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

the waist of his khakis and tightening the belt. Nobody’s ever going to believe this.
    As Thigpen tumbles into the passenger seat, Dandelion lays rubber. The valet attendant dives out of harms way. Gravel flies.
    “WEE-HAH!” Thigpen yells, as they speed down Greenville.
    “Let’s get some drinks,” Dandelion says.
    “Whatever.” Thigpen is ebullient.
    Next thing, they’re in this dark trendy bar called Black Velvet. At 3:30 in the afternoon it’s deserted. The bartender appears stoned out of his gourd. Alt-rock cavorts from ceiling speakers.
    Dandelion orders sippin tequila con rocas . For both of them.
    “You a hunter, Earl? You know, camouflage duds, pump-action shotgun, the works?”
    “We get some fine migratory birds down in Biloxi.”
    “I knew it. The moment I saw you, I said to myself: That S.O.B. gets his rocks off blasting away at poor defenseless creatures.”
    “That’s one way of lookin’ at it.”
    “You bet. But it’s a different story over in I-raq. Over there it’s man against man. Kill or be killed.”
    Thigpen takes another sip of tequila . Where is she going with this? he asks himself. And who cares…? Maybe I should get us a motel room.
    “You ever killed anyone?” He waits for her to say “Earl.” But she doesn’t. She just looks at him with eyes like a surgeon’s hands. Or a pair of stainless steel meat cutters in the Tom Thumb deli department.
    Slice and dice. Thigpen knows he’s in over his head.
    But he can’t help himself. By the third round, Dandelion’s reliving Black Hawk Down frame by frame.
    “Let’s go back to the car,” she says.
    The light is beginning to attenuate with the westward decline of the sun. They walk in the deep shadows of a line of live oaks, next to an el cheapo Mexican restaurant. Neon lights come on in the windows. Tacos. Enchiladas. Ptomaine poisoning.
    The Audi’s parked on a side street.
    When they get to it, she opens the trunk. Lying there on an old gray Army blanket in the dim trunk-light is an AK-47, clip in.
    Wow, Thigpen thinks. But he doesn’t say anything.
    “Just point and shoot. Like a video camera.”
    “Tell me again…”
    “My parents are dead. My brother’s trying to kill me. Because I got everything.”
    “You mean the dried-up oil wells.”
    “They aren’t dried-up. I lied about that.”
    “And your brother wants them.”
    “Yes.”
    “And you want me to shoot your brother.”
    “Yes.”
    “Why don’t you do it yourself?”
    “I’ll show you why.” She steps close and runs her hand up his fly. Fiddles with the top button. Thigpen closes his eyes.
    The next moment, the hard point of her index finger taps his chest. His eyes fly open.
    “Listen up, Earl. It’s simple as pie. I drive by the café where Tim has a drink every evening at an outside table. You’re in the passenger seat with the assault rifle. When I slow down, you blast him. Then we’re outa there before anyone realizes what’s happened.”
    “There’s got to be another way. Maybe you should see a lawyer.”
    Her mouth closes over his, her tongue exploring the contours of his teeth. Her hand plays havoc with his genitalia. “Pretty please,” she whispers.
    When he opens his eyes this time, she’s lighting a J.
    “This’ll chill you out,” she says. She takes a deep drought and passes it.
    Then they’re back in the car with the AK-47 in Thigpin’s lap, driving down the now dark side street.
    Out of nowhere, headlights flash on bright. A car swerves in front of them blocking the street. The Audi’s breaks squeal. A full-size pick-up zooms in behind, locking them in.
    Bandidos , thinks Thigpen, as he slams into the padded dash. Luckily, the airbags don’t deploy. Thigpen scrambles out of the car, only to be knocked to the ground by a knee to his stomach. He spews.
    Dandelion screams bloody murder until someone slaps a piece of duct-tape across her mouth. Someone else punches her in the face and she slumps unconscious.
    When Thigpen