LULU AND BUTTERBEAN VS. THE NINJA KITTEN DEATH SQUAD In the Woods of Unincorporated Catfish Junction… The dramatic if faint strains of Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana issued inexplicably from the ramshackle cabin at the edge of the clearing. A woman’s body wheeled through indigo twilight space, her limbs out-flung in a starfish pattern that was punctuated by the two feet of shining steel clasped in her right hand. “Aiiii-yah!” the ninja screamed as she tumbled past her startled opponent, her long blue hair streaming from beneath the close-fitting hood she wore. To his perception, it seemed she moved almost in slow motion. A mask concealed the lower half of her face, leaving only her eyes visible. There were kitten ears on the hood but somehow, the adornments appeared more feral than cute. Another ninja, this one less obviously female except for the pale pink hair that swirled to her hips, snapped her blade from left to right, the ninjato leaving a blurred silver after-image in the air as it swept around. Shreds of an expensive Italian necktie fluttered to the ground. The tie’s owner stumbled away, open-mouthed and wide-eye. Another sword cut made him instinctively raise his briefcase; the ninjato’s edge carved through the leather and the myriad files within, cleaving the briefcase in half from corner to corner. A scattering of papers joined the severed tie on the bare earth under the stand of pines. A sound as soft as a woman’s sigh, as soft as sharpened steel slicing through silk, caught his attention. The man’s head swiveled, his expression reflecting horror. More ninja kittens were rappelling down from the surrounding trees, each one’s body wrapped in dark form-fitting grey trousers, tightly wrapped jacket and gauntlets. Each was distinguished from the other by her dyed hair. Lavender, lemon, mint green, periwinkle, sea foam, rose petal, aqua and peach - the candy-sweet pastels that could only mean death in this part of the world, or so he had been told. He should not have come here alone. He had thought that the other agents were exaggerating, or that they were playing a trick on him, but he knew better now. Oh, God… he knew better and the truth terrified him. The women formed a circle around him, their hard gazes assessing, probing him for weaknesses. Not a word had been said apart from the initial battle cry that had nearly made him lose bladder control. “You can’t… you can’t…” He had to pause, his mouth too fear-dried for speech. He worked up sufficient spit and continued, “I’m a federal agent.” The ninja’s faces were hidden but he could nevertheless sense their amusement. A whisper began. He could just make out a single damning word: revenuer. He blanched, understanding precisely what this meant in Unincorporated Catfish Junction. The man may have been from out of town, but he was not wholly ignorant. There was a law enforcement badge attached to his belt. He sucked in a breath, deciding that a show of bravado might help him out of the dangerous situation without further violence. They had told him at the field office that Catfish Junction was out-of-bounds, no matter how much the moonshiners there were in violation of U.S. law. They had told him that no one returned from a visit to the hill. Or the other hill, for that matter, where a once thriving resort town turned ghost town was full of mysteries that lay untapped in lost tongues, where the shuffling undead were said to roam seeking the feast of death… the silent hill of his worst nightmares… He shook himself free from these macabre thoughts and concentrated on his current predicament. “I am a federal agent,” he repeated, being sure to flash his badge at the assembled women. “Put your weapons down and surrender at once.” He was seized by a ninja whose lilac colored hair was twisted into dreadlocks. She roughly removed the gun from his shoulder holster and marched him towards the cabin. The woman’s fingers were like talons biting into his flesh. She said nothing but urged him firmly and silently onward until they were at the cabin door, which opened to admit a wedge of light and a spill of loud music into the encroaching evening gloom. The woman inside was different than the others; he noticed that at once. Her body was clad in a sleek black leather cat-suit that Emma Peel would have envied. Black cat’s ears poked up from the spill of dark hair that fell down her back. A crimson patch covered her left eye. He supposed she was the leader of the ninja kittens. Metal glinted on her hands; he realized there were curved claws set into the tips of her black leather gloves. When he approached her, she began whirling the ninjato in her hand faster and faster until a circle of sharpened steel seemed to bloom out of thin air, solid and so real he could feel the whiff of air on his face as it passed back and forth. He refused to be intimidated by this demonstration of technique. Snatching the badge from his belt, he threw it at the whirling sword. There was a loud vibrating clang as gold-washed steel impacted steel, then his badge went hurtling across the room to embed itself in the cabin’s wall, decapitating a Hello Kitty doll along the way. The ninjato did not break but it did fall from the woman’s nerveless hand. The black leather ninja glared at him with her one good eye, rubbing her sore hand. “Suck-monkey twat-flap,” she gritted through her clenched teeth, “you’ll pay for that.” Her voice was accented with the nasal twang of the mountain clans that had dwelled in Catfish Junction for centuries. “I’m a federal agent,” he said – it was becoming his mantra against the near palpable evil that he could sense emanating from this woman and her minions – “with the Alcohol, Tobacco Tax and Trade Bureau. You’re all under arrest. You have been found in violation of Federal Statute…” He did not finish the sentence. At a nod from their one-eyed chieftain, two more ninja kittens had glided forward during his little speech. Unlike their pastel sisters, they wore stark white, and their hair was white, too. They had pulled down their masks, revealing faces that were beautiful in a pale, cold, perfectly porcelain and expressionless fashion. The assassins were identical twins. Moving in concert, they reached into the sleeves of their jackets and removed… forks. Heavy silver, most likely antiques, with chased floral repoussé handles The agent set his jaw and took off his precious Alain Delon gold-rimmed sunglasses. Reaching into his coat pocket he removed his secret weapon, the one implement preserved against extremity at all costs. A spork. Like a modern version of the nineteenth century runcible spoon, his spork consisted of a long handle terminating in a bowl with three projections at the end that resembled the truncated tines of a fork. It was his favorite eating instrument, and made a damned fine defensive weapon as well. The twins’ fingers tightened on their antique forks. The other ninja kittens fled the cabin, demonstrating Olympic-level gymnastics skills as they disappeared into the night, leaving only the pair of stark white assassins, the black leather chieftain, and the federal agent together in a classic stand-off. Carmina Burana rose to a crescendo. For a bare second, he wished it was Ennio Morricone’s score for The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Spaghetti western music seemed more appropriate. Then there was no more time for thought as the battle commenced. Silently, one of the twins did a series of moves which he thought might be A Thousand Orchid Palms of Red and Black and launched a fork in his direction. The deadly cutlery flew towards him, aimed at his jugular. Achieving the slightly stupefied Zen-like state that was usually only induced when he filled out government forms in triplicate, he countered with his spork, sending the ninja’s fork slewing off-course with a silvery zing. His coat-tails flared out dramatically as he spun on one foot, avoiding a second flying fork that would certainly have pierced the subclavian artery had it had found its target. “May the fork be with you,” he spat, twirling the spork between his fingers. The other white-clad ninja did not waste breath in banter. She flipped heels over head, then sent two forks flying towards him in rapid succession. His spork clashed once, sending the first fork clattering to the floor, but the second… he ended pinned against the cabin wall by the tines that had gone through his coat’s shoulder but fortunately not in his skin. Acting as one, the beautiful assassins sent a dozen more forks his way, a barrage that had him wriggling out of his coat just in time to fall flat on his belly on the floor at the last second and narrowly avoid being skewered. He spat out a mouthful of dust, looked at his ruined coat, picked up his spork and rose to his feet, breathing heavily, his gaze defiant. It seemed his arrival had interrupted dinner. Spotting cooling plates of grits and greens and fried fish on a nearby table, he swooped over and levitated a full plate onto his spork, balancing it spinning for a moment before sending the plate and its contents soaring. The first ninja was able to side-step the mess without more than a few grease spots from the fish, but the second ninja caught a full-on splatter of buttered grits across her face. Scraping her cheeks free of the creamy delicious stuff of Southern soul food, she stretched her lips in a not-smile that was as predatory as a shark’s. Another table held baskets of biscuits and hushpuppies. Both she and her twin sister reached for the biscuits and tossed them like shuriken throwing stars, one after another. Try as he might, he could not avoid them all. A particularly nasty surprise came when a biscuit loaded with thick milk gravy took him in the eyes. He slipped backwards while he clawed at his face to clear his gravy-smeared vision. His hips bumped into the table. His hand fell upon a coconut cream pie. Two pairs of eyes narrowed at him. Had it truly come to this? He weighed his options thoughtfully, spork in one hand, pie in the other. Wire-taut tension hummed in the atmosphere and played upon his already raw nerves until the suspense was nearly unbearable. A fork was half-heartedly sent skimming at him; he riposted easily. There was more ammunition on the table – sweet potato pies, a red velvet cake, a huge bowl of ‘nanner pudding. The agent grinned. Suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Too late to heed his senses’ warning, he released a pained grunt and collapsed into a boneless heap when the one-eyed black leather chieftain – whose presence he had forgotten – struck him smartly in the back of the head with a ceramic Hamtaro music box. “Fork you,” he murmured, and fell silent as oblivion swept him away. The chieftain squatted and rifled through his clothing, unearthing the agent’s wallet. After perusing the identification inside, she snarled, “Y’all bring me the head of Butterbean Shirley McCall!” The assassins hastened silently to obey.
