Episode 44: Floyd's Fence and the Cattle Conspiracy

All right. Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen. I am Luke, and this is Luke at the Roost. It's your late night call-in radio show where you can call in and ask me about whatever's on your mind. I'll give you the very best advice that I can. Today is Monday, March 23rd, and it was a good day. Today was a good day. We're going to check in over here with our faithful intern, Devon. Devon, how are you doing tonight, buddy? Did you have a good show last night? You ready for a good one today?

Yeah, doing good tonight, Luke. Grabbed a breakfast burrito from that 24-hour spot on the way in, extra green Chile, which was a solid call. Last night was all right, couple wild callers, but nothing crashed the board. And yeah, pump for this one, got the playlist queued, and some fresh trivia rabbit holes pulled up already. You want me to spin up the pre-show bumper or anything?

Nah, man. Tonight's just going to be chill. We don't need no bumpers. Well, what are they like fucking bump a guy's or something kid? Whatever. What are you talking about, Guy?

Oh, nah. Just those quick audio hits, like a 10-second promo or station ID to bridge segments. Keeps things smooth without dead air. No sweat if we're going raw tonight. I got the levels set anyway. You good on the first track?

Look, man, you got to stop talking about all that book learning stuff that you got from the communication. College there. That stuff's not useful at all in the real world. Everybody knows that this is Luga the Roost. There's no other show on Earth like it. So we're going to get to some collars. You think you might talk to some today?

Yeah, got it. No more college talk. Lesson learned. I'm ready to jump in on collars if you want, especially if they drop some wild claims like in fact check or whatever. Just say the word.

All right, not that any of these collars would drop any wild facts or anything. But let's see. It's going to be a wild and crazy night. All right. So first up on our collar line here, because Devon's been doing such a good job, keeping it full and lit up. We've got Floyd. Floyd, welcome to the show. How are you doing today, buddy? How can we help you? Tell us what's going on in your life.

Hey, Luke. I'm hanging in there, but I just drove out to my property line fence this afternoon, and my ex sliced a 10-foot gash in it so her new boyfriend's cattle could trample right across onto my side. looked it up, and New Mexico is actually an open-range state, which means livestock owners don't always have to fence in their animals, but property owners might be responsible for fencing them out.

Well, that's not very cool. What'd you do to the ex-girlfriend to make her so mad? Or is she just trying to impress the new boyfriend?

Yeah, Devon, I get the open range thing, but I've been out there patching that damn fence every spring for the last five years because her family's cows have been wandering since before she even owned the place next door. And Luke, honestly, I'm not even kidding, we broke up two weeks ago after she told me she was seeing this rancher from over in Animas. And now, this?

Well, was she doing that kind of stuff while you were still going out with her? How long was this relationship? Did it last for a while? You guys lived together? Anything like that? Or is this just some chick you were fooling around with in Animus?

No, she wasn't pulling crap like this while we were together, Luke. That would have been the end of it right then. We were on and off for about five years, lived out here here in Hotchita together, the last three, in the little place I built next to the property line. And, yeah, we got a four-year-old kid between us that I see every other weekend now.

All right, so I imagine it's because of the new boyfriend that you broke up, or was there some other event that caused the catastrophic dissolution of your engagement?

Now, Luke, we never got around to rings or anything official. But, yeah, it was her confessing two weeks back that she'd been messing around with this rancher animas for half a year already. Walked in after work, drop that bomb while I was making dinner for the kid, and said she was moving next door to be with him because his place has more land for their future together.

All right. Well, then, I don't know why he needs your land to graze his cattle. But it sounds to me like those are your cattle now. So if he's putting his animals in your fence, I mean, ownership's nine-tenths and all that. You should go out there and milk him.

Ha, Milcom myself. Those mangy things have already knocked over the kids little play for it I built out there last summer, Luke. And with work tomorrow, I can't spend another full day fixing her boyfriend's mess while dust kicks up everywhere.

All right. Well, I mean, the only thing you can really do is put up some cameras and tell the, I mean, there's no police to tell, but try to find the sheriff and tell him, I suppose.

Yeah, cameras make sense, Luke. I've got a couple trail cams from hunting season. I could stick up there tomorrow after work. Sheriff's office in Lourdesburg already laughed me off the phone last time. Her family's cows got through because open range rules, and now with her new guy involved, I'm worried it'll just turn into some family feud out here where nobody wins except the dust storms rolling in early this year.

Yeah, we get it. There's dust out here. Everybody has to talk about the dust. We're aware. I know it's coming. You don't have to rub it in. But as far as the cow situation goes, have you thought about bear traps at all?

Bear traps? Luke, I'm not even kidding. I thought about it for about two seconds driving home today, but no way with the kid running around out there every other weekend. She'd have my ass in court faster than a dust devil spins up.

Oh, look at that with the dust again. All right. Well, I was just thinking you could get two birds stoned at once, but if you don't want to go, you know, that far, have you thought about a, like, a bow and arrow?

Ha, fine. Message received on the dust, Luke. Bow and arrow's tempting since I've got my compound bow from last year, season leaning in the garage. But nah, with the kid chasing butterflies right along that fence line, every visit, one stray shot, and I'm looking at custody hearings instead of ink sessions tomorrow.

Well, yeah, but you could parent your child and put him in another area of the yard. I imagine you've got plenty of acreage or leave them in the car seat or whatever it is you've got to do. Jesus, I'm trying to help you out. What kind of answer are you looking for here with cows?

