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State of Texas. Noon. The sun is scorching so hard that grasshoppers prefer not to jump but to crawl. Farmer Jack Parkers sits on the porch, sipping iced tea and watching his favorite, a bull named Senator, nibble grass in the pen. Senator is a large animal, with character. He doesn’t like strangers. And, honestly, he doesn’t like anyone at all except Jack and, possibly, the cow Betty—but even that’s not a sure thing.

Suddenly the gate creaked. Into the yard, without asking permission, walked a man in a suit that cost more than Jack’s entire corn harvest for the year. On his lapel gleamed a metal badge. A tax inspector. Smith Vale.

“Good afternoon,” Smith said in the tone usually reserved for announcing a death. “Tax Service. I’m conducting an inspection.”

Jack slowly set down his glass.

“Listen, friend. Do you even see where you’ve walked in? This is private property. You know what we do with strangers in Texas? I have the right to shoot you, if I deem it necessary.”

Smith didn’t even blink. He silently took the badge from his pocket and turned it under Jack’s nose.

“You see? This is a federal badge. My authority allows me to go anywhere and do anything. Absolutely anything. Anything at all. Is that clear to you?”

Jack narrowed his eyes. Arguing with the feds was more trouble than it was worth. But there was something about that badge... irritating.

Meanwhile Smith had already opened the barn door and peeked inside. Jack came over:

“Hey! What are you poking around barns for? This is private property. It’s unethical, after all!”

Smith raised the badge again, like a priest raising a crucifix.

“Everything’s ethical to me; I have authority,” he snapped. “I’m allowed everything. I can look even in your refrigerator, in your bedroom. And even into your soul. Do you finally understand? I’m allowed anything at all. Got it? So back off and don’t get in the way, unless you want trouble!”

Jack boiled with indignation but said nothing. And Smith walked on, toward the pen where Senator stood. The bull lazily chewed hay and looked at the stranger with poorly concealed contempt.

“And what’s this structure?” Smith asked, pointing at a small shelter where Senator usually slept.

“This is a pen. In other words, a bedroom for the bull,” Jack answered calmly. “But you’d better not go in there.”

“Oh, really?” Smith smirked. “And who’s going to stop me? You? Well? Try it! You’ll end up in jail right away! I have special authority!”

He flung open the door of the shelter. Inside, in the half-darkness, two eyes flashed. Huge. Red. And a low, gut-deep “moo-o-o” rang out, making even the windowpanes in the house tremble.

Senator did not like anyone barging unceremoniously into his space.

The bull lunged forward. And Smith, losing all his federal importance and pomposity, squealed in fright and bolted. He zigzagged between the garden beds, tripped over watering cans, leaped over bushes. He tore his trouser leg. He stained his jacket with manure. Senator ran after him relentlessly, gaining on him. Horns—like two spears. Hooves—like hammers.

“Help!!!” Smith yelled. “He’ll gore me! Trample me!!! Call the police!!!”

Jack stood by the porch, arms folded across his chest. At first he just smiled. Then he chuckled. And soon he was bent double with wild, hysterical laughter, slapping his knees.

“Why are you running?!” he shouted, choking with laughter. “Stop and show the bull your badge! He’s the main taxpayer here!”

Smith, no longer seeing where he was going, tried to pull out the badge on the run but dropped it in the mud. Senator stepped on it with his hoof and pressed it into the ground along with the inspector’s federal pride.

“My authority doesn’t work on the bull,” Smith groaned, dodging another lunge from the enraged animal.

“Doesn’t work? It works all right!” Jack shouted. “It’s just that Senator has more authority! He’s been here since birth!”

Twenty minutes later Smith climbed over the fence and vanished into the corn, leaving behind as a memento for the farmer and the bull one boot, a scrap of his jacket, and his completely shattered faith in the power of a federal badge.

Jack walked up to Senator and patted his mighty neck.

“Good boy. I respect that. And this badge...” He picked the bent metal disk out of the mud. “I’ll hang it on the pen. Let everyone see that this is private property. And here we have our own authority. Horned authority.”

Senator snorted contentedly and returned to his hay. He was in complete agreement.

Author: Dmitry DARMODEKHIN