You know, there was this time when my fifth cousin twice removed, Essie Belle Lessie Lou Jolland - who lives over in Hooter's Holler - got herself entangled with some female from France or Denmark or New Jersey or one of them excitin' foreign spots. It all come to a bad end, as you can well imagine, but I'll bet you ain't never goin' to guess how. All right, you done went and twisted my arm, bubba. I'll tell you about it whilst you reach me another beer.

Essie Lou has this big ol' chicken farm that she runs with her special friend, Myrtle Malinda Dean. Yeah, them two is a real odd couple, let me tell you. Forget two peas in a pod. Those girls are as alike as motor oil and red-eye gravy, and I don't mean the nasty slop that passes for gravy at the Twisted Spoon Truck Stop on Route 96. Man, that stuff'll eat you alive on the way in, and tear you a new one on the way out! Do like I do and stick to the hamburgers; they'll even give you an extra bun to sop up the grease if you run out of French fries.

Anyhow, Essie and Myrtle fight all the time. Both them women are as cantankerous as a ship full of sailors with the clap durin' a penicillin shortage. They'll get riled up over nothing. If one of 'em said the sky was blue, the other'd claim it was red just to start somethin'. They're at it day and night. All I can say is, it must be love.

But there came a day when Myrtle and Essie had their greatest set-to yet. Essie's big enough to hunt bear with a switch, and Myrtle ain't nothin' but a skinny lick of bone and skin with a bouffant hair-do, but she's got enough mean to make up for it. Fortunately for the Flathead County Sheriff's Department, the fight didn't end in bloodshed unless you count a minor concussion from a stiletto shoe, three broken fingernails and a high-haired coiffure that'll never be the same again. Myrtle pitched a hissy fit over the utter ruination of her 'do, left the chicken farm and took up residence at the Kon-Tiki Hotel in downtown Hooter's Holler.

Now bein' a single woman without a hobby, Essie went to the Lonely Hearts Dance Social on Saturday nights at the Kon-Tiki Hotel. Whether by accident or design, this caused some serious consternation. Myrtle sat there every Saturday night with a pearl-handled pistol in her hand, watching Essie with a look on her face like a rat chewin' crap off a wire brush; hungry enough to swallow but not too thrilled about eatin' shit. See, Myrtle might've been seriously jacked-off at Essie, but by thunder, nobody else was goin' to spin her woman around the dance floor without a ruckus bein' raised that's more catastrophe than Krakatoa.

The Lonely Hearts social club weren't too happy, neither. There ain't nothin' like the prospect of getting shot or snatched bald-headed that keeps folks at home. The Kon-Tiki manager, rightly fearin' mayhem of Biblical proportions, was wound up tighter'n a tomcat with ten testicles. And that's when Suzie Cantrell-Bodine - who's related to Lulu on her momma's side - asked poor ol' Butterbean to stick her nose in the business.

Suzie's the manager of the hotel in question, in case you didn't know. She wanted me to have a heart-to-heart talk with my cousin. I was s'posed to either get her back together with Myrtle or find Essie another hobby that didn't involve innocent bystanders and cross-fire I wasn't exactly keen to place my tender ass on the firin' line betwixt twolovers. When I complained to Lulu, though, she weren't too understandin'.

"Butterbean," she says, "if you want sympathy, look in the dictionary between shit and syphillis."

Of course, Lulu was real busy at the time 'cause we'd just bought a second-hand VCR and she was catchin' up on her favorite soap opera, A Roll in the Hay. Have you ever seen that show? Makes The Dukes of Hazzard look like Tennessee damn Williams. I'd rather eat a cat turd fried in earthworm lard than waste my time with a dumb soap opera, 'specially if there's a monster truck rally on TV. But Lulu's an pure-dee addict, bless her heart. If A Roll in the Hay was religion, Lulu'd be the Pope of Soap. She weren't interested in my trouble so I had to seek advice elsewhere.

Problem was, nobody wanted to help, and Butterbean was on her own. Well, it ain't the first time that life's left me feelin' like the ground floor tenant in a two-story outhouse. Somethin' had to be done and I got elected. Come Saturday night, I went over to the Kon-Tiki to see Essie, hoping I could talk some sense into the girl.

