I believe this is Peter Schneider's second professional fiction ap-pearance. (He's done nonfiction work and has written with frightening authority on collectible first editions—especially those of Stephen King.)
I wish to hell he would write more fiction, or at least funny essays; he has a twisted comic flair that he shouldn't be keeping from the rest of us. At this point I'd call him imaginative fiction's Ian Frazier, whose short, hilarious pieces (such as "Bob's Bob House") have graced the pages of The New Yorker.
Enjoy the following—and add your wishes to mine that Mr. Schneider will write more.

Burros Gone Bad
Peter Schneider

"I don't care what your guesses are, Grip. ... 1 just want to know who the hell wrecked the communications room!"
Phillip's angry7 voice resounded through the ruins of the upper deck. The heavy smell of ozone from the cracked video tubes mixed with the cheap cologne worn by the commander.
"It's burros, sir," said Grip.
"What the Sam Hill are you talking about, man? Burros did this?" Phillips replied as he waved at the mess.
"All I can tell you, sir, is that Rim Control reported a group of approximately thirty burros racing from the scene only ten minutes ago. They've sent a squad out after them, but you know how fast those creatures can go."
Phillips looked down at the console, his left fist convulsively tightening around the remains of a remote lifter unit.
"Grip, I'm giving you an order, and I don't want to see your face until you get it done. I want you to get whoever did this, man or beast— I want you to get 'em and bring 'em to me, because when I get my hands on 'em ..." His voice faded away as Grip raced down the Outer Corridor toward the Lock.

Burt Grip was no stranger to the wiles of burros. There had been the incident at Rinse Pass only five months ago. Seven men dead and millions of dollars of equipment ruined. They had captured only one of the raiders—a runtish gray burro who refused to utter a word until his death the next day. And, of course, Grip had his suspicions about the debacle at Delphi the year before. No one was ever able to prove who had decimated the base and all of its five hundred-man complement—all they knew was that communications had suddenly ceased one day . . . and then the desolation when they sent the reconnaissance team. It had all the earmarks of a burro job, Grip thought, but he had never been able to convince his superiors.
"They'll soon see," he thought grimly to himself. "We're up against it now."
The clop of a hoof on the cabin door startled him out of his reverie.