Fat Assassins (The Fat Adventure Series) Read online

  I hope they have funnel cakes.

  I stood wrapped in my towel staring into my closet. What do you wear to a roadkill festival?

  Jeans, t-shirt and cute purple jacket.

  Ulyssa decided to go country chic too. Except she had added a giant feathered hair clip and matching earrings to top off her outfit.

  “Nice earrings!” I teased, giving her a backhanded compliment. “Reminds me of roach clips!”

  “Whatever! I like ‘em. Mom got them for me at the Church flea market.” She caressed the black and tan striped feather hanging from her right ear. “I wasn’t sure at first, but they’ve grown on me.”

  A light tap at the door interrupted our fashion debate.

  “Hey y’all!” Mitchell greeted us while Mitsy gave us a little wave.

  “Morning!” I greeted them.

  “This festival better be good or Sam is going to hear about it all the way back,” Ulyssa snarled, pushing me down the stairs closing the door behind her.

  Everyone murmured in agreement.

  A few minutes later we arrived outside Sam’s apartment building. The red brick was covered with a layer of dirt giving it the illusion of a historic building. Sam was standing in front of the cracked wooden sign that read Parkview Apartments. I’m not sure how they picked the name since the only view from the apartments was the Piggly Wiggly. Sam waved a blue Igloo cooler in the air as we pulled closer.

  “It is too damn early!” she said, shoving the cooler into the back of the Pinto. “Wouldn’t be a road trip without a cooler!”

  “Too early to start drinking!” Mitchell protested.

  “It ain’t booze, you lush. Just some sodas and snacks!”

  “Oh. Cool. Thanks.”

  “I’m excited. I’ve never been to a famous place before. I wonder if it will be just like it was on T.V.” Sam’s definitely a morning person.

  “Being on the Food Network doesn’t make it a famous place,” Ulyssa argued.

  “Name me another place in West Virginia that’s been on television?”

  Sam pulled some snacks out of the cooler and passed them around, while we tried to come up with an answer.

  “Mothman Prophesies?” Mitsy asked in between bites of granola bar.

  “That movie was about West Virginia, but not filmed here,” Sam said, chewing on her Slim Jim. “Anyone else?”

  “Fine. I guess we are going to a famous place,” Ulyssa conceded. “I bet there won’t be any movie stars there though.”

  I stabilized my Mello Yello cans as she swerved the car to miss a pothole.

  “Y’all wouldn’t know how to act if we did see a movie star,” Sam joked.

  “I’d know what to do if I saw Shania Twain!” Mitchell said.

  “Seriously?” Mitsy asked.

  “Hell yeah! She’s a hottie.”

  “She’s Canadian!” Sam added.

  “But she sings country music,” he defended.

  “Do you think there’s rednecks in Canada?” I asked.

  “I bet they have trailer parks too!” Ulyssa answered.

  “Wow. Imagine visiting a Canadian trailer park,” I continued.

  “You’d have to have passports to go,” Mitsy said, “They’re bout $150 each.”

  “What? $150 dollars?” Mitchell asked.

  “It’s thousands of miles away. Too far for a road trip in the Pinto,” Ulyssa said patting the dashboard.

  “I would drive a million miles for a date with Shania.”

  “You know she’s married, right?” Ulyssa asked.

  “But she’s been married for almost twenty years. She might be looking for some young blood.”

  “She’s already found some new blood. She got divorced in 2010 cause he was cheating on her with her best friend, some Swiss woman,” Sam retorted.

  “Even better. Now she’s free and needing a shoulder to cry on.”

  “For someone who’s so into her, you really don’t know much about her,” Sam scolded, “After her divorce, she got engaged to her best friend’s ex-husband.”

  “Wait. Her best friend slept with her husband, so she divorced him and married her best friend’s husband?” he asked.

  “I guess they have rednecks in Switzerland too cause that’s some Jerry Springer stuff,” Mitsy added.

  “Dang. That’s messed up.” I grinned at Ulyssa. “I would never try to steal Johnny away from you.”

  She gave me an evil look. “He is not my boyfriend!”

  The entire backseat erupted in laughter.

  Ulyssa tapped the brakes, slinging all of us forward and choking me on the seatbelt. “Oops. Thought I saw something in the road.”

  “That sure is a lot of passion for someone you don’t like,” Sam said.

  Ulyssa started swerving the car along the curvy, country road. Everyone started groaning as the granola, manufactured meat and soda started swirling in our stomach.

  “What’s wrong y’all?” She kept exaggerating the turns, making us greener. “I thought you were joking about my love life. Please continue.”

  I opened my mouth begging her to stop, “Bletch!”

  “Tell ya what... you stop joking about Johnny and I’ll stop swerving.”

  Everyone nodded.

  We all sat in silence with the windows rolled down for the next twenty minutes trying to calm our stomachs.

  “Look!” Ulyssa pointed to a sign. “We’re almost there.”

  I lifted my head off the cool doorframe just long enough to read the approaching sign. Ten miles to Malington. I laid my head back down into the wind and exhaled in relief.