Lo and behold, what do I find but Essie shakin' her considerable money-maker in the arms of a strange woman, and I do mean more strange than stranger, son. That female was positively covered in hair. One big eyebrow, bitty mustache, thick hair from wrists to elbows and ankles to knees. I ain't seen so much hair on a woman since my Aunt Aggie went through the change-of-life and ended up havin' to shave twice daily to avoid bein' mistaken for Bigfoot's mangy relation.

Anyhow, when Essie got done and Miss Soup Strainer sashayed off to get drinks, I had me a talk with my cousin. Seems this was a female from way out of town. Accordin' to Essie, she was prone to passing out hand kissies and whispering sweet nothings and was generally slicker'n eels in a bucket of snot. Loopie Garou was her name. It was all French to me. I told Essie that she ought to consider poor Myrtle, who, by the way, was nowhere in sight.

"Myrtle can kiss my lily white ass," Essie says, tossin' her head like she's fixin' to rip out a fiddle-dee-dee, too. "I am through with that gal! And I don't owe her nothin', so keep out of my way, cousin Butterbean."

Right about that time, Loopie Garou come back and commenced to making lovey-dovey on Essie. She fussed and patted and petted and playfully pinched and sucked face till I was practically in sugar shock. Kept talkin' 'bout how she liked her women meaty. Hell, Essie's so solid you could use her for a hitchin' post. She's warm in winter and shady in summer, bless her heart. If you told her to haul ass, she'd have to make two trips.

I do believe you've got the picture.

Loopie was a smooth one, all right. Kept trying to get Essie to agree to have supper with her. A romantic picnic at night in the woods ain't my idea of a proper grub-fest, but my cousin sure latched onto the idea. Right when Essie was on the verge of acceptin' this proposal, something happened.

Somebody opened the window curtains in the ballroom, lettin' in the light of the full moon. Let me tell you, son, that Loopie Garou got a whole lot hairier betwixt one minute and the next. She also grew fangs and claws and a big bushy tail. Now, Butterbean Shirley McCall may be sharp as the leadin' edge of a basketball, but she ain't no fool.

You guessed it - Loopie Garou was a werewolf!

And Butterbean was in the doghouse again, dammit.

Essie let out a screech, Loopie let out a growl of pure appetite, and I went for the hide-out pistol in my boot. The rest of the folks in the Tiki-Wiki Ballroom commenced to prayin' and running around like chickens when the ax-man cometh. At this point, Myrtle arrived, somewhat out of breath. Seems she'd been delayed 'cause the beauty parlor ran out of hair spray and they had to make an emergency run to the drugstore in Gulledge. That beehive 'do she was sporting was so high, I was surprised eagles weren't nestin' in it. It was more of a hair-don't than a hair-do, in my opinion.

Myrtle took one look and hollered loud enough to call hogs home. Quick as a wink, she had her pearl-handled pistol out and was shooting at the werewolf chasing Essie. Only trouble was, Myrtle couldn't hit the broadside of a barn with a bass fiddle. Everybody in the room dove for cover. Me, I didn't bother 'cause Essie knocked me down on the first pass and stomped all over me in the second.

Meanwhile, Loopie-the-werewolf was howling and sprayin' spit and generally raising cain. Myrtle hadn't hit it once. I beat some feelin' back into my legs and took a few shots at that wad of teeth and hair. Didn't have no luck. Then I remembered that werewolves ain't too partial to silver. Now, the Kon-Tiki Hotel ain't the Ritz; they ain't got no silver but chrome and lots of it.

I says to Myrtle, "We need some silver to put that thing down!"

Myrtle says, "No shit, Sherlock," and sat down to take off her boots.

I'll be honest with you, boy. For a minute there, I thought Myrtle had lost her mind. The middle of a fight with a werewolf who's tryin' to eat the biggest woman in Flathead County just ain't no time to worry about your footwear. I was fixin' to point this out to her when I realized that her boots were silver-tipped. Hallelujah! We was saved. Sort of.