Anyhow, welcome to Flathead County, friend. Try the boiled peanuts if you’ve a mind but I’d avoid them pickled onions if I was you, seein’ as how they’ve been a mite suspicious since Willard Starke lost his glass eye in the jar and that sucker ain’t been found yet. Bein’ a stranger to the strangeness that is our little neck of the woods, I reckon you never heard the tale of how me n’ Lulu Cantrell – Lord, how I love that woman! – nearly had to kiss our tender behinds good-bye when we come up against this clan of ninja moonshiners in Unincorporated Catfish Junction. Buy me a beer, pass the peanuts and I’ll fill you in. The whole mess started when Mary Jane Goodge – that’s Old Man Goodge’s grand-daughter, but she’s also his fourth cousin, and don’t ask me how, ‘cause them Goodge’s got a family tree that’d make a corkscrew look like a damned carpenter’s rule – broke her leg during the annual thumb wrestling competition in Hogbend. Turns out Boss Tott’s boy, the one they call ‘Tater’ Tott, learned himself some secret esoteric art of thumb-fu whilst watching a badly dubbed chop-sockey film on the idiot box late one night. No, not from the movie itself, ‘cause as I recall from my own midnight cable-TV experience, Eight Trigrams of Heroic Bloodshed and Casanova Wang Battle the Iron Shaolin Fembots makes as much sense as Cockadoodle-Doo Burkett when he’s drunk as a skunk, perched atop the outhouse and trying to crow the sun to rise. Tater Tott saw one of them television advertisements for a King Karate franchise over to Leeburgville (‘Learn to fight like Elvis and the Memphis Mafia – You’ll be taking care of business in no time!’) and he sent them $5.99, and they sent him instructions on the deadly art of thumb-fu, and a recipe for fried peanut butter-and-banana sandwiches. He also got a pair of polyester pajamas that was almost like silk, only that damned fool Tater made the mistake of smoking a cigarette whilst wearing them, and them pajamas went up faster than my Aunt Ethel’s beehive, which everybody knows is a positive danger around the barbeque on account of the only thing holding that coiffure up on a daily basis is a double jumbo economy-sized can of Do-Right hairspray. Napalm’s got nothing on Aunt Ethel’s ‘do for sheer flammability. But that’s neither here nor there. To make a long story short, the former champion Mary Jane got a bucket of whoop-ass opened on her due to Tater’s newfound thumb-wrestling prowess. Whilst trying to drown her sorrows in beer, she slipped and fell in Dead Mule Pond and broke her leg in one of them freak accidents. Who knew Ronnie Gayle Bledlow’s drowned tractor would prove a hazard to drunken swimmers? Boy only drove the thing in the pond for the insurance money ‘cause his refrigerator broke, and ain’t nobody drinkin’ warm beer less’n they’re fishing, and that’s only if some fool leaves the cooler open and the dry ice melts. How I do go on! Now the Goodge’s and the Cantrells are related by blood and marriage, don’t you know, which is how I ended up going over to Mary Jane’s house on a late Saturday afternoon instead of heading over to the Chugalug-a-Go-Go Bar n’ Grill with Skeeter Morgan like I’d planned. How come Lulu didn’t help Mary Jane herself, you ask? Oh, you don’t know Lulu at all, and it hurts me to injure your innocence, but I’m going to anyway. Mind you, I love Lulu with a love that passeth understanding, but she wouldn’t put herself out to do anything for a Goodge if they were on fire and all she had to do was piss on ‘em to quench the flames. There’s been a hellacious feud betwixt her branch of the Cantrells and Mary Jane’s branch of the Goodge’s ever since a shotgun wedding that ended up bein’ more shotgun than wedding, and after the free-for-all at the church, words was exchanged. You know what I mean. And the bloodthirsty females of both clans ain’t forget them insults yet; I reckon the grudge is goin’ to stick around like a booger you can’t thump off for a good long while to come. So as Lulu wasn’t going to stir herself out of doors for no no-good Goodge on the distaff side, I was volunteered for the job – against my will, I might add, but with Lulu, there ain’t no wiggle room a’tall. It’s do or be damned. “Butterbean Shirley McCall,” Lulu says to me whilst watchin’ tractor pulling on the TV, “I want you to high-tail it over to Cousin Mary Jane’s house, and see to what all she needs. Don’t let me catch you sneaking over to the Chugalug-a-Go-Go with that no account Skeeter Morgan, either, or by thunder, I’ll pimp-slap you till you cough up bones.” “But honey-pie,” says I, “ain’t you and Mary Jane not speaking to each other no more?” “Damned straight,” says Lulu, “but that don’t go for you and her, and me n’ Mary Jane are related even if we ain’t on speakin’ terms, and there’s certain obligations that go with bein’ kinfolk, so beat feet, Butterbean. And on your way home, you can stop off at the Dairy Princess in Dryland and pick me up some Cheese Whiz n’ Jellybean flavored ice cream. And don’t forget to buy a bag of Krystal burgers, too, and a six-pack of RC Cola. And…” There weren’t nothing to do except nod my poor old head, give up any idea of chugalugging my Saturday afternoon away, and get the hell out of Dodge before Lulu started making a list of more things she couldn’t live without, which I’d have to drive all over Hell’s half-acre to find or risk being made to sleep on the fold-out sofa. I don’t mind so much only the plastic animatronic singing Elvis head by the front door will keep on with ‘thang you verra much’ and ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ all night long, and who can sleep through that noise? So Mary Jane Goodge of the red-headed and freckled Goodges (the other half of the family is blonde and rawboned) lives out in Hooter’s Holler, which when you think about it is about a half-bubble out of plumb considering most of the Goodge’s tend to clump together in Meridian. Still, I figured maybe she’d had enough of her in-laws and outlaws, and picked a place as far away as she could get without leaving Flathead County altogether. Her house is one of them big old ramblin’ type places with a witch’s peak tower, lookin’ like Vincent Price ought to be loitering with intent on the front porch. I breeze on inside by the back kitchen door, ‘cause relations don’t knock and the front door’s only for company, and what do I spy but Mary Jane Goodge herself, chatting to a couple of dozen cats. You’ll probably think I’m a few bricks shy of a load when I tell you, bubba, that she wasn’t just talkin’ to them cats. They was talkin’ back. When she lit on me standing there with my mouth hanging open, Mary Jane kind of laughs, but it ain’t no happy laugh, more like she’s a tad embarrassed to be caught at whatever-it-is she’s doing. As for the cats, they start chimin’ in with God knows what, ‘cause it don’t sound like no English to me. Mary Jane holds up a hand and lo! Them cats shut up their squawkin’. Still, I can feel every one of them beady little eyes on me, like I’m the last can of tuna and they’ve figured out how to use the electric opener. “Hello, Butterbean,” Mary Jane says to me. “How’s Lulu?” She was cool as a garden gnome’s ass in the midst of December. “Lulu’s fine,” says I. “She sent me over to see if you needed anythin’ on account of your busted leg.” If she was going to be cool as dammit, so was I. “Well, that was mighty kind of her,” says Mary Jane. “You’re kin, when all’s said and done,” says I. We eyeballed each other. Finally, Mary Jane gives out a sigh and says, “I do need you for something, Butterbean. It’s dangerous. You may not live to see tomorrow.” “Let ‘er rip,” says I, still playing it smooth like the Fonz. “Can’t be worse n’ the last time Lulu made me give her a pedicure.” Mary Jane commences to tell me that she’s a reincarnated Egyptian goddess – natch! – and she’s s’posed to be guarding this great but dangerous treasure that’s hidden somewhere over in Catfish Junction – uh-huh! – from this ninja clan that makes a living runnin’ moonshine stills over on Stumpblaster Hill. I ask you, bubba, do I have any green in my eye? But Mary Jane seemed serious as a heart attack. “Mary Jane Goodge, have you been licking toad-frogs?” says I. She blinks at me just like one of them cats what was oiling around her legs and says, “No, Butterbean Shirley McCall, and I ain’t been drinking Everclear or eatin’ cow patty mushrooms or paint chips, neither. You ought to be ashamed of talkin’ trash. Now be hush.” She does this hand-jive motion and lo! Them cats start squawkin’ again. Or at least one of ‘em does, this slick Siamese number that probably cost more n’ my truck’s winter tires. Inscrutable don’t cut no ice with me, but that cat give me the heebie-jeebies. Sounds like a load of meow-meow-meow to me but Mary Jane gets somethin’ out of it and I get a feelin’ poor old Butterbean is fixin’ to see some shit that beats pink elephants all to hell. She stands there proud as a dog with seven peckers, and my hand to God she starts glowing. I mean really glowing, shinier’n Reverend Honeycutt’s golf pants. And all of a sudden, it ain’t plain ol’ freckled, short n’ chubby Mary Jane no more but this skinny lady with a lioness’ head, wearing what amounts to the smallest and sheerest tablecloth I ever seen, just kind of draped around by guess and by gosh. Brother, there weren’t no mystery there, if you get my meaning. Sports Illustrated swimsuit models show less skin. The strangest thing was that if you squinted, it was still Mary Jane all right. Don’t ask me how I could tell. More meow-meow-meow commenced betwixt the lioness-head and the Siamese whilst I hung around and tried to decide if this was one of them false idols that Reverend Honeycutt is always warnin’ the congregation about worshipping. When Mary Jane didn’t break out the grape juice and saltine crackers I figured I was safe. So the meow-meow-meow went on a while. I was startin’ to wonder if there was any leftover chicken in the coolerator when shimmy-shimmy coco-pop! The lioness head faded away and there was our Mary Jane Goodge again looking the same as ever, freckled and red-headed and fat as a shoat hog, only considerably prettier unless you’re Roscoe Dunahoo, the former pig farmer over in Broomstick Ridge who is now servin’ five-to-ten in the state pen, and the less said about that the better. Now I weren’t a’tall addled by none of this, ‘cause living with Lulu Cantrell, who is a positive magnet for weirdness, I have seen some stuff that ain’t nobody with a lick of sense would believe, but brother, you’d better believe that I believe it. At this point, I reckoned I was headed for some mighty odd territory, and I had as much chance of avoidin’ my fate as a kerosene cat in Hell with gasoline drawers on. Mary Jane says to me, “Butterbean, how’s your family on the Yankee side?” “Good, far as I know,” says I. Those McCalls livin’ south of the Mason-Dixon line don’t have much truck with them up North folks, even if they is relations. Papaw McCall always blamed our shameful Yankee connection on his sister, who let her boy get hitched to some girl from Rhode Island when she ought to have known better. Those McCalls don’t get invited to the family reunion, either, though most of them are on Great-Aunt Edna Mae’s Christmas fruitcake list, which is more of a punishment than a blessing, if you ask me. “Don’t you have a cousin who’s a revenuer?” says Mary Jane. Now I was shocked white, let me tell you, on account of we don’t talk about third cousin Jeffrey no more. Bad enough to be a Yankee, but a revenuer on top of that! The only thing worse would be if Jeffrey was a horse thief or a grave robber or a Mormon ‘cause we’re all good Southern Baptists in these parts ‘cept for the Charismatic branch of the family, and they don’t speak in tongues too much so long as you keep ‘em away from the tambourines. Anyhow, Jeffrey McCall was part raised down here in Flathead County after his momma passed away up North; it was Uncle Mullet McCall and his wife, Mayleen – who is related to Tallywhacker Jones and his crew on her daddy’s side – what done the raising. While nobody really points the finger of blame at Mullet and Mayleen over how the boy turned out, they’re disappointed anyhow ‘cause Jeffrey moved back North and took up with the government. And a revenuer in the family ain’t a polite topic of discussion by any means, especially over the tater salad as I’m sure I don’t need to tell you. “You know we don’t talk about Cousin Jeffrey,” says I to Mary Jane. “He’s in trouble,” says Mary Jane. “Sore afflicted, even, like unto death. That’s what the oracle says, and she ain’t never wrong.” Well, shoot. I eyeballed the Siamese, and the cat