coming.

Hairless B29 had paced out twelve full laps across the cracked asphalt of the makeshift lot, muttering under his breath about staging logistics, verse stress, and whether Macbeth ever had to wrangle witches who insisted on sequins.

Trixie showed up fashionably late—top down, red lips painted, Buick Electra purring like a housecat with a grudge. She stepped out in a velvet cloak, platform boots, and a tank top that said “I Put the Dame in Dramaturgy.” The Buick gleamed, fins flashing in the sun like the tail end of a showgirl going off-script.

“You look ready for battle,” Hairless said, taking a slow drag off his cigarette.

“I am,” she replied, adjusting her bustline. “I’m gonna use my assets to buy us some credibility.”

“I assume you mean charm and stage presence.”

She didn’t answer. Just winked and strode off in the direction of the costume tent—really just a tarp over Rusty’s ladder rack.

That’s when it happened. A sound creaked in over the horizon like a dying whimper wrapped in a cough. It rattled windows, stirred up the dust, and startled a barn cat out from under the communion van. Folks turned to look toward the edge of the parking lot, shielding their eyes.

It was red. Lumpy. Vaguely egg-shaped.

And leaking something.

The 1975 AMC Pacer X came chugging into view like an afterthought with four wheels and bad posture. Faded Pacer X graphics flaked from the fenders, chrome bumpers hung on like they were clenching their last paycheck, and the front bumper was crooked—frowning like it had seen too much.

The passenger side headlight bezel dangled with resignation, the rocker panels rusted through like sugar cookies left in the rain. Inside, a figure could be seen adjusting the cracked rubber door seal and dabbing at their forehead with what might have been a linen napkin or a monogrammed tissue.

The car coughed once and parked.

Hairless took a long breath and muttered, “That has to be them.”

Sure enough, the driver’s door squeaked open, and out stepped someone who could only be described as aggressively pressed. Gray slacks, tucked-in sky blue shirt with a Texas Cultural Enrichment Council badge clipped dead center on the pocket, and shoes that had never touched dirt by choice.

They squinted through horn-rimmed glasses at the sign.

“Is this… the venue?”

Sister Thelma hopped down from her folding chair like a gymnast sticking a dismount.

“Welcome to Fort Stockton!” she beamed. “We’re so glad to host you, Mister…?”

“Mister Goodchild,” he replied. “Harlan Goodchild.”

Delgado, standing nearby with a clipboard and a neckerchief he insisted was “theatrically necessary,” leaned toward Hairless and whispered, “He looks like a man who irons his socks.”

Hairless whispered back, “He looks like a man who’s never seen a possum crawl through a spotlight and call it a rehearsal.”

Goodchild surveyed the setup. There was the tank, recently patched and painted with enthusiasm but not skill. Folding chairs formed a lopsided crescent moon around the space. A table with Folgers dispensers, brownies, and Lucinda’s pride-and-joy jalapeño lemon bars stood awkwardly in the shade of a crooked pop-up tent.

“I see,” Goodchild said. “You… performed the necessary improvements using grant funds?”

“We sure did!” Sister Thelma chirped. “Stage, lighting, promotional materials. We even built a cauldron out of a bait bucket and ingenuity.”

Trixie passed behind them, now in full witch regalia—fringe, sparkle, and just enough historical inaccuracy to make Hairless twitch.

“Welcome, sugar,” she purred to Goodchild. “We’ve been waitin’ for you like Act III waitin’ on murder.”

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“That’s Lady Macbeth talk. You’ll catch on.”

Rehearsal was underway within the hour. Hairless stood front and center with a clipboard of crossed-out blocking notes and a pencil chewed down to the eraser. He watched as Old Man Hickory swung a dull plastic sword like he was trying to swat bees, and Vice Principal Lutz recited his lines with all the passion of a man ordering lunch through a drive-thru intercom.

Delgado called for lighting, but the rig sparked and hummed like a possessed vending machine. Sister Thelma lit the cauldron, which belched smoke and began to smell suspiciously like burnt pork rinds.

And then it began. The scene. The one they had drilled a hundred times but never quite nailed.

Trixie took the stage. Hairless held his breath.

“Out, damn spot!” she cried, dramatically wringing her hands over a glitter-stained handkerchief. “Out, I say! Who woulda thought the old man had so much blood in him! Or so much cholesterol!”

Hairless froze.

That last part wasn’t in the script.

Goodchild made a note. Delgado looked horrified. Lucinda burst out laughing, nearly dropping the coffee urn.

Hairless hissed from the side of the stage, “Stick to the text!”

Trixie waved him off like she was flicking away a gnat. “I’m channeling the moment!”

Sister Thelma leaned over to Goodchild. “She’s our method actor. We give her some leash.”

“She appears to have set the leash on fire.”

In the next scene, a wooden platform collapsed again—same one as before—and Lutz fell out of frame with a soft thudand a wheeze.

Hairless clapped once. “Take ten!”

Trixie stomped over, heels clicking. “Was it too much? Be honest. I can give less, but it’s hard.”

“You gave MacBethlehem, USA and I asked for Royal Shakespeare.”

Delgado wandered up, still holding a spotlight that had gone out mid-cackle. “Do you think he’s writing a good review or planning to defund us?”

They looked over. Goodchild was watching, arms crossed, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Then he walked off toward the red Pacer X, opened the hatch, and pulled out a manila folder.

He returned with papers in hand.

Hairless braced himself. “Well?”

“I’ve seen worse,” Goodchild said.

“Really?”

“No,” he replied. “But I’m learning to lie for the arts.”

Then he handed Sister Thelma the papers.

“Consider this your pre-approval to apply for next year’s grant.”

They stood there blinking.

“You mean—?”

“If you’re going to make a farce out of Macbeth,” he said, “you might as well commit.”

Trixie whooped and kissed him full on the cheek. Delgado gasped. Lucinda poured celebratory coffee. Hairless lit a fresh cigarette and stared at the cracked sky.

“Next year?” he muttered. “I ain’t even sure we’ll survive this one.”

But somewhere in the back of his mind, he was already thinking about King Lear. Or maybe The Tempest, if the storm didn’t come first.

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