  We scrambled out gasping for air before Ulyssa had finished parking the car, but the smell of slow roasting meat didn’t help my swirling innards. I pushed the thought of rotisserie possum from my mind and focused on funnel cakes.

  The sun was twinkling between the clouds, warming my face as we crunched across the gravel. A light breeze snapped the giant ENTRANCE sign taunt against the aluminum poles as we passed into the fairgrounds. Arriving mid-morning was a great idea. We were some of the first people at the festival, so we could amble between the booths without the crowds.

  The food booths were arranged down the right side, so we chose that route first. The decorations looked like something out of an Appalachian Broadway musical. Each section was designed around a unique roadkill theme. The first tent was decorated with awards from previous cook-offs. We stepped over the mock asphalt littered with vermin and peeked inside the tent.

  “Howdy, there!” A twangy accent greeted us from under a straw hat.

  “Morning!” We responded inhaling the thick scent of spices and unidentifiable meat.

  She chuckled at our flaring nostrils. “It ain’t ready yet. Should be fit to eat after the parade.”

  “Um. What is it?” Mitsy asked.

  She pointed at the chalkboard propped against a reclining, fuzzy black bear.

  BEAR BUTT APPETIZERS

  “Bear butt appetizers?” Mitsy gasped.

  Bletch. Bletch.

  She chuckled, “I reckon this here is your’n first time to the festival.”

  We all nodded.

  “I tell ya what. Why don’t you’ns stop by here afore ya leave and I’ll give ya free samples. It tastes better’n it sounds.”

  I gave her a thumbs up, so I wouldn’t have to open my mouth. I didn’t want to offend her with my gag reflex. She turned her back to us and finished unpacking some boxes at the back of the tent. The next couple booths were filled with more customary southern foods like venison, roast pig, and rabbit.

  “Hey Shasta! Look at this!” Ulyssa waved a can at me from the booth across the walkway.

  I walked over and she handed me the can.

  “It’s canned possum! Isn’t that awesome? We should get some as gag gifts. I asked her - it ain’t real possum. It’s spam!”

  The sales woman caught me as I gave Ulyssa a weird look and her face tightened into an evil grimace.

  Ulyssa
put the can back on the table and grabbed a plastic bag. “What about a mullet wig?”

  I rolled my eyes. I hope the sales woman wasn’t offended. The mullet looked good on her.

  “Wind chimes?” Ulyssa pointed at a slice of trailer siding painted with a mountain scene dangling twelve Pabts Blue Ribbon beer cans like chimes. Mrs. Mullet ran her hand along the cans creating a clanging sound.

  “I think you’re getting too caught up in this festival.”

  “Maybe, but you have to admit that doorbell is funny.”

  I looked around the plastic walls for the doorbell. “What doorbell?”

  “That one.”

  I turned my head to the right where a fake whitetail deer butt hung chained to the tent pole.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Shheeettt! Mmnutsurewhatyournbout, but thisunhere is one of our best sellers.” At least that’s what I think she said. Her Cajun accent was so thick, I easily imagined her speeding through the Bayou on an airboat with her mullet whipping in the wind. She mistook my confusion for interest and leaned over and stuck her finger into the deer butt, depressing the glowing button. “Ithasen four different doorbell sounds.”

  “Eeeerrrreerreeaaaarrreeeeee.” Erupted from the shaking, puffy whitetail.

  I stepped back. “What the...”

  “Angry doe.”

  She flipped a switch on the side and pressed the doorbell again making the tail wiggle and triggering a series of burping and squeaking noises.

  “Urghh. Urghh. Urghh. Urghh. Errea. Errea. Errea.”

  “Mating calls of a buck and doe.”

  “Seriously?” I asked.

  “Fuh shore, for true!” she answered, leaning down to grab a bag for the doorbell.

  “Has anyone ever been attacked because a real deer got confused?”

  She left the bag under the counter and squared her large frame into an aggressive stance. “I don’t rightly know. And you best not be planning one of them fancy lawsuits. I ain’t responsible if you get attacked because of this here doorbell. You chure are giving me a bad case of choux rouge!”

  She smacked both hands on the table shaking her necklace loose from her tank top. I stared at the eerie accessory. It was a brown beaded necklace with with an odd assortment of trinkets suspended from it. One string held a swirled charm surrounded by shells of different sizes and colors. Another second string held a domino and an elongated tooth of some sort. On the opposite side, a chicken claw twisted against a yellow amulet. The last, and most creepy string dangled in the center of the necklace. It was leathery object with sticks shaped like human limbs waving at me.

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

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

  “Y’all ain’t gonna buy nothing?”

  We shook our heads.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “She was so convincing...”

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

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

  “Where’s Mitchell?” I asked.

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

  “I hope he wins!”

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

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

  “When is the rodeo?” Ulyssa asked.

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

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

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

  A light applause followed his introduction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She rolled her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Y’all ready for the chase?”

  The crowd yelled and cheered in response.

  “Release the chickens!”

  All hell broke loose.

  The contestants ran towards the chickens.

  The chickens ran towards the bleachers.

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

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

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