eyeballed me back. My gut flopped around like a bass hooked with a fine-tied copper joe. It was like Lulu said back at the trailer – there’s obligations that come with bein’ relations. “All right, what do I need to do?” says I. Momma McCall didn’t raise me to slack around when kinfolks needed help. Mary Jane perked right up. So did that slant-eyed Siamese, meow-meow-meow. “You’ll need to beat feet over to the library in Picayune,” she says. Mary Jane, not the Siamese, I mean. “Talk to Old Lady Slidell. She’ll tell you what’s what.” “Ain’t that Booger Slidell’s meemaw? The one who thinks she sees Jesus in the pickled gallstones she keeps in a jar on her nightstand?” says I. “The very same,” says she. Booger Slidell ain’t the sharpest crayon in the box, no sir, and most of his family ain’t runnin’ on four cylinders, either. But I figured Mary Jane knew best. “And what are you going to do,” says I, “whilst I’m in Picayune and Lulu’s back at home waitin’ for her ice cream, her Krystal burgers and her RC Cola? If that girl runs out of Velveeta and crackers, too, she’s goin’ to raise considerable cain.” Can you believe that Goodge heifer had the cast-iron nerve to wiggle her casted leg at me, grinnin’ the whole time? She weren’t sorry a’tall. Had it been within my power, I’d’ve dumped the sorry sack of freckles into Backwater Slough for the swamp apes and alligators, then dragged her over to Lake Perdition by the short hairs and let the mosquitoes have what’s left. Trust me, bubba, they got skeeters over there that could stand flat-footed and screw a turkey. I’d druther have the swamp apes. “Can’t do much,” says Mary Jane, butter not meltin’ in her mouth. “If I hadn’t broken my leg, I’d be right there with you, I swear, girding my loins, ready to kick ass and take names.” I figure I must’ve had a look on my face, ‘cause she says in a hurry, “You won’t just be savin’ your cousin, Butterbean, but the whole world, too. There’s nasty things happening over to Stumpblaster Hill tonight. Don’t worry. I’ll call Lulu and tell her you’re goin’ to fetch some barbeque for me. I’m sure she’ll understand.” Hah! Goes to show that she might’ve been related to Lulu, but Mary Jane didn’t know her ass from her elbow if she thought Lulu Cantrell would let me be about my business without stickin’ herself in the middle of it. But if saving the world meant saving Lulu as well, I couldn’t do nothing ‘cept do as I was told. I love my ornery Cantrell woman better’n cheese on grits. When the end of the world is nigh, I want nothin’ more than to listen to her grizzlin’, ‘cause I reckon as soon as Lulu gets to Heaven, she’s goin’ to tangle with Saint Peter and the rest if they don’t let poor ol’ Butterbean through the Pearly Gates. She’s got to have somebody to wait on her hand and foot for the rest of eternity, and that’s my job. Besides, you can butter my butt and call me a biscuit, but I never could resist the urge to jump feet first into trouble and strife and consternation… although usually it’s Lulu behind me pushing. I checked the hide-out pistol in my boot, remembered the shotgun out in the truck, and barely missed drop-kicking a cat or three as I left Mary Jane’s house. I rolled up the truck window on account of an ill wind blowin’ from the sewage treatment plant and got onto Highway 109 headed over to Picayune, wonderin’ how come it’s always me that’s the downstairs tenant in a two-story outhouse. Them showers of shit ain’t never short or sharp when it comes to Butterbean Shirley McCall. Now, be a good mon-sewer and reach me another beer whilst I return the ones I already drunk.
The library over to Picayune ain’t as big as the main branch down in the county seat of Tranquilla, which is south of Broomstick Ridge. Still, that’s where I was s’posed to find Old Lady Slidell, who goes to my momma’s church and used to pinch my cheeks (all four of ‘em) when I was but a pigtailed girl. Until the time in Sunday School when Lulu took exception to the cheek pinchin’ and wadded up a whole flannel Noah’s Ark set with strawberry bubblegum and chucked it at Old Lady Slidell. The gummed together mess got stuck in her teased-to-Heaven ‘do and emergency surgery had to be performed with blunt kindergarten scissors. Woman’s head looked like a hedge after a discount strimmer accident. Anyhow, there I was in downtown Picayune, where the library lies directly betwixt Slocum’s Hardware & Feed Store, and the Fruit of My Loins bakery which is also a local branch of the Calvary Gospel Tabernacle Church. Buy the pecan sticky rolls next time you’re headed that way, and you’ll get a free informational pamphlet on The Rapture printed comic-book style for your convenience. There’s free coffee and cake on Sundays, too, right after the hellfire-and-brimstone sermon and the soft n’ tender call to Jesus. So there weren’t too many customers inside the library, and it weren’t surprisin’ considering that most of Flathead County thinks TV Guide, the Monkey Wards catalog or Field & Stream is proper readin’ material, barring romance novels and Southern Living. It was fair-to-middlin’ easy to find Old Lady Slidell, who was about a hundred and ten if she was a day, standing behind the counter stampin’ books. She had these big ol’ dentures, real scary choppers that looked as big as tombstones crammed into her mouth. I’d seen her gnawing on a chicken fried steak once at a church social, and it near ‘bout put me off for life. I goes sidling up to her, pretty as you please ‘cause Momma McCall managed to beat some manners into me, and says, “Mrs. Slidell, ma’am, I was told to come here and speak to you by Mary Jane Goodge. She says there’s trouble up to Stumpblaster Hill.” “Trouble up to Stumpblaster Hill, eh?” says Old Lady Slidell, lookin’ at me real suspicious over her reading glasses, like I was nine years old with a pocket full of cherry bombs and a reputation for mischief. “Yes, ma’am,” says I. She gives me the hairy eyeball for a few more minutes, then huffed and puffed and shifted herself into the aisles. She come back with this big-ass book, the biggest damned book I ever seen bar none, with a perfectly good leather cover on it that somebody’d ruined by etchin’ patterns with a wood burner. Whoever had done the job was wild about squid, that’s for sure, though them critters looked kind of pissed-off to me. The spine had Heckronomicon spelled out on it near as I could tell, and the book was writ by one Al Hazard. I wondered if he might be related to the Broadmouth Creek Hazards, but Old Lady Slidell didn’t seem to me like she was ready to have a hen party and start gossipin’ about that low-down Broadmouth clan what everybody knows is a bunch of fools that ain’t good for nothin’ ‘cept telephoning fish and marryin’ their first cousins. Old Lady Slidell give me the Heckronomicon. That sucker was heavy; must’ve had more pages than the entire Flathead County telephone book. “I reckon it’s time you was warned, girl - don’t be messin’ around with unnatural knowledge what’s beyond the ken of mortal man,” she says to me, fussy in her ways as a wet hen. “There’s magic so dangerous that them with the knowledge knows how not to use it. Them folks up to Stumpblaster Hill ought to know better, but since they don’t, somebody’s got to stop ‘em. ” “How come?” says I, just to be pert. “On account of the ultimate evil will be passin’ through our world tonight,” says she with a glint in her eyes that I didn’t like a’tall. “You mean that Marilyn Manson fellow?” says I, having seen him once on the MTV, and brother, once was enough for me. I like to have swallowed my chaw. Old Lady Slidell may be old, and she may be a Southern lady born and bred, but by thunder, she could still slap me upside the head hard enough to make me see stars, and I don’t mean Waylon Jennings. “You’d best quit smart-mouthin’ me and pay attention, Butterbean Shirley McCall!” she says. “You’ve been chosen to save the world, and my hand to God, if you don’t get the job done right, I will beat you like a rented mule.” “Yes, ma’am,” says I, not wantin’ a repeat of the skull thumping. She gives me one of them looks that is all too familiar to one who lives in sin with Lulu Cantrell and says, “The planets they are alignin’ in a conjuration that ain’t been seen in a mort o’ years. Them no-‘count ninja moonshiners up to Stumpblaster Hill is fixin’ to get themselves and everybody else in a passel of trouble.” “Who are these ninja moonshiners anyhow?” says I. “Ain’t never heard tell of them bastards till today – pardon my French.” “That’s ‘cause they move in mysterious ways their secrets to keep and their moonshine to sell,” says Old Lady Slidell. “Them ninjas are the bootleggers what makes the quadruple-whammy ruckus liquor generally known as Ol’ Stupefaction.” Ol’ Stupefaction! I can’t begin to tell you, bubba, how them words made me break out in a positive dither. There ain’t no more volatile, mind-altering, limb stiffenin’, chest hair inducing, potent devil’s homebrew of the whitest of lightnings than Ol’ Stupefaction. That stuff’s so strong, it’d make a hardened drunkard stay on the wagon just to avoid havin’ the skin of his tongue and the linin’ of his stomach burnt clean away. You can’t take the rust off your car battery with Ol’ Stupefaction; it’ll eat through the battery, through the car chassis, and probably through solid concrete, too. Papaw McCall used to keep a jar under his tractor seat for medicinal purposes till that damned fool Newt Wilson got dared to drink the whole thing, and ended atop the flagpole outside the VFW club at four o’clock in the morning, buck naked except for a tin foil hat, tellin’ everybody who cared to listen – including Reverend Honeycutt’s wife, who had to run and fetch a camera on account of the word ‘tripod’ might’ve been coined for Newt – that he was about to get beamed up by the mothership from Planet Kickapoo. Only place that boy got beamed to was the county hoosegow, but I digress. Word is there’s certain folks who have a line on Ol’ Stupefaction, and if you want a jar, you’ve got to see a friend of a friend, if you catch my meaning. Ain’t nobody acquires the stuff straight from the manufacturer. If them ninjas had their stills in Unincorporated Catfish Junction, it explained how come they ain’t been caught yet. The sheriff and his boys steer clear of the Junction. There’s some terrible, horrible, no good, very bad shit out there in them wooded hills. If you thought Carterdale was the center of plain weirdness in Flathead County, let me tell you, brother, Catfish Junction is a vortex of sheer mean-spirited nastiness that the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse would avoid lest they catch the never-get-overs. ‘Nuff said. So is it any wonder I was shakin’ like a poodle crapping peach pits? Old Lady Slidell says to me, “Them ninjas aim to use another book – the Necrotelecomicon – to connect to a gateway betwixt the worlds, and conjure forth an ancient and foul evil whose name is damnation and madness to speak. You’ll use your book to stop ‘em, Butterbean. I can’t tell you how. The oracle sayeth not ‘cept you appear to be the one foreordained, so I reckon you’re on your own far as what’s got to be done. Follow your instincts. Only don’t you foul up and let the world be ended before the Second Coming, or by jiminy, I’ll raise a knot on your head a calf could suck on.” All this mumbo-jumbo was beginnin’ to rile me. Says I, “Where am I s’posed to find these ninjas, ma’am? Ain’t likely they’re holed up at the Howard Johnson’s off Exit 39.” I managed to duck just before her hand connected with my head, then she whaled me with t’other hand which I hadn’t seen coming. Goes to show there’s wisdom comes with age or at least, ladies don’t necessarily lose their reflexes after the Change of Life. I swear, woman had a right hook that could’ve felled Muhammad Ali, Mike Tyson and George Foreman combined, with enough left over to put the hurt on an ox or three. “There ain’t nothin’ to that,” says Old Lady Slidell. “We’re all modern hereabouts. Just watch.” She poked at a dinosaur of an Atari 800XL computer for a minute or two. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the thing weren’t plugged in, and so was useless as tits on a boar hog. You can imagine my surprise when this ghosty-type girl appeared on the monitor out of nowhere. Man, I was so startled, I like to have shit and fell back in it. The ghosty-girl was droopy and weepy, all tragic and pale like Beulah Hubbard on that popular soap opera show, A Roll in the Hay. Beulah ain’t had hardly a moment that weren’t gloom, despair and agony since 1972, when her separated-at-birth evil twin sister got struck by ball lightning and blowed up the Boss Kingpin’s illegal llama smuggling outfit. Anyhow, this ghosty-girl looked like she was ‘bout ready to weep into her beer. Made me get a tad choked up myself just eyeballin’ her. Before we could start a mutual pity-party chorus of the classic song, I Still Miss You, Baby, But My Aim’s Getting Better, Old Lady Slidell says, “This here’s a mail demon. She can tell you the ninja’s address.” The ghosty-girl shuts off the waterworks, pipes up and says, “Box 3, Route 42, Chickasawyeehaw Heights, Stumpblaster Hill, Unincorporated Catfish Junction.” Now I know what you’re thinkin’. Ain’t too many people going to take a depressed mail demon in stride, not to mention the other weirdness that I’d had to swallow that day, with the promise of more of the same to come. Most folks would go home to their double-wide, eat a half-bottle of Excedrin P.M., smoke ‘em if they got ‘em, and kill a six-pack of Bud Light and a bucket of the Colonel’s finest whilst prayin’ it was just a bad dream and they was goin’ to wake up in the mornin’ to a Bobby Ewing moment. Less’n you’re Earl Lee Tishamingo, of course, who’s been abducted by aliens so many times, he don’t even twitch no more when somebody mentions the word ‘probe.’ I say to you, bubba, Butterbean Shirley McCall is made of sterner stuff. No ghosty-girl mail demon is goin’ to make me lose my cool, not after the hair-raisin’ stunts Lulu has pulled. Lord knows I love that woman, but the way trouble dogs her steps, you’d think she was smitten by the evil eye whilst still in diapers. So having received the wisdom from on high (or down below, as ‘tis, ‘cause it was a demon and all), I beat feet over to Unincorporated Catfish Junction, stopping first on the way through the Jolly Jug Drive-In Liquor Store for a bottle of Dutch courage. I ought to have spared myself the consternation ‘cause lo! Who should be inside arguin’ with the clerk but Lulu Cantrell herself! I had to rub my eyes and pinch myself. Last time I saw her, she was installed in the Barcalounger in front of the TV, watchin’ the monster truck rally. When she claps eyes on me, Lulu don’t hardly skip a beat but says, “Butterbean, you tell this damned fool that my coupon for Night Train Express ain’t expired yet, or by thunder, I will slap you bald-headed.” “Honey-pie,” says I, so confused as to not know if whether to scratch my watch or wind my ass, “how in tarnation did you get here from Dead Mule Pond?” “Jimmy Joe McNutt gived me a ride in his backhoe,” Lulu says, “on account of Mary Jane Goodge called on the telephone and told me you needed help, and I was tired of waitin’ for my ice cream and Krystal burgers and RC Cola, damn your hide.” She give me one of them looks and says on, “Have you been pitchin’ woo with some other female?” “Of course not, honey-pie,” says I right quick, as the former Tomato Queen of Flathead County in a conniption fit is about the scariest thing on this green earth, “on account of I was at the Picayune Public Library with Old Lady Slidell, who is older than God and has whiskers on her chin to boot. You know there ain’t nobody but you for me. I don’t want nothin’ in this blessed world ‘cept your biscuits in the oven and your buns in the bed.” Lulu was happy – thank God Almighty! – and she come in close puckered up for a church-tongue kiss, only the clerk had to open his pie-hole about that bottle of Night Train Express, and there went Lulu off again, usin’ language that would’ve had her momma reachin’ for a switch. I got that mess straightened out by buyin’ a bottle of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill (which is her favorite fruit cocktail) and lettin’ Lulu take shotgun position in the truck. Then we had to swing past the Qwik-E Mart for moon pies, Goo-Goo clusters, beef jerky and pork rinds, and stop twice at gas stations so that Lulu – who has a bladder the size of a walnut, bless her heart - could visit the little girl’s room. I reckoned by the time we got to Chickasawyeehaw Heights, it’d be all over but the shouting if the world had to wait upon Lulu Cantrell’s convenience. In between sucking on a Goo-Goo cluster and taking swigs of Boone’s Farm wine straight from the bottle (which tastes to me like cough syrup mixed with diesel, and I’d druther have a beer), Lulu was readin’ from the Heckronomicon, which she allowed was not quite as fascinatin’ as Lover Rev My Engine, one of them new Harlequin NASCAR romance novels that she picked up last month at the Piggly-Wiggly grocery store over to Perdition. “Anything in there about them ninja moonshiners?” says I. “No, and there ain’t no sex in it, neither, more’s the pity,” says Lulu. “Stop here by them bushes, Butterbean. I got to water the grass.” “But honey-pie, we need to save the world,” says I. “Not till I save my under-drawers,” says Lulu, and that was that. Tryin’ to argue with Lulu is like tryin’ to teach a pig to sing – ain’t no blessed use, ‘cause you’ll just end up with tooth-marks in your leg and deaf in one ear from the pissed-off squealing. We was about half-way to Chickasawyeehaw Heights on Rural Route 24, near enough as dammit to Flintknapper’s Cave. This is the place where, as all Flathead County schoolchildren know, Colonel J.D. Jubilation Flint, 182nd Volunteer Infantry, the Army of Northern Virginia, held out two-to-one against Meade’s Army of the Potomac till they run out of provisions, mules, pet chickens and shoes. By the time they was down to boilin’ their uniforms for soup, Lee surrendered to that damned Yankee Grant and everybody went home, more or less. So Flintknapper’s Cave has some historic interest, mainly as a spot to take your sweetheart for some serious spoonin’ after an evenin’ spent at the Lonesome Starlite Drive-In Theater. Bring your own blanket, bubba, and don’t forget the chigger spray. Anyhow, there I was, drumming the solo from In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida on the steering wheel and not payin’ much attention to much a’tall, when there come a screech of such magnitude from the bushes that I like to have choked on my own liver and swallowed my tongue. Quick as a shot I come out of the truck, shotgun in hand. You’d better believe I was loaded for bear. I hollered for Lulu and got not a reply in return. Now I was really het up, as you may well imagine, nervous as a virgin on the verge. I gripped the shotgun and took off through the bushes like my feet was on fire and my ass was catchin’, determined to save Lulu from whatever trouble she’d fallen into. There weren’t no sign of Lulu but by thunder, them bushes was all squashed and the ground tore up, like there’d been an almighty struggle. I ain’t seen destruction like that since the riot at the Mass Panic Roadhouse when some damned fool female thought she spotted Billy Ray Cyrus, only it turned out to be Cooter Rybolt who’d jointed the Hair Club for Men, and the Achy Breaky Heart line-dancers turned vicious with disappointment. Anyhow, I caught sight of somethin’ big and hairy moving off to the west and I beat feet after it, ‘cause just about the same time spotted it, I heard Lulu screechin’ fit to beat the band. “Hang on, honey-pie!” says I. “You’d better save me lickety split,” hollers Lulu, “or I will smack you hard enough that psychics can read my palm off the side of your face!” Needless to say, I weren’t wastin’ no time coming to the rescue. Over by Flintknapper’s Cave is an abandoned gold mine, and I figured that’s where they was headed. It weren’t full dark yet; there was about an hour’s worth of daylight left, so there was plenty of sun to show me the big hairy thing that was standin’ with Lulu in front of the mine entrance when I broke through the tree-line, shotgun at the ready. “Honey-pie,” says I, drawing a bead, “you’d best duck.” “Butterbean Shirley McCall,” says Lulu, “you ain’t doin’ no such thing. You can’t hit the broad side of a barn with that thing, and I ain’t relishin’ a visit to the Emergency Room to get the buckshot picked out of my butt.” In case you’re wonderin’, bubba, that big hairy Lulu-napping thing was one of them legendary Bigfeets what’s been spied in the backwoods around Flathead County as far back as my great-great-great granddaddy’s day. Thing looked like a swamp ape on steroids, all covered in hair, with the biggest damned feet you ever did see. Could’ve wore herring boxes without topses for sandals, as the song goes. The Bigfeets that was latched hold of Lulu had an ass as big as a $40 cow’s, was black as the inside of a well-digger’s butt at midnight, and ugly as a hatful of armpits on a mud fence . It was also dumber than a box of rocks. I mean, would any creature possessin’ ten cents worth of sense decide that Lulu Cantrell was a fit victim for kidnapping and settin’ up housekeeping and what all else? Except me, of course, but that goes without saying. So Bigfeets starts honkin’ and hootin’ and gruntin’, and I don’t understand a mumblin’ word. I wished I could reach my boot gun, ‘cause I’m a fair shot with that, but I dassn’t leave hold of my shotgun to get it, in case Bigfeets took a notion to turn Lulu into lunch. But before I could decide to shoot first and hope for the best, there come an unexpected voice from somewhere near my knee. It was that damned inscrutable Siamese cat, or one just like it from Mary Jane Goodge’s house. I look down and says, “Wh-a-a-at did you say?” like I was not quite right in the head, which I was beginnin’ to suspect was the case. Cat had the gall to look amused. “Yon Bigfeets is powerful enamored of Lulu Cantrell. He says he wants to fight you for her,” the cat says. “How come you ain’t speakin’ the meow-meow-meow no more?” says I, the train of my thoughts momentarily derailed, crashed, and lying a smoking wreck next to my disbelief. “That’s Egyptian, the sacred language of our kind,” says the cat, “and if I was to speak it, you wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in Hell of understandin’. Now will you get to it? We got other fish to fry afore the moon comes up.” “Ain’t near dark,” says I. Then Bigfeets roars, and Lulu screeches like a banshee with its titties caught in a vice, and even though I weren’t ready yet, I jump in and commenced to wrasslin’ to save my honey-pie from the horror of Bigfeets in lust. And on that note, my friend, I’m goin’ to mosey on over to the buffet bar to fetch a basket of hushpuppies and fried gator tail nuggets and hot wings. It would be very kind of you reach me another beer whilst I’m away… and don’t forget a draft for the hound dog.
