Fat Assassins (6 page)

She’s giving me the creeps. Time to go.

“C’mon Ulyssa. Let’s go or we’ll miss the parade,” I stammered, never taking my eyes off the waving sticks.

“Y’all ain’t gonna buy nothing?” 

We shook our heads.

“It’s bad luck if da first don’t buy nothing.” Her anger made the leather stickman start dancing.

She narrowed her beady eyes at me again, grabbing my right hand as I turned to walk away. 

“What are you doing?” I said, trying to pull my hand back, but she had a strong grip, probably from wrestling all those alligators.

“Women in my family are blessed with ‘a gift’.” 

She stared into my palm and traced the lines. She tilted her head backwards and closed her eyes. She muttered incoherently, pressing her pointer finger into the center of my hand. I shivered as she hummed the last few words, looking directly into my eyes. I jerked my hand back and Ulyssa stepped away from me so Mrs. Mullet couldn’t grab her too.

Smelling our fear, she raised her eyebrows and sneered at us. 

I tried to stare her down, but the goosebumps on my arms gave me away. I huffed and spun away from the table, blindly stomping past the rest of the booths toward the parade route. 

The bleachers lining the dirt arena were starting to get full, so we squeezed past the first rows to get a seat on the fourth row.

“Don’t let that old bat ruin your day!” Ulyssa tried to console me, but I just kept thinking about her weird chanting.

What does it mean? What’s gonna happen to me? Cajuns are supposed to be skilled in black magic. I don’t event believe in the occult, what’s wrong with me?

“She was so convincing . . . .”

“She’s just mad we didn’t buy any of her junk,” she interrupted me before I could continue. I think the old woman made her nervous too.

We caught sight of Sam and Mitsy looking for us on the bleachers. Ulyssa stood up and gave a big whistle to get their attention. We made room for them as they pushed through the crowd.

“Where’s Mitchell?” I asked.

“He signed up for the Rooster Rodeo. I guess there’s a $100 prize for whoever catches the most roosters in three minutes,” Mitsy explained. 

“I hope he wins!” 

“Yeah. Me too. He needs some new parts for his car, so the prize money would come in real handy,” she explained, looking a little worried. “But he ain’t never chased a chicken.”

“It should be pretty fun to watch then!” Sam laughed. 

“When is the rodeo?” Ulyssa asked.

“They hold it here, right after the parade. He said he wanted to spend the time stretching and getting psyched up. I hope he don’t get hurt.”

We turned our attention to the middle of the arena as a grey haired man made his way over to a microphone stand inside a gazebo.

“Ummhmmhmm,” he cleared his throat and tugged his bow-tie. “Howdy everybody! I’m mayor Tim Whittal and I’d like to welcome you to the annual RoadKill Cook-off and Festival!” 

A light applause followed his introduction.

“The results for the Possum Trot 5K are posted over by the pavilion. We’re pleased to have over one hundred participants this year. Great job everybody!” 

He paused to pull a slip of paper from his pocket. 

“Today’s Rockin’ Redneck Parade will start off in grand style with the Marlington marching band. They will be followed by an antique car drive-by and once the cars have cleared the field we’ll crown the next Miss West Virginia Roadkill Cook-off and Junior Miss West Virginia Roadkill Cook-off.”

“A display of our finest bovines will conclude the parade and begin the farmyard competitions, Rooster Rodeo and greasy pig chase. So, y’all settle in for some good old fashioned fun and don’t forget to support your local Booster clubs by purchasing snacks at the concession stands. Thank You!”

Another round of applause fizzled as the Mayor hobbled off the field. 

Rhythmic drumming announced the arrival of the band before they came onto the parade ground. Thirty polyester clad musicians marked time at the gate, awaiting a signal from the drill commander. With a wave of his hand, he released them into their performance. 

The band erupted into an overwhelming combination of clarinets, flutes, trumpets and drums as they marched around the edge of the arena. Pouring around each side of the gazebo to form a diamond, they began sidestepping while playing a vaguely familiar song. When they finished the song, they were all in straight lines. With a final wave of commander’s hand, the band began filing out the arena exit to the sound of the drums and crowd applause. 

The last band members were stepping through the gate when an old Model T came chugging through the entrance honking wildly. It was leading a long snaking line of vintage vehicles around the perimeter while proud passengers threw candy into the crowds. 

