"Come on, I'm going location scouting!" Brian said, rubbing his hands together.

Cushing winced as the sunlight poured in from the open door, the heat already striving for agonizing heights. They arrived in Nobility the previous night, a two-hour drive from the airport.

The smell betrayed the non-smoking room's smoking origins, and the flowery bed sheets and pastel green shower curtain betrayed the hotel's 1970s origin.

Otherwise, ten rooms at fifty-five dollars a night each was a steal.

"Location scouting? There's like 500 people here, max. It's all woods! What do we need to scout?" Cushing asked.

Brian had been a cameraman with the show since the first episode. Unlike Cushing, Brian enjoyed the work, and even enjoyed traveling from small town to small town.

He also enjoyed location scouting, which was essentially exploring the day before the shoot. In reality, all the actual filming locations had been selected weeks before. Brian yearned to take in what experiences the town offered to outsiders. In bright red shorts and a sleeveless shirt, Brian looked like a middle-aged man on vacation, instead of the twenty-seven-year-old kid with shoulder length hair and beard and mustache meticulously trimmed until he resembled a 1920s stage play villain.

"Fuck it," Cushing said. "Not like I have anything else going."

"All right!" Brian said.

Nobility, Texas compromised a tiny downtown square, which encircled a flagpole in the center of the parking lot. The flagpole's base bore an engraving of the year of the town's founding, 1847. The town did have a school, which managed to squeeze Kindergarten through twelfth grade in a couple of small buildings.

The nearest anything resembling "civilization" to Cushing would be Dallas, an hour south and on the other side of the nearest town, Marble Springs.

The town boasted two small restaurants, both housed within competing gas stations. The streets were sprinkled with patches of black asphalt, binding the crumbling roads together.

Brian sat behind the wheel of the van, the equipment rattling in the back. No one else in the crew opted to join Brian. The streets were devoid of life, except for a single wandering dog sniffing a patch of grass growing through the pavement.

"It's like a ghost town, where is everyone?"

"It's a 105 outside," Brian yelled over the static flavored classic rock. "They're probably inside."

"Not much to see anyway." Cushing laughed.

Another small town that, like most in Texas, had one school, two restaurants/gas stations, and five churches.

The town's history, like most in Texas, was rife with bloodshed resulting from reconstruction, or the second Civil War. Unwilling to let the war die, veterans returned home defeated and determined to take their loss out on anyone of Northern birth or dark skin. Nobility was a small town with a quaint history of riots, lynching, and country music.

During their location scouting, Brian took Cushing to a cemetery containing the graves of the leaders of the Robert/Louis feud. Lee Roberts, of Confederate persuasion, rested under a massive stone bearing an intricately carved Confederate battle flag. Louis, a Northern transplant sent to calm matters in 1870s Nobility, laid under a small plaque with his name and birthdate.

While Brian consulted his phone, calling out facts and tidbits culled from Wikipedia and a handful of historical sites with 1990s web design esthetics, Cushing took a seat on an overturned tombstone.

"Brian," Cushing said. "What did you want to be when you grew up?"

"What?" Brian asked, snapping a picture of himself next to a cracked granite stone with his phone.

"What did you want to be, when you were a kid?" Cushing asked again.

"Happy!" Brian called out from the other end of the cemetery.

"You idiot. That's not what I meant."

"Why not?" Brian asked. "Why not be happy?"

"Okay, when you die, when anyone dies, you always have that one accomplishment, that one thing people put in your obituary. That defines you. That's how people remember you. I don't want mine to be Americans Myths and Monsters."

"Gotcha," Brian said. "I get it. I would just say you're looking at it wrong."

"You're so young," Cushing said. "What are you taking a picture of?"

"This tombstone glows under a full moon," Brian said. "I read it on this ghost hunting site."

"No, it doesn't," Cushing said, rubbing his temples.

"That's your problem, you're too cynical to enjoy any of the cool stuff we do!"

