Always Leave a Tip

“Shhhh!” Carson Gitling scolded his twin brother Grant, who had just made a rather loud outburst. “If someone hears us, we’re done for.”

“Shush yourself, moron.” Grant retorted, rubbing his leg, “You didn’t just kick a pitchfork with your shin!”

“Yeah, because I’m watching where I’m going.”

“That’s a bunch of crap. You can’t see anything in this long grass, let alone in the dark. You just got lucky.”

“Fortune wouldn’t be an issue if you had remembered to check the batteries of your flashlight before we left.”

“Oh, of course it’s my fault!” Grant grunted, his voice rising to a hoarse whisper, “At least I have a flashlight at all. I seem to recall a certain buffoon forgetting his altogether.” Carson scowled at his brother and rolled his eyes. Realizing though that both actions were indistinguishable in the dark, he gave a snort but didn’t say anything.

“It won’t matter once the moon rises. We should be able to see pretty clearly then. For now just watch your footing better.”

“Yeah, okay.” Grant replied unenthusiastically. “After you, my dear brother.”

The twins resumed their trek. They were making their way through the fields of one of the local town farmers, a man by the name of Mr. Hiedendruk. He was an ornery geezer who spent so much time with his livestock that sometimes it was difficult to distinguish him from them. His hair and beard were badly in need of grooming, and it was likely that the pigs bathed more frequently than he. His hooting and hollering in the morning woke the roosters themselves up and his dentures gnawed on a piece of hay morning until night, leading one to think perhaps the cows had learned cud-chewing from him. Needless to say, Ole Farmer Hiedendruk was a character. Still, despite his apparent senile nature, the old man had one reputation that far exceeded his others, his accuracy with a firearm. Farmer Hiedendruk had more sportsman trophies than a Gatling gunner unleashed on a flock of French fry-crazed seagulls. The man never seemed to miss, and that’s why finding oneself on the old kook’s bad side was not something anyone was willing to do.

That is until tonight. The Gitling twins were determined to become local legends as the first people to prank the farmer and live to talk about it. The two seventeen-year-old boys had waited for a clear night with a late forecasted moonrise. Out here in the middle of nowhere Nebraska, with unpredictable winds and constantly changing weather patterns, one couldn’t plan events too far in advance. So Carson and Grant had bided their time throughout the course of the summer in anticipation of the perfect night, and it had finally arrived. Now the twins were picking their way through the long, green grass with growing excitement as they neared their prize and mounting fear as the thoughts of a loaded 22-gauge lingered in their minds.

At last, after more stumbling and bickering, they reached what they were aiming for, the wooden fence of the cow pasture. Tonight’s goal, take a video of successfully tipping a cow. The twins had arrived just in time. The cold glow of moonlight was just beginning to appear on the horizon. In minutes the large, full moon would be bathing the ground with light. Carson clambered onto the fence, the wood creaking under his weight. He paused for a moment at the top, straddling the top beam with his legs. He surveyed the enclosure and spied dozens of dark silhouettes scattered around, their oversized forms remained motionless, appearing like stone monuments on the field of some famous battle from centuries past. Carson swung his other leg around and dropped to the ground on the opposite side of the fence into the pasture. His feet sunk into the earth when he landed, surprising him with how soft it was when it had felt so firm on the previous side. But then a familiar and repulsive scent wafted up from his toes. He gagged and put his hand over his nose. A thud behind him informed him that Grant had made it over.

“Land in a little present, brother?” Grant teased with a snicker. “Guess you forgot to ‘watch your footing’.” Carson turned to his twin; he could hear his brother’s smile before he saw it. The rising moonlight was reflecting off of Grant’s teeth like a set of pearls in a jewelry store. Oh, he is loving this. Carson thought to himself, what a loser.

“I did it on purpose, to mask my scent. The cows won’t suspect a thing now.”

“You wish you were that clever.”

“No, what I actually wish is that I was born with a more competent twin.”

“And I wish you had fallen face-first into that pile of crap. Difference is my wish can still come true. Perhaps I just need to be my own genie.”

“Oh brother,” Carson said with exasperation, “Would you just stop talking and start walking? We want to be on the other side of the pasture.”

“Whatever you say, O’ captain, my captain!”

The two set to walking again, following the perimeter of the pasture so as to avoid any cattle, as well as to provide a quick escape in case a certain cranky, old farmer picked up their scent and started slinging buckshot. By the time they reached the far side the moon was well above the horizon and was offering a substantial amount of light. The twins leaned against the fence for a minute and took sips from the water bottles they had brought. Grant glanced through the wooden barrier to another pasture beyond. He didn’t see anything in it, but the back half of the field was obscured in shadow due to a collection of large trees. He turned back and faced his brother.