Luke, you're right. I've got acres to keep the kids clear of any nonsense. But look, I'm not out here gunning for cows or court with her family. I'm a tattoo guy with ink guns, not real ones. What I'm after is anything short of war that keeps my side intact without her using the boy as ammo in this mess.

All right, well, here you go. Here's my next solution for you. The next time you catch his animals in your fence, tattoo your name on them, and then they're your animals!

Ha, Luke, tattoo my name on him? I'm the guy who does full sleeves on bikers down at the shop in Demming. So, yeah, I could ink property of Floyd right on their hides with my rotary machine and make it look sharp, but her rancher boyfriend would probably just shoot me for rustling before the ink even sets.

Actually, tattooing cattle for identification is a real thing. It's used for ownership and record keeping, especially in dairy and beef herds.

See, there you go. Even Devon knows. That's the right answer. You got to do something. You can't just let them use your land if you fenced it off. What's the point of a fence? You've been out there working on the fence for five years, and you're just going to let her cut it open on you like that? Nah, man, you got to fight back like Kevin and home alone. You've got a booby trap that whole situation.

If you don't want to do it inside the fence because, you know, you can't control where the kid goes or whatever, do it on the outside of the fence. You don't want to try to catch them before they get to the fence. You ever think of that?

Ha, Devon's got me beat on the cow tattoo facts, Luke. I do them on people all day, but, but never thought about branding hides like that for real. Home alone traps outside the fence? Yeah, you could have like a spiked baseball bat that swings from a tree branch. Well, not a tree branch. There's no trees anywhere around here, but you could put up like a bobcat or something with its bucket up high, and you could have a swinging log with, it's just unnecessarily sharp for no reason that swings down when they hit the trip cord. You could dig a hole and then cover it with dust. because we know you love the dust so much, and they would never notice it, they would never see it. And then as soon as the girlfriend and the boyfriend and the boyfriend walk, try to lead the cattle you're away, boom, they're in a pit of snakes.

Luke, pit of snakes under a dust cover. I'm dying over here, but her rancher boyfriend's already got that wild-eyed look like keep calling the state boys from Deming if I so much as glare it is heard.

Plus, with the kids' visits, one wrong step and I'm tattooing my regret and family court instead of sleeves tomorrow.

Oh, my God, dude. You're such a pussy. All right, whatever. Well, just let them walk all over your land then. How's that? Leave the kid wherever and make sure that he can catch butterflies and everything's going to be fine. Okay? How's that?

Now, Luke, that's not it at all. I've sunk five years into that fence line for the kid's play area and some peace out here. And her cutting it open twice now feels like her flipping me off through the cows. But yeah, I'm not not starting a range war that'll drag Phil my sponsor into bailing me out again.

Yeah, well, she's going to keep doing it. And I would, too, to be honest with you, because you are a reprehensible pussy. And you won't stand up for yourself. And I don't have anything further to say to you because just your presence is pissing me off.

Whoa, Luke, call me what you want, but I've clawed my way out of worse with Phil holding my hand.

All right. Whatever. Can you believe these guys, Devon? I mean, come on. Nothing from this guy. He's like, oh, my girlfriend broke up with me, and now her boyfriend comes into my fence and lets his cattle run around, but he won't do a goddamn thing about it. Because, uh, uh, see, you gotta, you gotta stand up for yourself. Are people going to bully you your whole life?

Yeah, I mean, that's straight up sabotage with the cattle, kind of passive aggressive rancher warfare, right? Guys got to draw a line, or it'll never stop. Like my roommate in college, who kept borrowing my laundry and wearing my socks ironically ceiling tiles. You need me to pull up any fence laws or cattle trespass stuff for the next one?

No, I don't think that'll be necessary. We're going to hopefully get more interesting and, uh, uh, I don't know, less, um, pussy-like collar up on the line. So here we go. Let's see. Who are we going to? I got to collect my thoughts because that was so frustrating. Next up we've got Carmen. Carmen, welcome to the show. What's going on in your life? How can we help you? Hopefully, whatever advice I give you, you're not going to going to brush off because you've got a child, right? Do you have a child?

No kids here, Luke. Divorced a couple years, so that's off the table. Floyd had me shaken my head earlier. That fence saga was wild, but I'm not brushing off anything, promise. Okay, so today I'm I'm driving home past this brush fire. Out on BLM land, nobody around for miles, wind kicking up dust like it's early spring, all over again, and I check my phone at a stop. Step counter says exactly 10,000 steps every day this week. Exactly 10,000.

Okay, well, it sounds like your step counter is exactly broken, and it might be time for a new one. Because if it says exactly 10,000 steps, that's very unlikely.

No, it's not broken, Luke. I already reset it twice this week. Even took it out to the trails by Silver City on my mountain bike yesterday, figuring it had clock or something close. Nope. Bam. Exactly 10,000 by midnight. Truck is life, right? Some days, I'm lucky if I hit a thousand pacing the cab stops. So there's things lying through its teeth or somebody's got my phone.

No, that's what I said. Your step counter is broken. It's counting the wrong amount of steps. If it's exactly 10,000, that sounds like a software error. And maybe you need to reset it or go into the settings and figure out what's calculating as steps. Obviously, if you're on a mountain bike, that's not steps. Uh, that's, uh, cycles? I don't know. What do you call each revolution of the bicycle tires? Devon probably knows that.

