I Pantsed the Sheriff, but I did not Pants the Deputy

He swore that that was the last time he took the garbage out.

But every week, there he was, staggering down the side steps, he told himself he was being Christian, that he was doing someone a favor, he just didn't know who. The garbage bag that appeared at the bottom of the apartment building stairs was always well double or triple bagged, but bulging and oh so heavy - impossibly heavy. And squishy. Not a sloshy kind of squishy, but rather a ... fleshy kind of squishy, the kind you don't write home to mother about. He continued his act of kindness until one day, he tripped. Out spilled a lovely assortment of fresh body parts, a true Martha Stewart spread of finger foods and toothpick bites, a cornucopia of cadaverous crudettes. And some intestines.

Ramone became suspicious. strangely suspicious, the kind of suspicious that could only mean one thing - something wasn't quite right. He sat down to figure out what it meant, trying to sort the body parts into some kind of orderly arrangement, like a jigsaw puzzle. People on the sidewalk stopped to help. They offered helpful suggestions and recipes. Someone lent him their big-sized ice chest, and the kids looked on quietly.

By noon, Ramone had gruesomely glued parts of 3 bodies together - all clearly children. But who were they? Who wouldn't be missing their young ones? They must've been runaways, street kids, orphans. Very strange. He would need help from Alley Can Jeff. Finally dried out from years of heavy drinking and some driving, Jeff knew everybody. If he didn't pan handle you, he slept in your yard, peed in your pool, or headed the neighborhood watch and went door-to-door knocking on them.

Jeff took a good look at the reconstituted corpses and smiled. He was funny that way. Regarding Ramone with his lazy eye, he yawned and sat down on the steps.

You know what you're problem is, Ramone? You never learned to relax. A body comes along, you panic. Two bodies, you're ready to call mommy. Just ask yourself: who would your neighbors most want to chop up? Is it Timmy? He always farts. Bobby? The drooler. No. We love 'em. So think!

Ramone scanned his brain. No. No. No. No. Then he remembered. The old bag's grandkids. They had visited last month. Terrorized the local church youth group, set her backyard on fire, and pantsed the Sheriff.

"Okay," he said thoughtfully, "So no one would've missed them. That only explains this bag - do you have any idea how many bags like this one I've handled?"

With a gleam in his eye, Jeff asked "How many kids have pantsed the Sheriff?"

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