Anyhow, I begun the battle with a flying forearm smash that knocked Bigfeets for a loop, and followed that up with a couple of big boot kicks that laid him out flat as piss on a plate. Bigfeets staggered to his feet and tried a tombstone pile-driver, but I got out of that sissy move and give him a cobra clutch that left him reelin’. An airplane spin turned into a Manhattan drop. A victory roll became a sunset flip. Then come a hair-pull take-down to end all take-downs, and once I had Bigfeets on the mat, so to speak, I really commenced to puttin’ the hurt on him, using an Indian death-lock, a figure-four leg-lock, an octopus hold and a cross-face chicken-wing till he hollered ‘uncle.’ Meanwhile, Lulu was makin’ with the rah-rah-rah: “Kick him in the ass! Kick him in the knees! I can demonstrate some of them wrasslin’ moves if you want… see, this here’s the doomsday device… and this is a pump handle slam, and a gutwrench powerbomb… you okay there, bubba? If you got to puke, do it in the sawdust over there in the corner next to the spittoon or Old Man Goodge will bust his truss, you blow chunks on his floor. Just walk it off, as my old school coach used to say. All us kids thought Coach Trotter was the biggest, baddest bad ass in the whole of Flathead County and maybe even the state till a junior reporter from the school paper took a picture of him wearin’ full make-up, a dress, a string of pearls, and a red bouffant wig, and it weren’t Halloween. To be fair, the man had legs that went all the way up, if you know what I mean, and he didn’t look too bad in chiffon. Still, after the Picayune high school football squad showed up at the traditional Leeburgsville vs. Picayune game in red bouffant wigs and chiffon skirts, it was pretty much the fat lady singin’ for Coach Trotter’s coachin’ career. I heard he went to Los Angeles and opened himself one of them yoga schools, and is teachin’ girls who make Calista Flockhart look fat how to twist themselves into pretzels. Takes all kinds, as my old meemaw used to say. So having made Bigfeets cry for his big fat momma, I collected Lulu ‘cause I was in mortal fear that her underwire underpinnings was goin’ to bust out of sheer enthusiasm, and we got the hell out of Dodge, my friend. Hidey-ho, back to the truck, and haulin’ asphalt on our way through Chickasawyeehaw Heights towards Stumpblaster Hill. Only I took a wrong turn and we ended up on the other hill. You know the one I mean. No? Well, I tell you, it ain’t the sort of place where you’d want to kick off your shoes, loosen your girdle and stay a while. The whole town went kablooie one night and things ain’t been the same since. Some says there was aliens involved, or maybe some dark n’ dreadful powers that was old when Noah was a lad. I don’t know about you, brother, but I’d druther chaw on my own toenails after sloggin’ barefoot through goat shit than spend ten full minutes in silence on that hill. Me n’ Lulu finally got back on track not withstandin’ her map-reading skills, which is about on par as Walleyed Otis Gullett’s crossbow aiming ability. Still, the awful evenin’ weren’t hardly over yet, as we come upon a herd of ragged figures shamblin’ down the road. The hour was gettin’ on to dark, so I’d put on the headlights and wished I hadn’t when I seen them peckerwood redneck zombies shuffling along in a chain-gang line. They looked mighty funky, practically glowin’ green with grave mold and wormy enough to use for snook bait. Lulu clutches at me and hollers, “Butterbean, I fear ‘tis the End of Days!” I beat some feelin’ back in my arm and says, “Honey-pie, don’t you worry none. It ain’t the End of Days. It’s just a passel of redneck zombies.” “You get out there right now, Butterbean Shirley McCall,” says Lulu, “and send them zombies straight back to wherever they come from.” I unlimbered the shotgun from the rack. “I may need some help, honey-pie,” says I. “You got your pearl-handled .45?” “Of course,” says Lulu, “only I ain’t goin’ out there for love nor money, on account of I just had my hair done at Aunt Sister’s Curl Up n’ Dye salon, and killin’ zombies is a sure way to mess up my ‘do beyond all hope of recovery. Well, get to it, Butterbean, or I will slap you so hard, you won’t know baby shit from butterscotch.” I was on my own, but I figure that’s the way of things when you live with a Cantrell. I got Lulu’s .45 shoved into the back of my Toughskins as a back-up piece, tied a bandana around my face ‘cause everybody knows zombie stench could knock a maggot off a guts wagon, opened the truck door and rolled out firing. There was an even dozen of the gruesome bastards in the pale moonlight. I will confess to you that there commenced a regular redneck rampage of the sort that ain’t usually condoned inside the county lines except when the travelin’ fair with the hootchie-kootchie girls is in town, then all bets is off. The first zombie just plain splattered from the knees up; numbers two, three and four went the way of the dodo after receivin’ both barrels of buckshot. It was a real baptism of firepower, if I do say so myself. I put paid to number five with Lulu’s .45, drilled straight between the empty eye sockets. See, the thing about zombies is that they ain’t too swift on their feet or too swift in the head in general, them things bein’ dumber than a sack full of hammers. Can’t dodge, can’t duck, keep sheddin’ body parts left and right… only way a healthy fellow could get got by a zombie is if both his legs is broke, and he’s blind in one eye and can’t see out t’other. I begun to run out of ammunition sooner rather than later, so I had to switch the shotgun for the chainsaw I keep tucked under the truck bed tarp. Man, I hate the smell of zombies, ‘specially when their insides is on the outside. Rather have some old-fashioned exhaust fumes up my nose. So it was hack n’ slash, my friend, and pray I don’t run out of gas. Got some guts caught on my chainsaw blade, and I shook ‘em off. Durned if them flyin’ intestines didn’t try to reach out and strangle me! Turned out you can’t hardly kill a peckerwood zombie, not even his component parts less’n they’re in about a hundred pieces. I rolled up my sleeves, so to speak, opened a five-gallon pail of whoop ass and got down to inflictin’ some serious homestyle mayhem on the walkin’ undead. Yee-haw! It was a job so messy, eleventy-dozen cats couldn’t have licked me clean at the end of it. But I managed, ‘cause Momma McCall didn’t raise her child to leave a job half-done. It was time for elbows and assholes, and things purple and green and kind of runny. By the time number twelve bit the dust – literally, ‘cause them teeth kept on chompin’ till I stove in the zombie’s jaw with my number nines – I was covered in bodily fluids (not the nice kind, neither) and in sore need of a bath. In fact, Lulu forbade me to get back into the truck till I’d covered the bench seat in newspapers and trash bags, and I had to leave my favorite sleeveless flannel shirt in the ditch as its condition was too horrible to contemplate. No amount of Tide was going to get that mess out. Havin’ saved us from the redneck cannibal zombies (who, truth to tell, had been fairly easy to kill. Shootin’ fish in a barrel about covers it, had I not been using my trusty chainsaw to sever their relations, so to speak) I sent us on our way. Hi-de-ho, away we go, and we’d gone no more than a half-mile when I struck another zombie what was standin’ in the middle of the road. I didn’t wait to see if he’d gone on to his Great Reward but kept on truckin’, whilst Lulu hung on to the suicide strap and give me the rough side of her tongue. There was more zombies, of course; for a while there, you’d’ve thought we was drag-racing through a turtle crossing with all them humpty-bumps. I put on the radio, just so’s to have somethin’ to sing-along to whilst I was running over them zombied, and all I could pick up was I’ve Been Flushed From the Toilet of Your Heart and a Conway Twitty medley no matter how I cranked that radio dial. It was about this time I begun to suspect that somebody’d opened one of the gates to Hell and havin’ obviously been born in a barn, left the damned gate wide open. That suspicion turned into a positive certainty when I spied the bats with slicked-up pompadours, sideburns and tee-niney rhinestone jumpsuits flappin’ hither and yon. The King is undead. Long live the King! Yes, that’s right, son, it was a flock of flying Elvii vampires. One of ‘em lit on my truck hood, and lo! It turned into the very picture of 1968 comeback Elvis. Mind you, I ain’t such a huge fan as Lulu, who bows to no one in her admiration and heart-felt desire for the King of Rock n’ Roll, but even my little ol’ Butterbean heart went thumpity-thump at the sight. It was only spoiled by the fangs sproutin’ out of his mouth and by the red glow of his eyeballs. Reminded me of them vampire cows over in Dryland. That did it. Brother, my blood run cold as a witch’s tit in a brass brassiere. The vampire Elvis hissed and I jammed my blue suede shoe on the accelerator, as wise men know when it’s time to go and when I’m inspired, I can haul ass with the best of ‘em. Meanwhile, Lulu was carryin’ on something fierce ‘cause she had a hankering for a big-a big-a hunk o’ love from Dippity-Doo dippin’ vampire Elvis, not carin’ that he was more interested in what was in her veins than what was in her drawers. She tried to make a jump for it, the damned fool, openin’ the door whilst we was goin’ a good forty miles an hour along the dirt and gravel road that passed for Rural Route 24 in them parts . I hauled her into the cab by the back of her lime green stretch pants and kept driving like a bat out of hell – hah! – with one hand on the steering wheel and t’other fastened on Lulu. Vampire Elvis weren’t too happy about losin’ his bid to make Lulu his midnight snack. Whilst I sent the truck hurtlin’ down the road, spewing gravel from under the tires and plumb ruinin’ the paint finish, he commenced to whacking on the windshield with his fist. Them other vampire bats was flappin’ crost the moon, headed due west in a cloud of sideburns and rhinestones and Brut aftershave, so at least I didn’t have to worry ‘bout no mass aerial attack. Good thing, ‘cause that would’ve sucked. Big time. “Oh, Elvis!” says Lulu, near to swooning, “take me to Paradise!” which was about as likely as monkeys flyin’ out of my ass. He weren’t after Lulu for her considerable charms. Whang! Whang! Whang! went vampire Elvis on the windshield. “Hey, pretty momma,” he says to Lulu, slick as buttered cat’s shit in a skillet, “are you lonesome tonight?” It was beginnin’ to crack – the windshield, I mean, not Elvis - and as you may well imagine, the thought of havin’ to deal with the undead King and a lust-crazy Lulu whilst driving full-tilt left me sweatin’ like a whore in church. I tried to think what to do when Lulu leans out the window, her shirt unbuttoned, and the only thing restrainin’ her biggest assets is the heaviest-duty support bra you can buy at Sears and Roebucks. “Come into my arms,” says Lulu to vampire Elvis, who wastes no time grabbin’ at her whilst I’m skiddin’ the truck around a corner and avoidin’ a mailbox by the skin of my teeth. I was just about to make a grab for my boot gun when vampire Elvis plants his hand on Lulu’s cleavage, looks kind of surprised, hiccups, and explodes in a cloud of dust that I’m probably never goin’ to get out of the genuine fake leather upholstery. “Elvis?” says Lulu, all sad and forlorn at havin’ puckered up for nothin’. She’d lost that loving feeling forever. Guess she forgot about the mint flavored wooden toothpick she keeps in her bra in the event of corn-on-the-cob emergencies. I turned another redneck zombie into a speed bump, and Lulu had to button her shirt, though I didn’t miss it when she wrapped that toothpick in a Popeye’s Fried Chicken napkin and laid it gently back to rest where no man had gone before (except for Delbert Ellicott, and he don’t count since he went and had the operation, and is now a chorus girl in Las Vegas). There weren’t no time to commiserate with Lulu as I had to concentrate on the road, but I knew she weren’t goin’ to forget losing the chance to mash lips with vampire Elvis anytime soon. I didn’t tell the girl that she could’ve given blood at the Red Cross over to Fort Virgil every other Tuesday, and