“Yep,” Sheriff Jon Carter said, adjusting his crotch as he stepped down from his Jeep. “That’s a dead cow.” He nodded to the dead cow laying on its back, legs stiff, hooves pointing to the sky. Only cartoon cows died like this.
“Carter,” the rancher said, looking up at the sheriff from under the brim of his hat. “This is the second cow this week. The cows are getting agitated and I’m none too pleased myself.”
The cows were agitated; it was true. They could barely chew their cud, they were so upset. Each glanced around at her fellow cow, trying to ascertain who was behind it all. They knew that when night fell, the killer would once again be out, roaming through the herd. Her low moo the only sound the victim would hear before the killer fell on his, hooves flashing.
Cow serial killers are rare; aggression isn’t in their nature. Most cows are content to wait out their days until the slaughter comes. The last incident was way back in 2007, The Great Holstein Massacre (of 2007, obviously), where an unfortunate farmer had come out one morning to find one cow standing in a field, covered in blood and ground chuck. One lone cow, standing among the body parts of her sisters, calmly working at a wad of grass. Every cow knew this story. And now there was another, out there, in the herd, waiting for nightfall.
Waiting to strike.