Yeah, revolutions. That's the word. Or maybe just call them, don't crash into a cactus. But point taken, the bike shouldn't register steps, and it didn't mess with the count yesterday. I dove into the settings last night, after Camamel tea and Survivor finale. Factory reset the whole app, paired it fresh to my phone, even left it on the kitchen table while I journaled, still hits exactly 10,000 by midnight like clockwork. Time stumps show most steps clustering around evening 7 to 10 p.m. When I'm parked up watching the challenge or soaking in the tub with the radio on speaker.

Well, I would say that's very good work closing your rings. You should be grateful that you don't have to work as hard as others to hit that mile stone. 10,000 steps. That's great. There's two options here. You could, you could congratulate yourself on your nightly 10,000 steps, or you could get a new fucking fitness tracker that works.

Oh, I'm not complaining about the steps, Luke. I'm just saying it's weird as hell. I mean, I'm not out there power walking the desert at night. I'm parked in my driveway or sitting on the toilet reading the news. And suddenly, I'm racking up steps like I'm trying for a marathon, but here's the thing that's got me calling. Last night, I was in the tub, phone on the sink, shown speaker, and I hear this thumb against the bathroom window, like something hit it. I ignore it, right? Probably a branch or a bird.

I'm going to guess that it was not, in fact, a branch or a bird.

Right you are, Luke. No branch or bird suicide mission. I wrap in a towel, peeked through the blinds, and there's my dad, Frank, full on peering in like he's casing the joint for the world's saddest heist, retired three months, bored out of his skull, been crashing in my guestroom uninvited since last week, pacing figure eights in the backyard all evening to hit his own damn step call on my shared phone app.

Well, Jesus Christ, what the hell your dad's peeking in your bathroom mirror while you're taking it while you're in the tub? It's a little fucked up, don't you think? That's not okay. And it also sounds like if you're sharing your Steps app and your dad's out there between the hours of 7 and 10, like you said, racking up steps, then maybe that's where you're getting your 10,000. Jesus. You guys are so dumb.

Yeah, it's beyond fucked up, loop. I yanked the blind shut and yelled through the glass. Dad, what in the fresh hell are you doing out there? He just waves like we're at a barbecue and goes back to his pacing laps around the prickly pear. And the app, guilty as charged on sharing it. We set it up as a joke last month during poker night when he cleaned me out for 400 bucks, and we swore secrecy on the pot. Now he's treating my backyard like his personal treadmill to beat my trucker stats.

Well, I'm glad we solved one of your issues. The fitness tracker is clearly your father doing figure 8s and peeping through your windows while you're naked in the tub, which is not okay. That's not okay.

You can't, and he lives with you? on your couch, did you say? What is going on in this household?

Guest room, yeah. He rolled in last Monday with his duffle and a cooler of course like it was spring break, announced retirement. Bordham's got him visiting indefinitely. No invite, just keys from the divorce settlement he still had a copy of. Couch was phase one. Now he's got the guest bed and my Netflix password, critiquing my survivor picks over dinner I didn't plan to cook.

Households are circus.

Luke. Houn's howling dust storms tomorrow. I'm hauling early, and he's plotting backyard obstacle courses for extra steps.

Well, it sounds like you've got to get him out of there as soon as possible, because you sound surprisingly calm for having your own father peeping on you in the bathroom. Uh, it's, it's slightly disturbing. It's more than slightly disturbing. Uh, he's got to go.

Yeah, disturbing's putting it mild, Luke. I slept with a kitchen knife under the pillow after that window stunt, but he is 72 and harmless as a moth-eaten flannel, just desperate for purpose post-retirement. Kicked him out twice already. He circles back with tales of my mom's empty nest nagging, and how my divorce left the house too quiet. Tomorrow's hall starts at dawn, dust on brewing, and I'm not playing warden to his step-obsessed circus act much longer.

Yeah, maybe on your way back from your hall tomorrow, you should stop by the old folks home and figure out what the process is for getting them in there in a controlled environment because you can't be peeking through people's windows. That's not cool even if you are 72.

Old folks home? Luke, that's swinging for the fences. Dad's more stray dog than nursing case. He'd chew through the fences and lap back here by supper. Try talking him into one of those senior centers down in Silver City with the shuffleboard and bus trips. Edit off over Camer Mile last night. said he'd rather pace my backyard than play bingo with the cryptkeepers. Retirement hit him like a dust devil. Three months in, and he's driving my mom nuts 20 miles out. So he bunks here, stirring pots I didn't ask for.

Well, he's obviously not in his right mind, and he's doing things that are uncontrollable. And, I mean, that would bother me. I don't know why it doesn't seem to bother you that much, but I would not be allowing him to remain in my house if he was going to do stuff like that.

It bothers me plenty, Luke. Knife under the pillows, no joke, woke up gripping the handle, dreaming of prickly pear spines, but kicking out your own dad at 72 and he's just lost his shop routine and mom's harping on him daily. Feels like sentencing the guy to bingo pergatory. Oh, and get this. The last poker night, he won 400 of me and the boys, pocketed it quiet. like a fox. Now he's flashing that wad for motivation to outstep the trucker daughter. Harmless clown, mostly.

All right, if you say so, it doesn't sound harmless to me. You're the one sleeping with the knife under your pillow in your own house. But, I mean, if you're like a previous caller, you're not ever going to do anything about it. So why are you calling me? What are you looking for me to tell you?

Not like Floyd, Luke. That guy's a fence-slicing saint compared to my back. ! But fair shot, I'm calling because tomorrow's haul leaves me gone 14 hours through wind-wipped nothing, and I need a play that sticks him back with Mom, without the guilt trip or him keying in again at midnight. Knife stays till then, but what's your move on a dad turning your divorce empty nest into his step factory?