they had themselves an Elvis impersonator in gold lamé who croons Love Me Tender whilst puttin’ in the needle. How great thou art, Elvis Aaron Presley. You have helped me make it through the night on many an occasion, and I thank you for it. We do miss you sorely, sir, but I’m sure we will all meet again in the sweet by n’ by. I gunned the engine and we passed the area known as the Mystery Vortex, where I was overtook by not one but two phantom motorcyclists. The song on the radio changed to You Done Tore Out My Heart and Stomped That Sucker Flat. At least you could hum along to the chorus. Then I had to stop over by Blueballs Creek on account I thought somethin’ had hold of the back tire. Turned out to be one of them backwoods lizard men hangin’ on to the bumper. More trouble than they’re worth, if you ask me, despite what the Flathead County Tourist Council says about folklore critters bringin’ in foreign dollars. In the booklets they put out, there’s said to be a whole tribe of scaly reptile folks livin’ under Crybaby Bridge over to Picayune, close by the Bat Boy’s cave and near to the Mothman pilgrimage site, all of which is conveniently located by the Holiday Inn and Good Old Boy’s All-You-Can-Eat Fried Fish Buffet (only I don’t recommend it ‘cause they charge extra for the hushpuppies). So the lizard man from Blueballs Creek let go of the bumper, give out with this bubbly roar (imagine passin’ gas in a tin bathtub with more reverb than you can shake a stick at and I reckon you’ve about got the gist) and made as it to deliver me from sin by virtue of a good skull-crackin’ whack with the back of its finned hand. Such peculiar happenings don’t faze me much, I tell you, seein’ as how I’ve been exposed to Lulu Cantrell practically from birth. Not to mention growin’ up next door to Bobbie Jo and Billie Rae Pringle, the two-headed girl whose littlest brother Scooter has six toes on both feet and two thumbs on one hand. Then again, them Pringles is notorious for throwin’ oddities, so it ain’t too surprisin’. Daddy Pringle was so bucktoothed, he could’ve et cornpone through a picket fence. Back to the lizard man… I had to sacrifice a whole paper sack of Momma McCall’s cathead biscuits to lure Ol’ Frog-Face away. Once he had took off after the best biscuits in the county, bar none – it durn near broke my heart to chuck them lovelies in the creek – I jumped back in the truck and we took off faster n’ shit goes through a goose. And the radio begun to play You Was Only a Splinter in My Ass as I Slid Down the Banister of Life. By the time we finally got to Stumpblaster Hill, I was plumb wore out from all the excitement. Hell had the last laugh, though, ‘cause what should greet my bloodshot eyes but these fellows in black leather overcoats and sunglasses that probably cost more n’ Dolly Cantrell’s vacation shack on Lake Perdition. They looked mighty slick, all right, and as I pulled the truck to a stop they commenced to leapin’ and hoverin’ around and strikin’ dramatic poses in a way that I ain’t seen the like of since Temple of the Kung-Pow God of Praying Mantis Dynamite was in the $1 bin over to the Suck n’ Blow video rental and vacuum cleaner store, and I never could resist a bargain. Anyhow, all them three fellows needed was black lipstick and studded dog collars, and they’d’ve gone over with my cousin Cupcake Calvin a treat, but then that boy’s always sashayed to the beat of a different drummer, if you catch my drift. Brother, I tell you that I was in no mood for shenanigans. Don’t know what they was up to, and don’t rightly care, neither. No good was what I reckoned, as was everythin’ else I’d run up against that night in Catfish Junction. Them sunglasses-at-night wearin’ fellows may have had more moves than Carter has pills, and they may have thought they was hot shit on a silver platter, but Butterbean Shirley McCall has a trick or three up her sleeve – namely, an electro-shock taser gun what used to deliver a measly 900 volts till I souped it up with an Army surplus tank battery. You show me a fighter who can do fancy cartwheels whilst bein’ juiced till his eyeteeth glow in the dark, and I’ll eat my favorite John Deere baseball cap. Just remember, sometimes you got to be cruel to be kind… and sometimes you just plain want to be mean as a rattlesnake with shingles, nettle rash, toothache and the clap. Havin’ introduced the fancy-pants trio to my super taser and left ‘em suckin’ dust despite their gussied-up ways, I got Lulu out of the truck with the promise of Fat Joe’s barbeque to come. We started hikin’ up the trail that leads to the top of Stumpblaster Hill. It was dark, let me tell you, nothin’ but the light of the silvery moon and the stars to see by. Could’ve been romantic had we not been bent on savin’ the world from evil. At least it was the wrong time of year for no-see-‘ems, though the skeeters was plentiful and mighty damned hungry. Like to have drained me dry, my hand to God. Bein’ as how Lulu’s built for comfort, not for speed, this was a hike that left me feelin’ aggravated, exhausted and just plain beat, ‘cause getting’ the woman up that hill was akin to tryin’ to shove butter up a wildcat’s ass with a hot poker. “Butterbean,” says Lulu at one point, havin’ tangled herself in a blackberry bush for the third time, and I had to put down the Heckronomicon to rescue her, “when we get home to Dead Mule Pond, I intend to smite you so hard, you’ll wish your sweet ol’ momma had hit you in the head with a hammer at birth and raised a pig on the milk.” Poor woman looked like she’d jacked off a combine and lost. The higher we climbed Stumpblaster Hill, the angrier Lulu got, and the louder she bitched. Her ‘do was ruined, her fingernails busted to the quick, her high-heeled shoes stuck in rabbit holes and ruts. She did not want to be there. She wanted to be suckin’ on barbequed ribs whilst wallowin’ in our home-made jacuzzi (it’s amazin’ what you can accomplish with a tin trough and an outboard motor) whilst watchin’ A Roll in the Hay on the portable TV (which ain’t but the regular TV married to an extension cord). Lulu was cussin’ such a blue streak that I feared my ears might catch fire. You’ve got to understand, bubba, that as sweet as my honey-pie is, she’s got a temper on her like well-aged nitroglycerin. Which is why you’ll also understand that when the first ninja showed up – just popped into the middle of the trail out of nowhere, with lilac hair and kitten ears on her hood –that girl would’ve stood a better chance of sandpapering a rhino’s butt in a telephone booth than gettin’ the better of Lulu Cantrell at that particular point. Lulu snorted, stomped over, hauled back, and let fly with a haymaker that damned near lifted the ninja out of her slippers. Sure sent that lilac-haired girl back a foot and laid her out flat as a sun-dried toad. Man, I was wound up so tight, only dogs could’ve heard me fart. That weren’t the last of it, though. These other two ninjas showed up, all white from top to toe like they was fixin’ to get married in the Church of the Kill Bill bride with Chow Yun Fat and Jet Li presidin’. They commenced to forkin’ us over – hah! - by chuckin’ forks at us. Heavy suckers, too. But I ain’t wasted my time watchin’ kung fu movies on the satellite TV all them years for nothin’, my son. Hey, y’all! Watch this! Sound of orchids rebuke! Transcendent peony blossom wheel! Stunning fairy onslaught! Whooping rooster twist! Blind monkey chop! Roaring ghost elbow! Oh, sorry ‘bout that, friend. Waste of good beer, that was. How’s your eye? Don’t worry, you got another one on t’other side. Here, put a chunk of ice on it. I’m sure the swellin’ will go down terectly, and hey, there’s always more draft. Why don’t you reach me another beer, help yourself whilst you’re at it, and I’ll just fetch some more ice.
Ready? So there we was, just me n’ Lulu, facin’ off against a pair of white death ninja kittens what was mistresses of the deadly art of fork-fu. I used my own martial arts on them ninjas, and if you think Elvis was a karate black belt, brother, you ain’t yet had the Butterbean experience. An elbow in your eye don’t count. They don’t even got a color for my belt, it’s that good, and believe it or not, I’m self taught. Learned everything I know from the movies. Of course, only place I get to practice is the Mass Panic roadhouse on Patrick Swayze night once a month ‘cause I was banned for life from the King Karate franchise dojo on account of Doodlebug Wilson and this double-dog dare accident involvin’ a can of gasoline, a Frisbee and Old Man Fang’s moustache wax. Weren’t hardly my fault, as I blame that damned fool Doodlebug for the whole thing, but the world don’t run on fair terms, does it? Old Man Fang’s moustache grew back eventually. His chihuahua dog Mr. Tiddles weren’t never quite the same, though, hence the ban. Anyhow, I unleashed hell at them ninjas, or at least I would’ve ‘cept about that time, the trail was overrun with Confederate soldiers from Colonel J.D. Jubilation Flint’s 182nd Volunteer Infantry, the Army of Northern Virginia. Not flesh n’ blood, of course, but ghosts. Spirits from beyond the grave. You could see through them boys, all right; they was sheer as my Aunt Eulalie’s kitchen curtains. And marchin’ right behind ‘em was Lulu Cantrell, whistlin’ Dixie and swingin’ a jug of what could only be Ol’ Stupefaction. Don’t ask me where she found that jug. Lulu’s the type of girl what could be dumped in the middle of the desert, and five minutes later she’d have an umbrella, a lawn chair, a portable TV set and a cooler full of beer, not to mention a gallon of baby oil and an itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka dot bikini. Maybe that hair-do of hers has a secret compartment that defies all laws of time and space. Or maybe she’s got the Home Shopping Club on speed-dial. Woman is a regulation unto herself. Poor ol’ Butterbean just goes along for the ride. Them Confederate ghosts put a mortal frightener on them white ninja kittens. They screamed and upped and runned like it was a green apple quick-step race and the last one to the finish line had to shovel out the outhouse. Colonel J.D. Jubilation Flint led the charge after ‘em, his saber held on high, whilst the bugler played fit to bust and the soldier boys whooped and hollered and generally beat the underbrush in their ghostly fashion. It was a regular snipe hunt, if you ask me, but I ain’t one to argue with results. Then who should show up but that damned inscrutable Siamese cat what belongs to Mary Jane Goodge! “That there’s a powerful weapon of mass distraction,” says the Siamese. “You mean Lulu?” says I. “No shit, Sherlock. What was your first clue? Everybody in Flathead County knows that Lulu Cantrell’s as contrary as they come, even Jo-Jo Pinhead Prentiss and his elevator don’t stop on all floors… not on this planet, anyway.” “Now you must seek out the chief of the ninjas, who is also high priestess of the Boom-Boom Cult of Doom,” says the Siamese, still inscrutable as ever. I swear, that cat had one expression and it was constipated from the get-go. Looked like it was blowin’ its O-ring whist perched on the kitty crapper. “The Boom-Boom Cult of Doom?” says I. “Is that like this crazy cult what my cousin Ernest once joined over to Meridian, where they wore bright orange bed-sheets and sang songs about hairy fishnuts? Or is it more like this bar over to Leeburgsville, where they got a stripper who practically has to haul her titties around in a wheelbarrow?” More inscrutability from the cat, who now looks like that theoretical turd is comin’ out sideways. “It’s a cult dedicated to the return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.” “You mean Nixon? Or Sherman?” says I. “I mean the one whose name is madness and death,” says the Siamese. Well, I done heard this song and dance