Fat Assassins (The Fat Adventure Series) Page 5

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

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

  Mitchell spotted a chicken heading our direction and gave chase.

  The chicken picked up speed.

  The faster Mitchell ran, the faster the chicken waddled.

  Mitchell leapt to grab the bird as it went airborne.

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

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

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

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

  Mitchell threw his hands up in victory!

  I sat there stunned by the poultry violence.

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

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

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

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

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

  “I don’t know. I was paralyzed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Rabbit stew,” I added.

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

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Bambi Kabob.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “No kidding!” Sam echoed her sentiment.

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

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

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

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

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

  I groaned.

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

  “Lookie here, lookie here! We got a real pro shooting! Come see how it’s done and try your’n luck to win a prize!” he roared to the crowds milling around the park benches, before sticking his hand into a hidden crevice and activating the mechanical deer. “You get ten shots. All you need is 1 hit to earn a prize!”

  I tuned his voice out and focused on the hum and clank of the metal deer. I closed my left eye and exhaled.

  PING!

  A metal deer fell backwards.

  Hum. Clank. PING!

  Another deer down.

  Hum. Clank. PING! And another.

  “That’s what I call beginner’s luck,” the old man said trying to interrupt my shooting rhythm.

  PING! PING!

  Two more deer.

  The metal mammals seemed to be accelerating. I adjusted my breathing to match the new speed. PING! PING! PING! PING! PING!

  I lowered the gun from my shoulder. “Easy peasy. What did I win?”

  “You a member of the NRA?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at me. “No ringers allowed.”

  “It’s my first time every shooting a gun, even a toy one. It didn’t seem that hard though. What do I win?”

  His rotten teeth hid behind pursed lips, as he muttered, “You can pick anything from that top row.”

  I looked at the giant animals hanging suspended from the ceiling by
little silver hooks and pointed at a giant, pink unicorn with a rainbow mane. “I’d like that one, please.”

  He clambered up a step stool and struggled to pull the giant toy down.

  I turned to look at my friends who were uncharacteristically quiet. They were standing there with their mouths open, staring at me while the crowd that had gathered around the game started clapping and cheering.

  I turned back and snatched my unicorn from the man. Wrapping both arms around it, I gave him a sweet smile and said, “Thanks!”

  “What the hell was that? When did you learn to shoot?” Ulyssa asked, acting huffy like I’d kept a big secret from her.

  “I’ve never used a gun before, but it wasn’t very hard.” I replied, shoving the unicorn towards Mitchell. “Can you hold this for me while I finish my funnel cake?”

  “No way! I’m not carrying a giant pink fluffy unicorn around.”

  “I’ll hold it,” Mitsy offered. “I think it’s pretty. Pegasus are my favorite animal, but unicorns are my second favorite.” It made sense that she liked mystical creatures since she liked to collect figurines, read science fiction novels and dreamed of going to Dragon Con one day.

  “Thanks!” I shoved the animal in her arms. It was almost as tall as she was and I felt a little bad saddling her with it, but I really wanted to finish my deep fried, sugar coated dough.

  “I want to go again,” Mitchell demanded, handing the man more money. “She had the good gun!”

  Picking up the same gun I used, he played two more rounds without winning a prize before giving up.

  The old man continued lobbing insults at him as we walked away. “Good thing you got all them women to protect you since you couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn.”

  Eventually his voice faded as we strolled along looking at the other games on our way to the rides.

  Once there wasn’t someone attacking his manhood, Mitchell relaxed. “That was some good shooting for sure. I won’t be pissing you off!” Mitchell declared, slapping me on the back like we’re part of some elite carnival rifleman’s association.

  “Whatever. You don’t have anything to worry about,” I said, dumping my empty paper plate into the trash can and retrieving my unicorn from Mitsy. “We don’t even own Super-soakers.”

  All of the game attendants must have attended the same customer service training, because Ulyssa became the next target.

  “Step right up and fool the guesser,” A bearded man in a top hat yelled at us. “I’ll guess your weight, age or birthday.”

  “Don’t even think about it!” Ulyssa warned him.

  “Weight, age or birthday,” he said pointing to the scale behind him and gave her a body scan. “Let’s see how much junk you got in your trunk! 200 if you’re wearing Spanx - 220 if you’re not.”

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” she yelled at him.

  “Prove me wrong. Prove me wrong. Step on the scale and prove me wrong.”

  Like a gender call-to-arms, all the women took a step toward the guesser.

  “Whoa, ladies. I’m just trying to do a job here,” the guesser said, stumbling backwards into his wall of prizes. He twisted sideways trying to stabilize the giant wire frame covered in stuffed animals. His fumbling accelerated the rate of fall and the wall smashed down onto the corral of the nearby pony ride. The crashing noise and dangling fuzzy projectiles startled the Shetland ponies who began galloping in circles looking for an escape from the threat.

  The tiny riders clung tightly to the sweat drenched necks of the runaway ponies, while concerned parents sprang to action. The men hopped in the corral and tried to pull the children off the crazed beasts. The women marched toward the guesser like a crazy Transylvanian mob, minus pitch forks and torches. The lack of adult supervision created a unique window of opportunity for the children still waiting in line for a ride. They seized that opportunity and descended on the stuff animal prizes like miniature Barbarian raiders. The guesser could only watch as they pilfered his goods, as he tried to outmaneuver the mom mob.

