Free Bad Juju & Other Tales of Madness and Mayhem by Jonathan Woods

says.
    For an instant Thigpen stares at himself in the dresser mirror. Curly hair worn in a modified mullet. Last night’s heavy drinking evidenced by swollen cheeks. Romanesque nose broken twice from playing fullback in high school. Eager brown eyes looking the worse for wear. His clothes are frat boy prep: blue oxford-cloth shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, stained khakis, scuffed Docksiders.
    Play it as it lays, he thinks, as he bounds down the stairs.
    She’s waiting on the front porch, with its six white-painted fake southern-style columns and rotting rattan furniture.
    Thigpen sticks his head out the French doors.
    “Heineken or Shiner?” he queries.
    Her black crow-like eyes consider Thigpen as if he’s a fat locust she might or might not choose to devour as an appetizer.
    “Heineken,” say her cherry-stained lips. “ S’il vous plait .”
    Her French accent is as fake as a padded bra, but it’s all the same to Thigpen, who’s never been closer to Europe than a weekend trip to Atlanta for his brother’s wedding. He ducks back inside and dashes down the hall, past the mug shots of former Delta Omega Alpha SMU chapter presidents, to the ramshackle kitchen.
    The twin Heinekens he grabs from the beer cooler clink together like a pair of sterling ideas whose time has come. When he flicks off the caps, a puff of smoke erupts from each bottle like the denouement of a cheap magic trick.
    He rolls each green-glass bottle, already foggy with precipitation, in a paper napkin and hurries back up the hall. It seems like it’s taken an eternity to get all this done. But there she is sitting sidesaddle on the arm of the only Adirondack chair.
    With a shit-ass grin to beat all shit-ass grins, Thigpen hands her one of the beers.
    She draws it to her lips. For a second Thigpen thinks she’s going to French kiss the mouth of the bottle. But she just takes a long deep swallow.
    “My name’s Earl,” Thigpen says. “Earl Thigpen from Biloxi, Mississippi.”
    “Dandelion,” she says, holding out her hand. “Pleased to meet ya.” Her nails are the same deep purple as her lip gloss, but with little white edges the color of bass bait grubs.
    “Is that a family name?” Thigpen asks to make conversation.
    “Lord, I don’t know.” She pulls a handkerchief from her purse and uses it to mop her forehead. “But it sure is hot. Hot as Hades.”
    “You can say that again,” Thigpen says.
     
    A while later they’re in Dandelion’s silver Audi TT convertible. It drives like a wet dream. Thigpen can’t take his eyes off the lushness of her inner thighs, as she pumps the clutch in and out, maneuvering the uber -beast through lunchtime traffic.
    Instead of French food, they end up at a burger joint called Snuffer’s on Lower Greenville.
    “Sweet,” the parking valet says, as he hops in and revs the engine.
    “You take good care of my baby,” Dandelion warns him. “No scratches and no joy rides. I wrote down the mileage.”
    The attendant gives her a mock salute and guns the Audi down a narrow alley.
    “Asshole,” Dandelion mutters. Then flashes Thigpen a big smile and clutches at his arm. “I’m hungry as a horse.”
    Inside, Thigpen slips the maitre d’ a ten-spot. Instantly they’re shown to an outside table with an umbrella. A waitress in a halter-top, camouflage capris and grease-stained Vans brings fresh Heinekens and a pair of flyblown menus.
    Without looking at the menu, Dandelion orders them bacon jalapeno cheeseburgers, fried pickles and onion rings. The first round of beers are gone in less than 30 seconds. The waitress brings another.
    “So,” says Thigpen, “You’re from …”
    “Daddy was in the oil business.”
    “Ah.”
    “Mama had a breakdown right after she gave birth to yours truly.” Dandelion toys with a gold Zippo. “Never did recover. Daddy had to have her committed. After that there was a trail of gold diggers in and out of the master bedroom suite. Nearly broke my