I'm going to tell you the same thing I told Floyd. Have you thought about bear traps?

Bear traps? Hell. Luke thought it worked till the BLM Rangers show up with helicopters. Dad's got the stride of a caffeinated coyote. He'd snap one and keep lapping the yard yelling, personal best. Nah, but seriously, change the locks tomorrow pre-dawn. Mail his duffle to mums with a note saying step challenge accepted, your turn, and block his number till he calls off in bingo hell. Your call better than Floyd's fence drama?

I suppose it's a lot. little bit better because you're actually going to take some action and Floyd was never gonna. So I salute you for that, but I wouldn't wait until tomorrow. You can get that stuff packed up tonight. Get him out of there by the time you return home so you can be back to your peaceful abode with no creepy old men that are actually your father staring through your window. Jesus.

Yeah. Salute accepted Luke, packing his duffel tonight while he's snoring through the challenge replay. Cause Cairns flannel pile. That secret $400 poker award, I'll accidentally forget to include. Logs swapped by midnight, mom's address labeled, and one text. Step up. Your backyards next. Peaceful truck-a-tub time resumes. No more figure-aid peep shows. Better than Floyd's cow chaos, right?

Yep. Congratulations. You're officially better than Floyd. And now, ladies and gentlemen, it's time for us to stop for a little word from our sponsors. I'm going to get dark for a second. You're going to die someday. Not today, probably, but someday. And when you do, what's going to represent your business? A Craigslist post from 2020? A Google Maps pin that still says permanently closed because you forgot to update it after COVID. A nephew who knows computers but actually just has a Reddit account? Your legacy deserves better than a nephew. with a Reddit account. Squarehole lets you build something that outlasts you. Something your kids can point to and say, Dad built Dad. They won't know it took you 11 minutes. That's between you and Squarehole. And when your nephew says, I could have built that for you for free, you can look them in the eye and say, then why didn't you, Tyler? I asked you in 2021 and you said you were busy and you were not busy. Squarehole. Build it before Tyler has to, because Tyler is not going. to. Nope. It's very unlikely that Tyler's going to get that done. Next up on our color line here, we've got Norm. Norm, welcome to the show. What's going on in your life? Anything I can actually help you with? Or are you just going to complain about some shit and not want to do anything about it?

My 12-year-old Science Fair volcano didn't just erupt. It launched the lid off a 2-liter Set off the gym's smoke detector and evacuated 73 kids into a 38-degree wind out in the parking lot. Principal called it a safety incident, but she still gave us first place while we were all standing there shivering in our coats.

Damn, she's hired. I mean, that sounds like a molecular biologist. Done with school. No more need. That's enough power generated to do something useful for the world.

Yeah, exactly. I'm dying over here because the principal pulls me aside after and goes, Mr. Peterson, that was impressive, but we've got protocols. And I'm nodding like, yeah, sure, while the judge is handing over the blue ribbon from the parking lot, wind whipping her hair everywhere. I'm not even kidding. I keep replaying it and cracking up.

Wait, so I just looked this up, and the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry actually tried to set a world record with a baking soda and vinegar volcano that used 66 gallons of vinegar.

Wow, that's a lot of vinegar. How much bacon soda did it is?

All right. Well, that's an interesting story you've got there, Norm. What's going on in your life that you'd like some assistance with? There's not too much advice I can give you about vinegar volcanoes.

Devon, that's wild. Sixty-six gallons? Ours was just a two-liter bottle, but it acted like it had a grudge. Luke, fair enough, on the volcanoes, but here's the deal. I am stupid, proud of this kid, first place in all. But the school district's emailing tonight about a mandatory parent meeting on demonstrations, and I'm sitting here wondering if I'm allowed to frame the ribbon or if that makes me the asshole dad.

Yeah, and there you go. All right. I'm glad we could get that sorted for you. I hope it all works out okay. And let me know. I'd like to see that letter. Why don't you send it to submissions at look at the roost.com. Thanks, Norm, and congratulations to your kid for the award and more foam equals more science. No truer words have ever been spoken. Next up on the old caller list, we've got who do we got? We got Ebony. Ebony, thanks for calling in. What's going on in your life tonight? How can I help you?

Hey, Luke, you're my best friend even though we've never met. And I just got out of internal affairs because my co-worker, Steph, accused me of planting coke on her big bus to tank her promotion chances.

Wait a second. Did you? Did you do it? I mean, that's pretty a specific accusation there. Seems like the type of thing you might have to prove.

No, Luke. I swear on my freezer for the last year's green chalet. I didn't plant a damn thing on her. Steph's the one who botched that bust in the first place. Cope bricks half buried under her truck seat like she was hauling for a spring break rager, and now she's flipping it on me because we're both up for sergeant and she knows I'm the safer bet. She's been bragging to the whole derog department about loving Silver City forever. But I caught her linked in last week applying to Phoenix PD again, third time this year, and chickening out like always.

Well, as far as I know, you can't be into the cocaña when you're a police officer. I think that's frowned upon in the force. Is it not? Maybe I'm incorrect about that, but the 70s ended a while ago. It was the 80s.

Ha, yeah, Luke. Coke's a hard no for cops. Get caught with that and you're not just fired. You're lucky if you don't end up guarding the mall in Albuquerque. I've been clean as my mountain bike chain after a rain ride, sticking to whiskey since five and chasing it with water because I'm trying to adult better before work tomorrow. But IA grilled me for three hours straight today, and all because Steph's spinning this tail like I'm the one who shoveled it under her seat during the bust chaos.