See, Myrtle didn't have no intention of lettin' me do the dirty work. I was a mite concerned. Myrtle's so skinny, if she held a glass of tomato juice and turned sideways, she'd look like a thermometer. Loopie Garou was twice her size and four times her girth. That werewolf looked like a depot stove in a mink coat. If I'd had to make book on it, I'd've bet Myrtle would get snapped like a dry twig in the first five seconds. On t'other hand, that girl's got more attitude than a sorority get-together and a drag queen convention rolled into one.

Essie rounded the room in a hurry. As she came by, Myrtle wound up and bam! Loopie Garou went down with a silver-tipped boot in her skull. The werewolf tried to get up, but Myrtle was lustin' for vengeance. She commenced to beatin' on Loopie with the other boot, taking both hands to the job like she was threshing corn. Myrtle whipped that hairy bitch like a red-headed stepchild, and then she opened up a five gallon pail of whup-ass. After that, she kicked werewolf butt six ways from Sunday.

I'll tell you straight, Loopie Garou was one sorry werewolf when Myrtle got through with her. I reckoned it was all over but the shoutin', when a familiar voice sent chills down my spine.

"Butterbean Shirley McCall," says Lulu, who had just come into the Tiki-Wiki Ballroom, "what the hell are you doin' at the Lonely Hearts Dance Social? You ought to be at home. You'd better have a good answer, or by thunder, I'll slap you so hard, you'll feel like you've been eaten by wolves and shit over a cliff!"

It figured that Lulu, bein' caught up in her soap opera, didn't pay me no never mind until she needed somebody to go to the store for Velveeta n' crackers. There are times when that gal wouldn't notice a snake unless it bit her. But she sure picked a bad time to show up. I needed that like a tomcat needs a marriage license.

Myrtle got distracted and let Loopie go. The werewolf jumped up and made for Lulu, droolin' fit to beat the band. Might've had somethin' to do with the fact that Lulu had eaten some fried chicken on the way over to Hooter's Holler - I could smell the grease from where I was standing. Or it could be that Lulu ain't exactly built like a wide-body trailer, but she's a fairly solid armful. Maybe it was both. Loopie didn't much care 'cause she was hungry, and Lulu was on the menu. My little pink porkchop was about to become a three-course werewolf dinner. I could've smacked my own brains out.

Lord knows, I love that woman, but never as much as I did that night. 'Cause Lulu didn't holler or faint or run faster'n  a deacon in a whorehouse. She faced that werewolf square and says in a voice of doom, "Bad dog! Sit!"

And damned if Loopie didn't do just that!

That werewolf was so confused, it didn't know whether to scratch its watch or wind its ass. I grabbed the boot from Myrtle and let Loopie have it. Ol' Butterbean might be a no-count fighter, but I was mad enough to raise Hell and put a chunk under it. No foreign werewolf-woman was goin' to put the bite on my Lulu!

It didn't take too much lickin' before Loopie Garou had enough. She beat feet out the window, howlin' and barkin' and generally making more noise than two skeletons screwin' on a tin roof. I heard later that some real hairy female of the foreign variety ate up the whole buffet at the Carterdale All-You-Can-Eat House of Catfish n' Cornbread. She also raided the Chicken and Waffles restaurant and the Dairy Princess ice cream parlor. When last seen, she was headed towards Backwater Slough, presumably to try out the alligators and the swamp apes. Good luck, ma'am, and good riddance.

You'll be happy to know that Essie and Myrtle got back together again, much to the relief of most folks in Hooter's Holler. As for Lulu, she settled down some after Suzie Cantrell-Bodine explained things. I still had to put up with tapes of A Roll in the Hay when I'd druther have watched Hee-Haw or somethin' else educational, but you know how it is. When you're livin' with the former Tomato Queen of Flathead County, you might as well let Her Majesty have her way.

Besides, Lulu don't know yet that I accidentally taped over the part where Savannah's illegitimate half-brother's aunt turns out to be that slimy land-grubbin' lawyer, Rex Wyoming, back from the dead after a brain transplant and a sex-change operation. Will the woman convicted of his murder, Zephyr Eden, be let out of jail, or will she give in to the sweet seduction of her prison guard, who is really her former fiancee in disguise?

Will we learn the terrible secret that lies within the woodshed?

Well, if Lulu wants to know, she's goin' to have to treat me real nice.

Tune in next week, brother.

This is Butterbean, over and out.

THE END

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