"Cool? A cemetery. Then when we were in Oklahoma-"

"The Lake Thunderbird Octopus episode!" Brian exclaimed.

"You took me to a Volkswagen on spider legs. Then Graceland Two in Mississippi."

"You know why? Because I want to include you. Because you have no friends except me." Brian sat on the phosphorescent tombstone.

"We're not friends," Cushing said.

"Then you have literally no friends. Sad, sad, sad," Brian said. "Well, I'm going to enjoy my time here and get the most out of it. We have a few days in a nice little town. I say no Internet! No phone from this point forward. I'm embracing a simpler way of life and I think you should, too."

"Simpler way of life?" Cushing laughed. "This isn't Amish country, they have phones and electricity. The only difference between this and LA is here you can have no shoes and no shirt and still get service."

"I'm just saying, you can be satisfied, you can be happy," Brian said. "Just don't get in your own way!"

"You are so, so young."

* * *

Cushing gave his face a once over in a small mirror before slamming it shut and shoving it into his pocket. He cleared his throat and smiled at the man to his right. A crewmember quickly miked him and his guest.

Maverick C. Casey. Well-past middle age and settling into old age, Maverick typically wore a t-shirt bearing the logo of a TV show he once appeared on. His shirt was always tucked into his jeans. White stubble coated his cheeks and chin. On his head wisps of gray and white bounced with every ebb of the wind. He shifted uncomfortably, pulling down his shirt so it clung less to his belly.

Today, he sported a white plaid shirt striped in red in lieu of his t-shirts. Cushing sighed. He should probably be a little friendlier to his guest, make innocuous conversation and so forth.

"Is it always this humid?"

"It's summer," Maverick said.

"You do have the accent." Cushing laughed. Maverick smiled and moved his eyes to the ground.

"I didn't mean that in a bad way. You just have an accent. Just trying to help you open up. Get loose! Anyway, we should move this shit show inside. Out of the heat."

"Heat doesn't bother me," Maverick said. At least the Searching for Cryptids host feigned respect. Jessie, the production assistant, warned him about Cushing. She was currently pacing and texting between three different phones. Gray at twenty-two. She needs a vacation, Maverick thought.

"Nervous?" Cushing asked.

"No, I've actually done this-"

"Don't be nervous, my friend. You're working with a professional," Cushing said.

"Thanks. I guess I'm always worried I'll say or do something stupid," Maverick said.

"Like spend your whole life looking for Bigfoot?" Cushing laughed. "But it's good to meet a fellow cryptozoologist."

Deep inside, some small part of Cushing cringed. Before Maverick could respond, Tom, the field director, called action.

"James Cushing, here," Cushing said, instantly dropping the tone of his voice. "And we're talking to Maverick Casey, professional monster hunter-"

Cushing saw Josh walk up to the director, in his ape costume sans mask, and whisper into Tom's ear.

"Really, Josh? The field director too?" Cushing said, looking at Casey. "Professional."

"'Director' will do just fine," Tom said.

"Well, you're the field director," Cushing said. "For the field. And only the field. This field."

Cushing motioned to the woods around them. He felt the heat from the director's stare.

"Jessie, back me up here!" Cushing said.

"My dream is to fire you. With a knife. Or a small sword," Jessie said, hissing through her teeth.

"You're the hardest working member of this team, Jessie. If it had to be anyone, I hope it's you."

For the first time since joining the show, Cushing saw Jessie smile.

"Sorry, we'll go again. James Cushing here, we're talking with professional monster hunter Maverick Casey. He's spent over fifty years combing the backwoods of-fifty years? Really? By year ten you weren't seriously rethinking your life decisions?"

Maverick fumed while Cushing's eyes were on the director and Josh's smirk.

"I mean come on, after twenty years of daytime TV and commercials for ITT Tech you never thought, 'Hey, I should give them a call.'"