from Old Lady Slidell. “Yadda, yadda, yadda,” says I. “Just point me in the general direction of the mayhem.” “Thataway,” says the Siamese, pointin’ its tail due west. So it was giddy-up and away we go, headed west to the Boom-Boom Cult of Doom. Whilst I was so wound up you couldn’t have drove an eight-penny nail into my ass with an eight-pound hammer, thanks to Ol’ Stupefaction Lulu was feelin’ no pain a’tall. I reckon she was pert near to plastered and drunk as a fiddler’s monkey with a hot toddy habit. Didn’t have the heart to take the little brown jug away from her. I figured she’d pass out sooner or later, but brother, I was dead wrong. Lulu commenced to singin’, which is mighty unfortunate as at the best of times, woman’s got a voice like a baby bein’ beat with a cat in heat. Lulu’s song – she mixed up bits from a lot of different places, bless her – went a little somethin’ like this: “I’d’ve settled for a hot dog and a grape snowcone, I reckon if there was any critters in the woods what might’ve had bad intentions towards us, they run off on account of Lulu’s singin’. I tell you no lie when I say to you, my friend, that they take up a special collection in the church every Sunday to bribe Lulu from joinin’ with the congregation to make a joyful noise unto the Lord ‘cause she’ll stand proud as a seven peckered billy goat and sing ‘gladly, the cross-eyed bear’ and ‘what a friend we have in Cheez Whiz’ every single time, and off-key at that. Lord, how I love that woman! But I’d druther kiss the south bound end of a north bound mule than listen to Lulu sing in the shower, and don’t you tell her that or by thunder, I will smack you so hard, you won’t be fit to pull a greasy string out of a cat’s ass. By the time we got to the top of Stumpblaster Hill, Lulu was so drunk, I was glad I wasn’t a smoker, ‘cause bubba, I weren’t goin’ to light a cigarette around her for fear of the fumes. One spark and the whole hill might’ve gone up with a bang. Reminded me of the time when Tallywhacker n’ me went over to Lake Perdition for a fishin’ trip, and he ate a mort of canned beanie-weenies doctored with bourbon. Boy broke wind too close to the campfire and the resultin’ explosion of blue flames lit up that lake like it was Fourth of July combined with a knockin’ shop on payday when the Fleet’s in town. Plumb ruined Tallywhacker’s best overalls but damn! That was some serious shit – pardon my pun. Anyhow, what should be at the top of the hill but this sorry shack that’d make a flophouse look like four-star accommodation. I took a quick gander around the place and didn’t see nothin’ much but pine trees and scrub. There was a light on in the shack window, so I grabbed hold of Lulu before she could stagger off to God knows where and become bear bait, and we pussy-footed over to the door. Actually, I pussy-footed and Lulu kind of weaved here n’ there, though she’d finally quit singing, for which benefit I thank the Lord Almighty. All of a sudden, the door flung open. We was both hauled inside by these pastel colored ninjas. It was like bein’ grab-handled by Easter eggs. I would’ve paid good money to see a touch of flame red or brilliant blue. As ‘twas, the only thing that weren’t mint green or soft lemon or sea foam was this female in black leather with a patch over one eye. “Well, well, well,” says the female, grinnin’ like a racoon chewing barbed wire, “if it ain’t Butterbean Shirley McCall.” Just like that, without benefit of coffee, cold showers or hair of the dog, Lulu sobered up. She went positively rigid, so’s you could’ve bounced a quarter off her face. “Do you know this woman?” Lulu says to me, givin’ me one of them looks what could cool off hellfire. “Honey-pie,” says I, “this female is a riddle of a mystery wrapped in an enema to me. I ain’t never seen her before in my life.” “That ain’t entirely the truth,” says the one-eyed woman. “You’ve done forgot me, I know, but cast your mind back to the summer of ’78, Butterbean, and I reckon you’ll soon remember.” The summer of 1978 was a sad and lonesome time, let me tell you. Lulu had to go away with her family on a trip to Florida that Dolly Cantrell won in a raffle at the Drive Reckless junkyard in Carterdale, and I was left to wallow around without her. Longest two months of my life. Still, there was the usual celebration when the Busted Stump quarry flooded as it does every year and re-opened as a swimmin’ hole. Those days, that was about the biggest excitement available in these parts, barrin’ the ‘women in prison triple-feature’ at the Starlite Drive-in Theater. So there I was, lonely and Lulu-less, about as sorry an individual as you might find on the face of the Earth, when this friend of mine – Big Beauregard Belcher, who has held the title of Champion Mud Pit Belly Flopper since the inception of the Summer Bubba-‘Lympics here in Flathead County, though he come a close second in the Armpit Serenade last year – had his little cousin Tracy Lynn from Catfish Junction to stay at his place for the summer. I remembered Tracy Lynn all right, an itty-bitty thing so scrawny, if she held a glass of tomato juice and turned sideways, she’d have looked like a thermometer. Had a face like a blind cobbler’s thumb, too. That girl dogged my heels somethin’ fierce, as hard to get shut of as a deacon in a whorehouse on freebie night. That was the same time that Cousin Jeffrey discovered girls didn’t have no cooties, as I recall, and he was plumb taken with Tracy Lynn, who wanted no truck with him a’tall. Then Lulu come back home with a baby alligator souvenir which promptly bit Tracy Lynn, and Cousin Jeffrey got into it with Lulu, who weren’t about to take no crap from a boy from north of the Mason-Dixon line, and there was considerable consternation all ‘round which finally ended in tears from everybody ‘cept Lulu, of course, who was too busy fishin’ her alligator out of Ma Belcher’s septic tank to cry. “You can’t be Tracy Lynn!” says I, givin’ the one-eyed female the once-over. “That girl was skinny as a garden hose, and looked like a bulldog chewin’ a wasp.” “Yes, it is I, Tracy Lynn Scraggs!” hollers Tracy Lynn, who has grown considerable curves since last I clapped my peepers on her. “I finally got growed up, and I will have my revenge on you, Butterbean Shirley McCall! And on the whole world!” “On me?” says I. “What the mumpin’ heck did I do?” “On account of you didn’t defend me,” says Tracy Lynn. “And your Cousin Jeffrey kissed like a cold frog and tried to touch me under my shirt, and I used to have the biggest crush on you ‘cause I thought you was cooler than Ronnie Milsap, and you wouldn’t look at me a’tall ‘cause of that Lulu Cantrell, who is uglier than homemade sin …” “Them’s fightin’ words!” says Lulu, who then hiccups and collapses, dead to the world. Guess she’d had enough of Ol’ Stupefaction to put down a holocaust of swine, as Papaw McCall used to say, and it had finally caught up with her. She went down in a heap of green polyester, bless her heart, and commenced to snorin’ loud enough to call cattle home. Which left me alone against Tracy Lynn Scraggs, who was obviously two jokers shy of a full deck. “So what’s the deal?” says I. “I inherited my daddy’s moonshine outfit when he passed away in 1991,” says Tracy Lynn, “and I formed the Ninja Kitty Death Squad. Ain’t nobody in Flathead County or beyond what is bigger or badder n’ us, not even the revenuers.” “Like Cousin Jeffrey, eh?” says I. “Look, I don’t give two hoots or a holler over your moonshinin’, Tracy Lynn, but I can’t be havin’ you destroy the world with your Boom-Boom Cult of Doom. That ain’t right.” She gives me a one-eyed look that was pure sass and mulishness rolled together, and says, “I don’t aim to destroy the world, Butterbean… I aim to be the queen of it.” “How do you figure that?” says I. “’Cause He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named will be so grateful to be summoned from his exile beyond the stars, he’ll give me what I want,” says Tracy Lynn. “I used the money we earned with Ol’ Stupefaction to create the Temple of Boom as the Necrotelecomicon says. All we need is a human sacrifice… and that, Butterbean, is you!” I didn’t know whether to shit or go blind, so I just closed one eye and broke wind, so to speak. “Tracy Lynn Scraggs,” says I, “you are crazier than a spayed cockroach.” Next thing I know, me n’ Lulu (who is now snorin’ louder than two skeletons screwing on a tin roof usin’ a beer can as a rubber) gets dragged down behind this fake panel to the place where them ninja kittens brew their moonshine. Further back of the copper stills there was a staircase goin’ down into the bedrock, and lo! We come upon the Temple of Boom, which to tell the truth weren’t nothin’ better than a converted henhouse set up in this cave that stank like a dead camel in a gas station bathroom. I didn’t resist on account of Lulu, who was unable to defend herself, though had I been on my own, I could’ve whipped them ninjas like red-headed step-children. “Behold your own doom, Butterbean!” hollers Tracy Lynn. “Your death will summon He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and I will have my vengeance! When I am queen of the world, you can bet that the former Tomato Queen of Flathead County will feel my wrath, too!” She meant Lulu, of course. Before I could open my mouth, I was grab-handled by them pastel ninja kittens over to the henhouse. I seen Cousin Jeffrey inside, hangin’ on to the chicken wire. “Cousin Butterbean!” he says. “You ought not to be here.” “No shit!” says I. “You damned fool Yankee what has brought shame to the clan McCall, how come you ain’t arrested Tracy Lynn Scraggs yet?” His eyeballs like to have fell out of his head, he was that astonished. “Damn! That’s Tracy Lynn?” Cousin Jeffrey says. “You got that right,” says I. “Girl’s about as much fun as a Methodist service, ain’t she? Got some crazy notion to rule the world.” “We have to stop her,” says Cousin Jeffrey. “Son,” says I, “you ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie.” Them Easter Egg ninjas get me tied up to this pole in front of the henhouse, right next to this rack of chrome hubcaps and a 1955 Ford long-bed on blocks, whilst Tracy Lynn commenced to shakin’ and speakin’ in tongues like a Pentacostal what’s been baptized and filled by the Holy Spirit. The other ninjas threw shame to the winds and was dancin’ around wearin’ nothing but pastel hair and smiles, and I must say that worms on a hot griddle don’t do ‘em justice. Tracy Lynn began readin’ from this book that must’ve been the Necrotelecomicon that Old Lady Slidell had told me about, and man alive! I was so nervous, you could’ve put a chunk of coal in my ass and got back a diamond. Cousin Jeffrey was as much use as a screen door on a submarine and Lulu was still passed out, so as usual, it fell to poor ol’ Butterbean to save the day. It was fortunate that the inscrutable Siamese cat of Mary Jane Goodge showed up when it did, otherwise I’d’ve had to gnaw the knots off my wrists with my teeth. As ‘twas, the cat wasted no time but jumped up and clawed me loose. Took off a yard of skin whilst she was at it, but I ain’t one to quibble at a rescue – not like Lulu, who I reckon would complain over bein’ beheaded with a golden axe or hung with a new rope. A loud tone buzzed through the cave. The Siamese says, “It’s a busy signal. Hurry, Butterbean! Use the book to stop ‘em afore they dial again!” Well, the last time I’d seen the Heckronomicon given to me by Old Lady Slidell, it was stuffed in the back of Lulu’s pants ‘cause I got tired of haulin’ the thing around and she’d never notice the extra weight. Sure enough, there it was, still secure in Lulu’s elastic waistband. Only problem was, there was a dozen dancin’ naked ninja kittens betwixt me n’ the sleepin’ beauty. I didn’t fancy my chances, but I had to try. And