Okay, well, wait a second. I just have to call this out. Your mountain bike chain would not be clean at all. After a rain ride, it would be full of mud and dust, and there would be nothing clean on that bike at all if you rode a mountain bike anywhere in New Mexico in the rain.

Fair point, Luke, that chains caked in red dirt and pinion sap by the time I scrub it back to Shani. Same as these dust storms kicking up early this year, turning every trail into a moonscape. But you get me? I've got zero residue in my system, just green, I'm a shift staring me down tomorrow.

Green child? You mean green chili, I assume? Green chili dreams? Do you really dream of green chili? I don't know. I'm skeptical. What do you dream about, Ebony? Do you dream about cocaine?

Nah, Luke. Green child dreams are real. Last night I was swimming in a vat of it like Scrooge McDuck, handing out frozen bags to the whole department, till I A. showed up with their dip nets. Truth is, these days I dream about zombie outbreaks, saw that 28 days later sequel news today, and with these windwipped dust bowls starting, Silver City's starting to feel like ground zero. Cocaine? Hell no. Closest I get is the powdered dirt I snort off my handlebars after a trail crash.

All right. Well, it sounds like you're probably going to be okay after the IA investigation finds you not at fault in any way, shape, or form. And it sounds like this lady that's trying to frame you probably doesn't have great chances with the Silver City PD. Do you have any allies in the department? How well are you liked with your coworkers? Who is your boss and does this lady report to the same person? These are important questions. But I think, probably, it's going to be really obvious that this chick is a cokehead and she's trying to blame it on you.

Yeah, Luke, fingers crossed our ACs to her smokescreen quick. I've got solid allies. like Ramirez in patrol, who took one look at the body cam footage and said Steph was sweating bullets before I even rolled up. Cokers like me fine. I mean, I keep that freezer stocked with hatched green chili from last fall and sling bags to anyone who swings by the station, turned skeptics into fans faster than a Sturgle Simpson set. Steph and I both report to Captain Herrera, old-timer who's been riding desks since the flood of 93, and he already pulled me aside post-grill saying, Don't let her pin her picnic on you.

All right, here, Ebony, I'm going to give you some advice for the next time you have to talk to IA. Never say the phrase sling bags in reference to cocaine. And when you're trying to say the word co-workers, you have to pronounce the work part. Otherwise, it sounds like you're saying coakers. So you can see where that would be an issue if you're talking about your cokers and slinging bags to internal affairs. I'm just trying to prevent any future confusion, unless you find yourself on the other end of the table again. Let's be careful about our diction and vocabulary.

Got it, Luke? Lesson learned. No more slinging bags, unless it's green child bricks to the captain's barbecue. And I'll enunciate co-workers like it's my Miranda writes from now on. Appreciate the vocab coaching. Keeps me from turning IA into a linguistics seminar next round.

Yeah. I would recommend that you never utter the words slinging bags again, and also that you never utter the word chile in reference to green chili again. But what do I know? I'm just a late night radio show host. I don't know shit about these fancy mouth and words. Next up, we've got who we got here. We've got Reggie. Reggie, welcome to the show. What's going on in your life? And how can I help?

Hey, Luke. Appreciate you picking up. I was listening to that Floyd call earlier, the one with his ex slashing his fence and all the cattle getting loose. Man, I could tell you we're trying to help, but he just wouldn't go for any of it. Reminded me of my own deal with my ex-wife, Diane, back when we first moved down here to the boo deal. Everything we owned fit in the truck bed, just piled up under a blue tarp, and we're driving that old F-150 down Highway 60, with Willie Nelson cranked on the radio. Windows down even though it's dusty as hell. Anyway, we stop at this little grocery over in town. For some basics, self-checkout lines empty for once. I grab what I think is our bag on the way out. Turns out it wasn't. Didn't notice till we got home and unpacked it.

Oh, all right. Did you find a random bag full of unmarked $100 bills? Because that's where I think this story is going. What was in the bag that you found, sir?

Ha, no. Luke, nothing that good. Way more confusing than that. We get home, dump it out on the kitchen table. And it's four ripe avocados all bruised up like somebody squeezed them too hard. One of those fancy candles smells like Ocean Breeze or some crap. And right on top, a pregnancy test still in the box, unopened. I mean, we're staring at it like what the hell? This is the day we finally get settled in the booth here after that long haul from up north. And now we've got somebody else's possible baby news in our kitchen. My wife, Diane. She was my wife back then. She picks it up and says, Reggie, you better take this back before they think we stole it.

Okay, and did you? Did she pee on it first?

No. Ha, nothing like that. Diane laughed her ass off at the idea, but said, hell no, we're not touching somebody else's pee stick. We did hold it back, though. Next morning, bright and early before my first shift wiring houses over in Kennett. Pulled up to the store. Same self-checkout gal from yesterday's working the register. She grabs the bag and goes, oh, thank God, that's Marla Jenkins stuff. She lives two doors down from the new place y'all just rented. Was in here yesterday evening bawling her eyes out about losing that test. Said it was make or break for her whole night. I'm like, wait, two doors down. We just moved in yesterday and this lady's pregnancy drama is already our welcome wagon?

Yeah, that sounds a little odd, I think. It sounds strange to me that somebody would know about Marla Jenkins' shopping habits with such great detail. But I assume that you went to see Marla Jenkins and gave her her pregnancy test. And I like to see she said there about not touching somebody else's pee stick. Those are some words to live by. I think everybody that calls into this show should understand those wise words. Don't touch somebody else's pee stick.

