With a lick and a spit, Sheriff Barnaby Jones exits his recently revoked patrol car. Snakeskin precision steps and cowhide waisted drawers leave their impression on the floorboards and blue velour seats. Crown Vic. Not the best car to steal, but 351 ain’t bad. Twenty-some old, still hums and purrs like a velvet koala bear.

More black spits, with a lick. Always like this when waiting. Barnaby grips his cowhide waist in hands, thumbs mounted between Levy’s and tucked flannel, flirting nearly with commando absence, moving up, eyebrows framing silver aviators shatter rays abroad under noontime sun. Soliloquy.

Barnaby does this routine for fifteen minutes, or so.

As time passes, it becomes clear: Rodney Candycane is late.

With a third spit for good measure, kicks with heel and toe, and a slap on the ass for old time’s sake, Barnaby saddles all up inside his Crown Vic.