I nudged Ulyssa, “You should have entered your car in the parade. The Pinto brand is clearly underrepresented!”

She rolled her eyes.

The last group of cars were convertibles with beauty pageant contestants perched on the back seats throwing bright smiles and royal waves at the adoring crowds. The convertibles parked on each side of the gazebo with the Misses on the right side and Junior Misses on the left side. An elegant woman glided across the dirt and blowing air kisses to each contestant before ascending into the gazebo. She quickly announced the Miss and Junior Miss West Virginia Roadkill. 

The bovine portion of the parade was blissfully short. About fifteen farmers led show cows around the arena to promote their farm and dairy products. I was losing interest in the parade by the time the rooster rodeo began. 

This was my first rodeo, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. I listened excitedly as the mayor returned to the gazebo to explain the rules. “Get ready for an exciting Rooster Rodeo! It’s the first time we’ve hosted this event and I’m certainly looking forward to it. I’d like to thank Gone a-Fowl for sponsoring the chase. I look forward to enjoying a big fried chicken dinner at your tent.” He unconsciously rubbed his belly before continuing. “The rodeo rules are simple. Each of the contestants has a wire cage with their name on it. When they catch a bird, it goes in the cage. The person with the most chickens in their cage at the end of the chase wins $100 in prize money!” 

The volunteers stood near the cages ready to release their feathered hostages for chasing. 

There were about four chickens per contestant. Four chickens times twenty contestants equals eighty chickens! 

Is releasing eighty agitated chickens into a fairground filled with people really a good idea? 

“Y’all ready for the chase?” 

The crowd yelled and cheered in response. 

“Release the chickens!”

All hell broke loose.

The contestants ran towards the chickens. 

The chickens ran towards the bleachers.

Two chickens must have taken offense to the Mayor’s plan for a fried chicken dinner because they flew straight into the gazebo and started attacking him.

In attempt to gain an early lead, the contestants started grabbing for the nearest targets. Mitchell smashed into two other guys going for the same chicken. He was the smallest of the three and ended up on his butt, in the dirt, while the other two continued their tug-o-war over the squawking bird. 

Another chicken flew out of the dust storm and landed on Mitchell’s stomach. The bird realized Mitchell wasn’t a dirt clod about the same time Mitchell realized his good luck. The chicken let out a warning
bok
as it sprinted away from the chaos. Mitchell scrambled onto his belly and tried to grab its legs, but the chicken sensed the human predator and sent dribbles of white goo flying out its backside. Mitchell dropped his hands while the crowd laughed at the fowl escape. Determined to defend his injured pride, he jumped to his feet and took a running dive at the offensive bird. His torso slammed into the dirt as his arms wrapped the bird in a bear hug. He gave the crowd a grin and ran to deposit it in his cage. 

It was a weird, modern day display of gladiatorial skill. Half the crowd was cheering in excitement, the other half in fear. Chickens were flying into bleachers only to be thrown back into the chase.

Mitchell was the fourth person who had managed to get a chicken in the cage and he surveyed the arena looking for another easy target. He ran over to the gazebo and pulled one of the chickens off the Mayor and dropped it into the cage. Another contestant copied his strategy, grabbing the second chicken off the Mayor. They were tied 2-2 with a minute left. 

Mitchell spotted a chicken heading our direction and gave chase. 

The chicken picked up speed. 

The faster Mitchell ran, the faster the chicken waddled. 

Mitchell leapt to grab the bird as it went airborne. 

An odd force held me transfixed as claws rocketed toward me. 

Everyone ducked as the chicken kicked me straight in the face. 

A burly guy seated in the row behind us grabbed the chicken as it deflected off my head. 

“Alley-oop!” He yelled slinging the chicken back towards Mitchell, who snatched it midair and sprinted back to his cage. He shoved the lid closed as the buzzer sounded. 

Mitchell threw his hands up in victory!

I sat there stunned by the poultry violence.

“Shasta! Shasta! Are you okay?” Ulyssa’s voice cut through my shock. “You’ve got scratches and blood all over your face.”

I ran my hands over both cheeks feeling the painful ridges just below my cheekbones. The chicken had left three scratches on each cheek. I pulled my hand away and surveyed the blood and dirt mixture. “I don’t understand what happened.”

“You got dropkicked by a chicken!” Sam said.

“You helped Mitchell win!” Mitsy said, trying to make me feel better.