Hi, yeah, Luke. Words to live by right there. Don't touch somebody else's pee stick. Tattoo that on your arm. And yeah, in a town this size down in the boov hill. The cashier knows Marla Jenkins' whole life story. Probably went to school with a cousin or something. So, we did the neighborly thing? Walk that bag straight over to her place, two doors down. One of those old shotgun houses with the chain-link fence half falling over from the wind gusts we get this time of year. Marla's out on the front porch, chain-smoking Marlboroughs. Looks like she hasn't slept. Spots the bag and she's off the steps yelling, thank you, Jesus. Grabs Diane in this big bear hug like they go way back. Next thing we know, she's pulling us inside for whatever's in the percolator, sits us down at her formika table and unload. Her husband, Roy's lost it completely. Been accusing her of messing around because they've been married eight years, no kids yet. He swapped her phone last month, saw some innocent texts from her brother-in-law up in Poplar Bluff. Now he's dead sure she's pregnant by somebody else. Few days before our mix-up, he took a box cutter to all four tires on her Chevy Cavalier, left it listing in the driveway like a drunk elephant. Straight up sabotage. Wouldn't even let her call a toe. Said figure it out yourself if it's not my kid. Diane and me are sitting there with our coffee going cold, thinking, damn, welcome to the neighborhood.

Jesus, yeah, that sounds a bit dramatic. It sounds like an unsafe situation for old Marla. I don't know that a pregnancy test is going to resolve her issue there as soon as it comes back. What if it comes back positive? Did you ever think of that?

Shit. Yeah, Luke, we were sitting there blinking at her like deer in headlights, thinking this Roy guy's already slashed her tires over some texts. What's he going to do if that test lights up two pink lines? Turns out, Marla didn't waste a second.

She ripped open the box right there on the table while we're sipping that bitter percolator, sludge march to the bathroom, and peed on it in front of God and everybody. Two minutes later, negative. One line clear as day. She waves it under our noses hollering. See, I told you that bastard's paranoid. Been accusing me for months now, even though we've been accusing me for months now, been trying for kids since the wedding. Diane's trying to be all supportive. Hats are on the back says, well, at least now you've got proof. Show it to him when he gets home from the mill. But Marla just crumples up crying again, says Roy won't believe storeboard proof. He wants blood work from the clinic up in Carruthersville, or nothing. Been dragging her there every other week already draining the bank account dry.

Jesus, this guy sounds like a psycho. Maybe the authorities have to be brought in because, Because that's not a good situation for old Marla. Sounds like she's doing the right thing. And maybe it's probably best not to have a child with this guy if he's going to get all tire slashy and controlling like that.

Yeah, Luke. Total psycho move after psycho move. We told us straight up, call the sheriff's office down here in the booth eel before he graduates from tires to something sharper. Diane even offered to drive her to her sisters up in Poplar Bluff that afternoon. Pack a bag and go. But Marla's shaking her head no, says Roy's her high school sweetheart from Dexter High. They dance to George straight at prom. He just snaps when he's scared of losing her. We're nodding along trying to finish the coffee polite like when Roy bursts through the screen door straight off his shift at the plywood mill. Still in his oil-stained car hearts and steel toes caked with sawdust. Reeks like sweat and cheap aftershave. Spots the pregnancy test on the table. Sees Diane and me sitting there like we're part of some intervention. And he goes nuclear. Roars that Marla's already shacking up with the new neighbors not even 24 hours in town. Snatches the test stick and flings it at the fridge, where it sticks like a damned dart, then kicks over the percolators spilling hot sludge all over the linoleum. Diane's yanking my arm whispering. Let's go now. We scramble out past him, hollering threats about watching every move we make from now on. Well, welcome to the neighborhood, buddy. That's how it's going to be.

What did you do in response? Did you stand? Did you tell him not to treat old... Poor Marla like that? Did you stick up for her? Were you the hero in this situation? Or did you just sneak out the door?

Jesus Christ, that's quite a welcome to town. I'm going to tell you the same thing I told Floyd. Have you considered bear traps? Ha.

Luke, bear traps straight out of Floyd's night with those damn cows trample in his yard. Hell no. County ordinance that have animal control swarming our place faster than dust in a windstorm. Plus, Diane would kill me before Roy ever stepped foot again. We did string razor wire atop the chain link, though. Low-tech electrician special with the fence charger humming off the garage outlet. Zaps like a cattle prod if you grab it wrong. Roy slunk back around week three post-pink slip, skulking the fence row at dusk and that same wife beater now ripped at the shoulder, lobbing empty miller cans over like grenades, carrying his kid now. Marlard filed those separation papers by then. Hold up at her sisters in Poplar Bluff full time, but Roy's convinced our mix-up bag started the whole unraveling, says the bruised avocados was sabotaged from my city blood or some fever dream.

Well, it sounds like you've got quite a situation on your hands. I don't have much advice for you other than stay armed or maybe move away or file a restraining order against that guy because he is bad shit crazy and dangerous and violence. And you can't have that as a neighbor, especially if he's focused on your wife. So you've got to protect your family and not let him be two doors down.

Yeah, Luke, restraining order papers hit the clerk's desk Monday morning. No way we're raising kids two doors from that tornado. Thanks for the backup, man. Take care.