"Look," Maverick said. "If you're just gonna make fun of me-"

"Relax, I'm kidding. Hey, I've only been doing this gig for three years and I feel like having the barrel of a snub-nosed .38 special for breakfast every morning."

"Stop badgering the guest," Tom ordered.

"I'm not badgering," Cushing whined. "Am I badgering?"

The director took a deep breath, puffing up like an undersea animal. Cushing smiled. Deep inside, his sense of self-preservation begged himself to stop. Cushing refused. After all, Josh would have his job soon enough. Why not have a little fun until then?

Before Maverick could respond, Cushing pulled him close with his arm around his shoulder. "See, Casey here says I'm not badgering. Tell you what, just tell your story and we'll edit it later, okay?"

"Sure, sounds good," Maverick muttered. If he didn't need this, he would walk. Or better yet, give the sneering host one right across the jaw.

"Yeah, you know the drill, you've been on a million shows like this."

Casey replied that he had actually been on fifteen shows similar to American Myths and Monsters.

"My God," Cushing sighed.

"I got to meet Robert Stack," Maverick said.

"Terrific, let's do this."

In all, Maverick Casey told his story four times, allowing Brian and Abigail, the other camera operator, to capture the same tale he'd spun since the 1970s from a variety of predictable angles. At this point, Brian was lying on the ground, holding the camera up at Maverick, who concentrated on not looking into the lens.

"Um...my name is Maverick Casey. It's an odd name, I know. Dad thought if he gave me a manly name, you know, I'd end up tough. Alcoholism runs in my family; I expect that has something to do with it. He was also a funny guy, too. Odd sense of humor."

Brian scrambled to his knees, keeping the camera focused on Maverick. Abigail stood far to the right, keeping the shot steady.

"Anyway, I've been looking for Bigfoot since at least 1958. I was ten years old when I saw it."

"Here's where we'll throw in a nice re-enactment," Cushing whispered.

"It was huge," Maverick continued, telling a story he'd told for decades, one so ingrained he wondered if was only remembering a memory of a memory at this point. "I mean, never seen anything like it before. It was massive, and boy it stunk. Some people say I've wasted my life-"

Cushing nodded in agreement.

"But they just haven't seen it for themselves. It's real. My dad, before he left, would tell me stories going way, way back before there was even a town here. People saw it then. That was how we bonded, you know?"

"Now, this is your last outing, correct?"

Maverick nodded. After decades, his search was coming to an end as the lands behind his home were filled to form a vast reservoir, allowing Dallas access to clean water. Of course, age also factored in.

"They've been threatening to make this reservoir for as long as I've been here. But now, people are clearing off the land, the creeks are already rising. Between that and being old as hell I'm running out of time."

Cushing asked his age, desperate not to laugh when Maverick said sixty-two. In actuality, the fact made Casey want to laugh as well, for many of the same reasons.

"That is old. I'm forty-two. So, I have quite a few years left. To accomplish things."

Josh snickered, crossing his arms.

"Go on," Cushing said

"So, I'm going for the last time. Staying out there as long as it takes. I mean, sure I'd like to prove it exists. If I had, maybe they wouldn't be flooding the bottoms. Also, kids might not be laughing at me or leaving as many bags of flaming dog shit on my porch either. That does get old."

With that Cushing clapped a hand on Maverick's back and the director said cut. Cushing traded pleasantries with Brian, who began dismantling the camera and tripod while other crew members gathered up equipment and grabbed their mikes. He waved at Abigail, who responded with a middle finger. She does hold a grudge, Cushing thought to himself.

Tom yelled into his phone, telling John Alvarez to talk to the production manager again. Someone needed to fire Cushing or get him in line.

In the ordered chaos, Cushing called for someone to bring him a soda while Maverick marveled at how quickly the entire set up folded away into the vans.

"That's it?" Maverick asked, aware one of his last moments on tape slipping by. He thought he had more time. He thought they would be here for a full day, maybe two.