  The delighted shouts of the looting mini-barbarians further confused the ponies, who reared on their hind legs in self defense sending two unlucky riders out of the saddle. Three of the remaining riders were paralyzed by fear and crying, while one dug her heels into the saddle hoping for a longer ride. She was waving her hand in the air yelling, “Yippie Ki Yay...” when her dad jerked her from the saddle, leaving us to wonder how she would have finished that statement.

  Exhausted from the excitement, the ponies slowed to a cautious cantor which allowed the men to retrieve the remaining children. The happy reunions distracted the irate parents enough for the guesser to mysteriously disappear.

  “Wow! That was a good dose of karma!” Ulyssa commented smugly.

  Sam grinned her agreement, “I’m surprised he made it out of there alive.”

  “Do you think those ponies will be traumatized?” Mitsy said, furrowing her eyebrows.

  “I’m sure they’ll be okay. They’ll probably get some extra oats for dinner since they worked so hard today,” I consoled her.

  Mitchell had already lost interest in the conversation and stopped to watch people trying to land rubber frogs onto lily pads in the middle of a pond. “I wonder how they came up with the idea of frog tossing. Why frogs? Just doesn’t make much sense to me.”

  “What’s up with all these games that are cruel to animals? Shooting deer. Throwing frogs,” Mitsy asked, looking around the group for validation. “Don’t you think it sends the wrong message to people? That animal cruelty is okay?”

  “They’re just games. I think cruel people are cruel and it don’t take a game to prove that,” Sam challenged her.

  Oblivious to Mitsy’s distress, Mitchell led us directly towards one of the worst animal abuse games. “Hey. Whack-a-mole! We gotta try it!”

  He handed the girl behind the counter some money and turned toward us to see if we were watching. The whole movement was very bizarre. It looked like he was trying to imitate one of those bodybuilders. He held the club in his right hand, flexing his right bicep while pointing his left hand in our direction.

  Oblivious to his attempts to impress her, the girl behind the counter started the game. Mole heads started popping up behind him like little brown ninjas. He spun around and started banging the padded hammer head again the holes trying to catch the moles. After a few minutes the music faded away signaling the end of the game.

  “Here’s your prize,” the girl said, laying a plastic harmonica on the counter. “Do you want to try again for a bigger prize?”

  “Sure,” he said, handing her another $5 bill. She pressed a hidden button and the brown ninjas reappeared. After a few minutes of work, he earned a plastic kazoo to go with his harmonica. “I’m done with this. I just spent $10 to win two crappy prizes.”

  It’s payback time.

  “It’s your turn, Ulyssa. My treat,” I said, paying for the game, giving her a smile. “You need to get rid of some of that rage.”

  Sam, Mitchell and Mitsy stepped back. They clearly agreed with me about Ulyssa’s rage.

  “Whatever,” she replied, picking up the club. “This game is stupid.”

  The bored attendant started the game and Ulyssa swung into motion.

  Pop. WHACK!

  Pop. WHACK!

  Pop. WHACK!

  Pop. WHACK!

  Pop. WHACK!

  Holy crap. When did she grab the other hammer? We watched in amazement as she wielded both hammers like an ancient Viking Princess. As the music faded, she slammed the hammers crushing two moles before returning them to their holster.

  She ran the back of her hand across her forehead to wipe off the light beads of sweat.

  “Wow! That felt good!”

  The attendant used a long stick to get one of the Tweety birds down handing it over to Ulyssa. “Here ya go. You’re pretty good. I only ever saw one person use both clubs like that before. Some guy up in New York.”

&nbs
p; “If I give you $5, would you win one for me?” Mitsy asked, handing Ulyssa her money. “I want a giant stuffed animal.”

  “I’ll try. I can’t promise anything.”

  Ulyssa handed the money to the girl and grabbed her Viking hammers. She made quick work of the moles again without missing a single one. Mitsy squealed and grabbed the stuffed animal. I guess this made up for the violence of pummeling some animals.

  The annoyed attendant glared at Ulyssa saying, “That’s your last turn. Those Tweety birds are $50 a pop.”

  “No problem.”

  Mitsy gave her a friendly wave goodbye. “Thanks!”

  “That was crazy. It was almost like you knew where the moles would pop up,” I said.

  “Yeah. I don’t know what happened. I was in some kind of trance and everything moved in slow motion.”

  We paraded our gigantic furry critters over to the Extreme FreeFall ride and weaved our way around the railings to join the short line. Rows of smiling riders sat dangling their feet, awaiting their manufactured adrenaline rush. Two carnival workers checked the safety gear of the riders lined on each side of the giant metal contraption, before giving a thumbs up to a third worker in a booth. The machine propelled the riders to the top of the tower, where they hung suspended for a few seconds before dropping back down towards the ground. The screams were drowned out by the thumping sound of club music. The riders dropped a second time and the ride was finished. The workers herded us onto the metal platform, grabbing our stuffed animals and propping them against the railing.

  I felt doubt creeping into the back of my mind.