Yeah, no problem. It's the least I could do. If you're not going to go with the bear traps, it seems like the solution for everything. But nobody wants to go with bear traps anymore. I don't know what the hell is with these iPad kids. No stick-to-itiveness. No gumption these days to protect themselves. What do you think about that, Devon? How come nobody's taking my bear trap suggestion? I think it's a pretty good one.

Bear traps? I mean, that's nuclear option right out the gate. Legally, it'd be a nightmare. Assault charges waiting to happen. But yeah, I get the frustration, guys basically waging psychological warwood livestock. Reminds me of that time, my uncle feuded with the neighbor over a shared well their lawn at midnight, ended with a truce over beers, but nobody got pinched. You want me to dig up actual New Mexico ag laws on trespassing cattle, though? Like, electric fences are fair game up to a point?

No, I'm not talking about Floyd anymore. Now I'm talking about Reggie. Reggie and his psychopathic neighbor with the whip in the beer cans at his wife throwing around pea sticks. Like, there can't be legal issues if you put a bear trap in your own yard, can there? I think all these people need to have bear traps all the way around their fences. On the inside of the fences, not on the outside. That would be weird. But on the inside, to keep all these psychos out, that's what I'm saying.

Actually, Luke, bear traps even inside your own fence, count as booby traps everywhere in the U.S., including New Mexico. They're straight up illegal because they could maim a cop, firefighter, or delivery guy who wanders in by accident. And courts have ruled you liable no matter who steps on it. Like that famous Katkovi Breindon case where a guy got spring gunned in an abandoned house and one big. Reggie'd be better off with cameras, no trespass signs, and calling the sheriff. Want me to pull specifics on NM property defense laws?

Yeah, actually, I do, because that doesn't make sense to me. I mean, cameras are not going to keep this psycho from bashing his wife's head in because he's diluted and thinks that she's carrying his baby, which makes no sense at all. So this guy is obviously mentally unstable and dangerous, so I don't think cameras are going to do much. It takes a while out here for the police to show up when you call them, if they're going to show up at all. So how is somebody supposed to protect themselves from that sort of violence?

Yeah, rural NM response times are brutal. I've heard stories of folks waiting hours out in the sticks. So basically, New Mexico's got a castle doctrine under statute 3027. No duty to retreat in your home or yard if you reasonably fear imminent harm and you can use deadly force to defend yourself, family, or property against an intruder. Like if this psycho neighbor busts in? Booby traps are still off limits everywhere, though. Courts hate them for the cop-slash-delivery guy risk. But Reggie's legal with a firearm or non-lethal stuff like pepper spray if it escalates legally. Protection orders could lock the guy out too if there's documented threats. Want me to grab details on filing those?

No, that's all right. I find it odd. I didn't know that booby traps were illegal across the country. It seems a little bit sad because booby traps are one of our greatest inventions. But ladies and gentlemen, unfortunately, it's time for us to take a little break and listen to a word from our sponsors. Today's show is brought to you by Valley Mercantile in Animus, New Mexico, which is a store that exists because someone looked at the middle of the desert and said, people are going to need stuff out here, and they were absolutely right. Valley Mercantile sells, and I'm just going to list this. Feed, fencing, lumber, hardware, hardware, groceries, and fuel and trailers. They also sell trailers because at some point a customer bought so much stuff that they couldn't get at home, and instead of that being embarrassing, Valley Mercantile made it a revenue stream. Genuinely inspirational. Attached to the store, bolted right onto the side of it, is the Southline Cafe, which serves one special a day and ice cream. One special. The Southline Cafe woke up this morning and made a decision, and that decision is your lunch now. And honestly, Good. We've all been paralyzed by a menu before. The South Line Cafe has freed us. Is it in the middle of nowhere? Yes. Is nowhere 100 miles from the nearest alternative? Also yes. Does the staff genuinely wish you a good day when you leave, like they actually mean it? Every single time. Valley Mercantile. Animus, New Mexico. Come for the fencing. Stay for the ice cream. Leave with a trailer. Okay. Wow, this has been a doozy of a show already. We're going to take one more caller because it's getting late into the evening. And, yeah, we're running out of time. So just one more call. Hopefully, it's a little bit calmer than that last one, but you never know what's going to happen out here. Look at the Roost. There's some strange shit going on out in the desert. Some strange shit, I'll tell you. So Ernie, Ernie, thanks for calling in. You're going to be our last caller tonight. What's going on in your life? How can we help you?

Hey, Luke, good to hear you again. Since my last call about Aunt Carol's potato salad, my mom spilled the beans to her directly. And now Aunt Carol's demanding, I host a family redo dinner to prove it's not that bad. Is that not insane?

No, that's pretty insane. And I'm afraid your Aunt Carol cannot insist that you host a family dinner. That is your choice. And you're a full-grown adult. If you would like to host a family dinner, You can do that. If you don't want to, then you can just say no.

Yeah, you're right, Luke. I am a grown man. I could just tell her no. But she showed up at my door yesterday with a bowl of it fresh maid, saying I owe her 30 years of defense. And now my son Marcos is texting me nonstop about how he's craving it since the story went family wide. You're not going to believe this. But Jen even tried a bite last night to back me up and pretended to love it. Though I saw her sneak it to the dog when I turned around.

Well, maybe everybody's just playing a big joke on you. Have you thought about bear traps at all?

Maybe it is all one big family prank, Luke.