“Why didn’t you move?” Ulyssa asked, staring at my bloody cheeks.

“I don’t know. I was paralyzed.”

“You’re lucky that bird didn’t pluck out your eyeballs,” Sam injected, “Chickens are mean.”

“Are you okay to walk or do you want to stay and watch the pig chase?” Ulyssa asked. 

“No way. If a chicken messed me up this bad - I don’t even want to see what a pig would do.”

“Y’all ready for lunch?” Sam asked, apparently on her own agenda today.

“Yeah and chicken sounds real good,” I growled.

“That’s my girl!” Ulyssa patted me on the back. 

Most folks walked around sampling the different types of roadkill recipes so they could vote for the People’s Choice award. I wasn’t feeling to adventurous, so I settled on a dish called Wascally Wabbit stew. Mitsy chose an even less adventurous option, baked potato. Sam and Ulyssa wandered off further in search of more interesting dishes, returning with mystery meat. We picked a table near the main walkway, so we could keep an eye out for Mitchell. He joined us about fifteen minutes later, wearing a Chicken Chasing Champion t-shirt.

“Little proud, aren’t we?” Sam asked. 

“Not really. I got chicken poop all over the other one.” We all groaned in disgust. “It was old, so I just threw it away.” He shoved Mitsy over so he could sit down on the end of the bench.

“You still smell like poop!” Mitsy said, squeezing her nostrils closed.

“Whatever. I’m starving. What’d y’all get?” he asked, eyeballing Ulyssa and Sam’s plates. “All that running around, worked up my appetite.”

“Sloppy doe sandwich,” Ulyssa answered, wiping a chunk of bread around the plate to sop up the remaining bits of sauce drenched, ground meat. “It was yummy!”

“I got the armadillo and roadrunner tacos,” Sam said, happy with her celebrity choice. “It’s what they showed on the television.”

“Rabbit stew,” I added. 

“Hmmmm. Decisions. Decisions. I’ll be right back.” He disappeared, returning a few minutes later with a heaping plate of meat and vegetables. 

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Bambi Kabob.” 

We sat chatting comfortably while we waited on Mitchell to finish his kabob. Dusk was starting to settle over the town as the festival lights came on. Strings of white Christmas lights were twisted around poles to illuminate the different sections. 

Mitchell was finishing up the last of his food, when a young man in overalls sprinted past us carrying a shovel with an animal carcass draped over the sides. “Coming through! Make a hole! I got a live one!” 

Mitchell gobbled the last bite, unbothered by the fresh meat delivery.

I felt my stew creeping up the back of my throat. 

“So what do you guys want to do next?” Ulyssa solicited, trying to distract everyone from the disturbing scene. 

“Anyone want to try the rides or play some games?” Mitsy asked.

Mitchell started walking us toward the blinking carnival rides, but abruptly changed directions. “Wait. It’s the shooting game. We gotta play.” 

I followed him, but only because the funnel cake stand was right next to the rifle range. 

Three dollars later, I was blissfully dining on my favorite festival food watching Mitchell, Sam and Ulyssa have a shoot out. They didn’t seem to be doing very well because they played twice and didn’t win a single prize.

“This game is rigged. Nobody can win it,” Ulyssa declared, putting the gun back on the holder.

“No kidding!” Sam echoed her sentiment.

“You know the goal is to hit the target, right? I mean you need at least one to win a prize.” The wrinkled, old man cackled at their frustration. “Want to give it another try? Maybe you’ll hit one this time.”

They ignored his taunts, so he turned his sneer to me.

“How ‘bout you honey? You look sturdy enough to shoot a gun,” the snaggletoothed man provoked, “Or are you worried about putting that funnel cake down?”

I ignored him and continued eating my delicious treat. He probably made most of his money taunting people into playing the game, knowing that most of them wouldn’t be very good with toy guns. 

Ulyssa slapped two dollars down on the counter, saying, “She’ll take a turn!”

I groaned. 

She’d played right into his little scam and now I’d look like a sellout if I didn’t at least play one game. I handed the rest of my funnel cake to Mitchell with a glare that warned him that it better all be there when I got back. I stepped up to the counter, selecting a gun from the center pedestal. I wedged the butt of the toy against my shoulder and shrugged to make sure it fit snuggly into the pocket. I had never even held a gun before, but this pose seemed natural.