then Cousin Jeffrey proved that he might be a damned Yankee, but he was still a McCall by birth and blood. “Hey, Tracy Lynn! Yeah, I’m talking to you, girl!” he says. “Damn, you’re fine! Fine as frog’s hair split three-ways. Want to dance with me?” Tracy Lynn’s head come round so quick, I feared she might give herself whiplash. The dancin’ ninjas kind of stumbled to a stop. “What did you say?” says Tracy Lynn. “I asked if you wanted to cut a rug with me,” says Cousin Jeffrey. Give the man credit, he was cool as a cucumber. Me, I was sweatin’ hard and shaking like a hound dog crappin’ pine cones. I judged the distance and backed up a mite, to give myself some room for the charge. There was but one chance and if I screwed the pooch, it was all over. Tracy Lynn oiled on over to the henhouse. She ain’t yet noticed I was free, you see, on account of I was on her blind side. “Do you really like me?” she says to Cousin Jeffrey. “Always have,” says Cousin Jeffrey. “Let me out of here, Tracy Lynn, and I’ll show you how much.” That sweet talk like to have give me the belly-ache but I didn’t let it stop me. Whilst Cousin Jeffrey was distractin’ Tracy Lynn, I took off runnin’ towards Lulu and that damned book, though I didn’t have any idea what I was goin’ to do with the sucker once I had hold of it. Them ninjas kittens made as if to block me, so I put my head down and just plowed on through ‘em, bowlin’ the pink and blue and green girls ass over teakettle. I runned faster than I’d ever run before but it weren’t quite fast enough. Tracy Lynn broke free of her fascination with Cousin Jeffrey and come after me. Brother, now there was the fight to end all fights! Tracy Lynn don’t hold no bars but came on hotter than a freshly fucked fox in a forest fire. But I weren’t alone, neither, as the inscrutable Siamese cat jumped in on my side. It was a positive whirlwind down there in the Temple of Boom, what with Tracy Lynn employin’ deadly shinobi techniques, and me with my wu-shu n’ wo-ping feng shui moves. It helped that I am also fair-to-middlin’ skilled at duct tape-kinesis – as everybody knows, if you can’t fix it, duct it! I once owned a pea green 1972 Pinto that was held together mainly with duct tape and Bondo. Alas, the Pinto kicked the bucket at the Crap Car Rally over to Tranquilla after gettin’ bashed by a Yugo. ‘Twas the very same vehicle in which Lulu n’ me got down and dirty over to Lover’s Leap – the Pinto, I mean, not the Yugo, which was owned by Tater Tott’s little brother, Spud. Ah, sweet memories. So utilizin’ my astonishing powers of the mind, I managed to get hold of a roll of what Reverend Honeycutt calls Jesus tape (‘cause it can fix anything). I commenced to ripping off strips of duct tape and smackin’ ‘em on Tracy Lynn anytime she got too close, anywhere I could reach. Managed to get one hand tied behind her back and her thighs stuck together, but the girl was slippery as an eel in a bucket of snot. Cousin Jeffrey got loose from the henhouse temple and was openin’ a can of whoop-ass on them ninja kittens with his trusty spork. Tracy Lynn and the Boom-Boom Cult of Doom was going down! Looked like we was about to win the day. I ought to have known not to count my chickens till the eggs was hatched. What none of us knew was that Tracy Lynn had hit the mystical re-dial. Turned out there weren’t no need to sacrifice me. See, Tracy Lynn thought she was makin’ a 1-900 call, but it was really toll-free. There was a moment when the Zamfir pan-flute version of I Can’t Get Over You So Why Don’t You Get Under Me started echoin’ through the cave, and a loud click, and then we was connected for sure. Shit fire and spare the matches! There was fog n’ bright lights n’ wind – reminded me of many a music video on the MTV back in the ‘80’s, when we all wore stonewashed jeans, plastic jelly shoes, Frankie Says Relax shirts, and had feathered roach clips on our cowboy hats. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named started comin’ through to our side, and Lord have mercy, weren’t he a sight to make your eyes sore! Ugly don’t begin go cover it. I bet his momma had to feed him with a slingshot. Sucker was big, too, about the size of the water tower over to Meridian what’s painted with an ad for Skoal snuff. To give you the gist, it looked like a jacked-off squid on legs. That’s right, bubba. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was really the Calamari-That-Walked-Like-a-Man. It was beginnin’ to get hot in that cave, like Hell stewed down to a half-pint. ‘Bout this time, Lulu started to come around. That’s the thing about Ol’ Stupefaction; at a certain point, if you drink enough, you go past drunkenness and clean out the other side into sobriety. When she clapped her eyeballs on me and Tracy Lynn, she says, “Butterbean Shirley McCall, if you have been pitchin’ woo with some other female whilst I’ve been havin’ my nap, I will smack both of you so hard, your blood will be flowin’ counter-clockwise.” “Honey-pie, there ain’t no female that I love better n’ you,” says I to Lulu. “Only right now, I got a whole ‘nother critter to fry.” Lulu give Tracy Lynn one of them looks. “Remember me, Lulu Cantrell?” says Tracy Lynn. “Duke Scraggs little girl, only I ain’t so little no more. Neither are you. My, my, the years have not been kind, have they?” I could’ve warned the one-eyed fool that you’d sooner tangle with a scalded yard-dog than piss off Dolly Cantrell’s daughter. Lulu got to her feet so fast, she practically left a sonic boom in her wake. Before Tracy Lynn could do much more than open her pie-hole again, Lulu whacked her over the head with the little brown jug of Ol’ Stupefaction. Tracy Lynn went down, all right, and the other ninja kittens surrendered to Cousin Jeffrey, just like that. But the God of All the Squid was still comin’ through at a stroll, through he looked angry enough to chew bar iron and spit nails. Don’t rightly know what had him so het up. Still, I remembered what Old Lady Slidell had told me – that I had to use the Heckronomicon to stop him. How I was ‘sposed to do that, I hadn’t the faintest idea. Then I spotted some barrels of black powder, and Cousin Jeffrey saw ‘em, too. We looked at each other and broke out in grins so wide, we could’ve eaten watermelon sideways. ‘Tweren’t but the work of a moment to rig up some gunpowder charges, ‘specially with me bein’ practiced at makin’ Papaw McCall’s special fireworks, which ain’t fancy, just black powder and charcoal in a paper bag sealed with duct tape. Very popular at picnics and family reunions, as the smoke tends to keep the mosquitoes away, and the ants usually get blowed up to Kingdom Come. To make a long story short, whilst Lulu poked around the henhouse temple lookin’ for sustenance (she did eventually find some turkey jerky, a jar of mustard, some piccalilli and a half box of pralines) me n’ Jeffrey got the charges fixed up to the book. After that, we just had to figure out a way to get Ol’ Squidface to swallow it afore he come all the way through and our world went to shit in a handbag. Wouldn’t you know, the inscrutable Siamese turned into Mary Jane Goodge her own self! I was so startled, I could’ve crapped through a screen and not hit a wire. That red headed and freckled Goodge sure caught Cousin Jeffrey’s eye; man looked at her like he was so hungry, he was about to fall through his asshole and hang himself, and she was a four course meal with extra hot fudge sauce on the side. Mary Jane says, “We got to hurry, Butterbean! Faster! Faster!” Lulu come wanderin’ out of the henhouse, munching on a kind of sandwich she’d made from the turkey jerky, piccalilli and pralines put together betwixt some stale crackers, held together with mustard. She was happy as a baby in a barrel of titties, but that didn’t last long. I ask you, brother, who’d’ve guessed that the Calamari-That-Walked-Like-a-Man would find such a combination of ingredients well-nigh irresistible? Ol’ Squidface went for Lulu’s sandwich, one of them tentacles of his shootin’ out faster than a preacher’s hand at a free fried chicken buffet. Lulu resisted, of course; trying to part a Cantrell from her feed is harder than herding cats. I hollered at her to hang on tight, which being the contrary woman she is, made Lulu let go of that sandwich like it was red-hot. Ol’ Squidface opened up his bonebox – damn, my son, I tell you he had some serious dental problems as I ain’t seen such a snaggle-toothed smile since my Great-Uncle Winsome, who takes two hours to eat corn on the cob – and commenced to eatin’ that sandwich. I wound up, put some serious English on it, and chucked that book straight at him. Went down his gullet a treat, if I do say so myself. Didn’t have much time to admire my pitching technique as we had to get the hell out of Dodge. Lulu was grizzlin’ about her lost sandwich, so I promised her a month’s worth of Fat Joe’s barbeque to get her tail in high gear. Tracy Lynn and the ninja kittens and Cousin Jeffrey and Mary Jane also hauled ass, then we was out of the cave and into the pines when there come a big ka-boom that like to have rattled the bones out of my body. Guess the Calamari-That-Walked-Like-a-Man is sleepin’ with the fishes for good. So Cousin Jeffrey arrested Tracy Lynn Scraggs and the Ninja Kitty Death Squad and took ‘em over to Tranquilla. Having decided that he is, in his heart, a true blue son of the South rather than a damned Yankee, the boy’s shackin’ up in sin with Mary Jane Goodge and her eleventy-dozen inscrutable cats. Teach him to chaw and spit and drive a tractor, and I reckon he’ll be as good an old boy McCall as the rest of his kinfolk provided he quits his revenuer job and goes into a more respectable line, like Bible salesman or truck mechanic. Tracy Lynn Scraggs and them ninja kittens got 15-20 years in the state pen, and they’re practically runnin’ the place these days. I heard that Ma Scraggs has taken over the moonshine business in Unincorporated Catfish Junction. Changed the formula for Ol’ Stupefaction to New Ol’ Stupefaction and I tell you, my friend, it just plain sucks. If you drink that stuff, you’d better take your next dump in the creek to keep from settin’ the woods on fire. Do as I do, and wait for Classic Ol’ Stupefaction to come back. It’ll happen eventually, ‘specially since Papaw McCall started a letter-writing campaign. Nobody ever found a trace of Ol’ Squidface, but somebody told me that the Redman brothers what own the pro shop over to Lake Perdition has started sellin’ this stink bait that is flat out guaranteed to attract fish. Trouble is that your catch-of-the-day tends to be man-eatin’ catfish with overgrown whiskers but there you go. Ain’t no gain without a little pain. Just be sure to bring a stick or two of dynamite with you, and I reckon you’ll be all right. As for me n’ Lulu Cantrell… well, I don’t mind telling you that as soon as we got to the truck, she turned to me with this glint in her eyes that was very familiar. “Butterbean,” says Lulu, lookin’ at me with a love that dare not speak its name, “you are positively appetizin’ tonight… why, I reckon I could just eat you alive…” And it was about that time when I noticed the zombie hidin’ under the bench seat. So I had to… What’s that, Roy? Closin’ already? My, how the time does fly! It’s been nice talkin’ to you, bubba. Ain’t no way better to while away an evenin’ at the Dewdrop Inn than a fresh audience and a story that ain’t been done to death. I’ll just be moseying along home less’n you’d care to join us. No? Lulu will be mighty tore up about that. She does so love to have folks over for dinner. Hey, where you going in such a hurry? Shoot. You come back now, y’hear? And when you’re next in town, look me up. That’s Butterbean Shirley McCall, sayin’ farewell and thanks for the beer.
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