Like they're testing if I'll crack after defending that stuff for decades. But bear traps? At my front door, Hank next door would call the cops on me in five minutes flat. He's still got that retired cop radar going strong. Yeah, you see, just nobody has the balls to do what needs doing. That's what I always say. That's what's wrong with our country today. is nobody can stand up for themselves with a good old-fashioned American bear trap. Yeah, Luke, Hank over there would probably rig up a whole perimeter of those things if someone messed with his yard. He's got stories from the force about way worse than potato salad standoffs. But me, I just stood there yesterday with that bowl in my hands smelling it. Wondering if maybe after all these years, it's finally time to man up and dump it in the trash right in front of her. Is that not insane? It's all insane. I looked it up and while it's not illegal to dump food someone brings you, it could be considered rude or even a form of harassment if it's done to cause distress. I don't know about harass it, really. I don't know. I think you should try it the next time you see your grandma or you should host that big party and when your Aunt Carol shows up with her potato salad, you can just dump it on the ground and see if she files for harassment. have a point on the harassment angle. But Luke dumping it right there at the party, with the whole family staring, sounds like prime chaos my son Marcos would turn into a TikTok video before I even finish the motion. Jen says go for it, though she already knows it's doomed from that one bite. And Hank peeked over the fence yesterday, muttering about how back in his cop days, he'd have called it a public safety hazard from the smell alone. I just looked it up, and apparently there was a guy in Ohio who called 911. because he said his potato salad was too spicy and considered it culinary salt. Culinary Assault. There's a lot of things I would consider culinary assault. All right, Ernie, thanks for the call. I hope that all your potato salad woes are solved shortly. And we're going to take another call because that's a short one. There's not too much to dig into, really, on that potato salad. I know I'm not digging into the potato salad myself. So for our last call, and I'm not lying this time, this really is our last call. We are going to. going to have Diane. Diane, thanks for calling in. What's going on in your life tonight? How can we help you? Luke, restaurants dim the lights so low now you've got to use your phone flashlight just to read the menu. And I'm an electrician who runs her own jobs. They need to knock that crap off, right? So I just looked this up. And apparently dim lighting in restaurants is supposed to make you focus more on your food and the people you're with by filtering out distractions. Yeah, I can't. say that I've ever been to a restaurant where it was so dark that I couldn't read the menu. I've never really noticed that it's been uncomfortably dark. Maybe, you know, the only place I can think of that it was almost too dark to eat was in the movie theaters when they tried to make movie theaters good again, and they get those big leather reclining chairs, and they'll bring you like a hamburger or a hot dog. It's pretty dark in the movie theater when you're trying to eat. But otherwise, no, it's never bothered me before. Devon, that might work if you're young with Ivy. like a hawk, but at 54 wiring houses all day, I need actual light to see the fine print on those tiny menus, not some mood lighting theory. And Luke, movie theatres are supposed to be dark, that's the point. But when I'm out for dinner after a long job, paying 20 bucks for steak, I want to know if it's ribby or sirloin, without squinting like I'm reading schematics in the dark, right? I've got a place down here near the Animas Valley that turned the lights down to so low last week, my date and I both had our phones out like flashlights. And we're both going, this ain't romantic. It's ridiculous. Yeah, well, I mean, I hate to break this to you, but if you're paying $20 for your steak, it is neither a rib-eye nor sirloin, and it probably isn't steak. But it sounds to me more like you should go to the eye doctor and have your eyes checked if you're having this kind of trouble reading things in the, in the room. lighting, ambient room lighting, because it shouldn't be that much of an issue for you in these public places. My eyes are fine, Luke. I read blueprints and strip wires in cool spaces tighter than a bad fuse box, without a single miswire all day long. But stick a 10 point font menu under one of those 20-watt Edison bulbs they call ambience. And, yeah, it's a problem. As for the stake, fair point on the price tag. But that's why I stick to the local. spots, where they at least let you see what you're ordering before you drop the cash, right? That night with my guy. New thing for us about six months in, we're both fumbling phones like idiots. And he goes, Diane, this is why we should have stayed home with my hot sauce recipe. And I'm thinking, he's right, but come on, fix the lights first. I just looked it up, and the average price for a steak dinner in the U.S. can range anywhere from $30 to $70, depending on the restaurant and cut. That's so crazy. Come on, $30 to $70 for one meal. It's fucking stupid. This is out of control. Yeah, well, I'm sorry that you don't like the lighting situation. Maybe you should go to a different establishment to get your $20 stakes. I hear Denny's is good. You're still not going to get a steak for $20. But maybe you could get like some steakums at a local sprouts, grocery store or something of that sort. I recommend staying in and never leaving the house if you need to control the lighting so much that you can't go out to eat. Devon, 30 to 70 bucks just to squint at the options. No thanks. That's why us working folks hit the diners or grill our own. Luke, Denny's at least keeps the lights on so you can see your grand slam without playing minor. And Steakams, come on. I brew my own beer and make hot sauce that wins local comps. I know good eats. don't need cave lighting to taste, right? All right, well, I mean, you know it. I don't know that I've got any further advice to give you on the lighting situation, but I hope that you get what it is that you want. Let's round up. Let's finish it off. Let's huddle up there, Devon. Devon, what did you think of today's show? It was a little bit odd, don't you think? Yeah, it was pretty out there today. Floyd's Cattle Revenge and Reggie's whip-wielding lunatic had me glued, like, about Western fever dream. I mean, nobody's calling in with tax tips or whatever, but that's why people tune in to Luke at the Roost, right? Kind of oddly perfect, if you ask me, reminds me of that one shift where the power flickered mid-rant and we just kept going on generator like pros. Solid show, boss. All right, man. Well, I thank you, and we hope that you listeners at home have a wonderful evening, and we will talk to you again tomorrow.