"Yeah," Cushing replied. "Why? Did you want more face time?"

"Well, I mean, is that all the footage you're going to get?"

"Of course we'll throw in some re-enactments and get some shots of the woods before we call it good. Our guy in the suit is excellent, went to NYU, did you know that?"

"I didn't," Maverick said, watching the crew finish the load-out.

"You think you have regrets? Jesus. Hey! Any day now with that drink!"

Maverick Casey needed to salvage this moment. How many more film crews would be by to document this? Dr. Hakimzadeh was pretty adamant about Maverick's chances. Golf ball sized and growing every day, he told him.

Cushing started walking off, following the director and the man half dressed as a Sasquatch. Maverick jogged forward, grabbing his shoulder. Cushing wheeled around, brow furrowed.

"Sorry, look, I was kinda thinking you'd want to see me prepare and all," Maverick said.

"Why?" Cushing asked.

"Well," Maverick said, tugging at his shirt. "This is my last search."

Cushing looked around and chuckled. "So?"

"That's a pretty big deal for me," Maverick said, tempering his impatience. The size of a golf ball, Dr. Hakimzadeh told him with a shaking head. Although not completely round. "This is my life's work."

"You want this preserved for history or something?"

"We all want something to leave behind, don't we?" Maverick said.

Cushing, who had until that moment been prepared to tell the aging monster hunter before him to fuck off, stopped. We all do, don't we? He thought.

"Look, don't take this the wrong way, Mr. Casey," Cushing said softly.

"Usually when people say that there's no other way to take it," Maverick said.

"Look," Cushing said. "Sorry things haven't worked out for you. No one put a gun to your head and ordered you to waste your life chasing the stupid and impossible."

"No one put one to yours either," Maverick said, taking a minutia of pride at the red filling Cushing's cheeks. Cushing looked toward the crew.

"Where in the United States of fuck is my goddamn soda!"

Cushing managed to the catch the bottle flying at his head. "Thanks! Ugh. They're like animals. They need discipline. Great, now it's all shook up."

"Just a day. Or a few hours," Maverick said. "It won't take much of your time. You can send me a director's cut."

"We have to be in Baja hunting giant squid in three days. Sorry, no time," Cushing said.

They stood silent for several seconds, before Cushing smiled and tipped his bottle towards Maverick and started to walk away.

You're running out of time, Maverick thought. "What if it wasn't for the show?"

Cushing narrowed his eyes. Maverick explained the project could be a short. A documentary. He knew what people thought of him and his quest. People would watch that. They would watch a sad old man embark on a sad quest.

They'd call it brave. They'd call it insightful and tragic. "You could take it around at festivals!" Maverick exclaimed.

Cushing recalled a similar documentary that was a minor hit a few years prior, one that followed a failed rock band on their latest sad tour. He explained the film to Maverick.

"And they keep going, long past they should have quit," Cushing said. He leaned in towards Maverick and spoke just above a whisper, hiding his new project from the uninterested ears of the surrounding crew.

"Sounds familiar," Maverick sighed.

"It will be huge," Cushing said.

"And I get my legacy," Maverick said.

"Yes...then I get my transition, Casey! I can start doing serious work, about oil and climate change and soldiers and all that shit people pretend to care about."

"You'll do it?"

"Yes," Cushing said. "I'll talk to Brian, he's one of the camera people, he might be into this. The Last Days of Maverick Casey!"

"That's a little dark," Maverick said.

"Obsession: The Tragic Last Years of Maverick Casey?" Cushing said.

Maverick recommended selecting a title that allowed him to hold onto a shred of dignity. Both combined their efforts, mulling over possibilities in silence.

"Kinda disheartening how difficult this is, huh?" Maverick said.

"In Search of the Nobility, Texas Wildman," Cushing said. A grin spread across his face and he slapped Maverick on the back.

Maverick liked it. So did Cushing.

"Well then, Mr. Maverick Casey," Cushing said. "Let's get started."