“Alright, so what’s the game plan?” He asked.

“Tip a cow, Grant.” Carson replied sarcastically, “It’s pretty simple.”

“I got that part, you numbskull. But do you want to just film one of us doing it, or take turns?”

“Let’s see what happens with one. If crazy Hiedendruk doesn’t come out, we’ll try for two.” He pointed towards one of the animals about 40 yards away. “Let’s try that one. You can go first.”

“Really?!” Grant said with surprise, “I totally thought you would try to take all the glory.” The twins approached the cow at a crouch, stopping every ten yards or so take make sure it wasn’t disturbed by their movement. Eventually, they came within six feet of the beast. It was breathing heavily, and its head was bowed low to the ground, but it wasn’t eating anything. After another minute, the brothers concluded that the cow was indeed asleep.

“This is perfect!” Carson whispered, taking out his camera from his jacket pocket. “Now when I give the signal, tip that cow!” Grant grinned wide and nodded. Carson started recording and waved his hand for his twin to make his move. Grant took a few more steps closer to the side of the animal, planted his feet, and placed his hands on the cow’s side. Then with his best attempt at a manly grunt, he pushed the cow with all his might.

Nothing happened. Grant pushed again. The cow didn’t budge an inch. Carson tried to stifle his laughter, but failed and was forced to release it in the form of a broken cough.

“You’d think with all that weightlifting you do, there would actually be some benefits.” He teased his brother.

“Shut up, Carson!” Grant retorted in a strained voice. He turned around and set his back to the cow, pushing with his legs. Still, the cow remained unmoved.

“I bet Sydney would love to know you get performance anxiety,” Grant growled but didn’t respond. “Honestly brother, I didn’t let you go first because I thought you were going to humiliate yourself. This is an added bonus.” This last remark was too much for Grant. He jumped away from the cow and used his momentum to give Carson a solid push. The twin fell to the ground but was laughing the whole time.

“You talk a big talk, man. Let’s see you give it a try then.”

“Very well,” Carson smirked while he stood. “I will. Take the camera.” Carson stepped up to the cow. It seemed bigger now that he was right up next to it. No matter. He wasn’t going to fail like his brother. He braced his shoulders and flexed his quads. Time to show them what a legend looks like. He unleashed all his energy in an explosive burst, throwing all his weight and muscle into the side of the creature.

Nothing happened. Carson stumbled back in surprise. He couldn’t believe it. It felt like he had just pushed a brick wall. Grant couldn’t contain himself; he began howling with laughter. The sound echoed across the property and shattered the blanket of silence. Carson leaped at his twin and shoved his hand over his mouth to stifle the noise. Grant quickly calmed down, but his eyes were still dancing with delight.

“That was one of the greatest things I have ever seen. You should have seen your face. You were so serious and then nothing happened!” He started to raise his voice again, but Carson shut him up.

“Whose stupid idea was it to do this anyway?!” He demanded rhetorically.

“It was yours, idiot.” Grant reminded him. “But my guess is that you didn’t really look to see if cow tipping is even possible. But who cares! This video of you is better than if you had tipped the dumb thing.”

“Oh shut u-” Carson was beginning to say when he was cut short by a noise. It was a loud pounding, the clear sound of hooves, followed by frequent heavy snorts and what sounded like very throaty groans. Turning to the source of the noise, the twins spied a dark form approaching at a rapid speed from the far side of the pasture fence, the second pasture. In less than 20 seconds the object became clearer in the moonlight and the brother realized that it was a huge bull. Carson and Grant were frozen in place, unsure of what to do.

The bull continued to run at full speed, seemingly undeterred by the wooden fence that stood between them. Then, with a load crash, it rammed headfirst into the beams. The bull let out a tremendous bellow and shook its head. The fence had held, but it had cracked in several places. It would not withstand another charge like that. If the twins weren’t terrified enough, another sound erupted in the night, a shotgun.

As if it was the starter pistol for a race, the gunshot sent the twins running, away from the cows, away from the bull, and away from the trigger-happy farmer. As they ran, they continued to hear the bull raging and shot after shot being fired into the air. They reached the fence on the side between the bull’s pasture and the farmhouse and scrambled over it. After they landed on the other side the two twins kept running until their lungs and legs refused to let them. After what seemed like a marathon sprint, Carson and Grant stopped to catch their breath. They had no idea where they were, but they truly didn’t care. They were alive, no gunshot wounds and no gorges. After several minutes just spent panting, Grant turned to his brother.

“Let’s agree never to talk about this to anyone.” He said.

“Agreed.” Carson concurred.

And they never did.