Invasion of the mind-snatchers…
“Are you people crazy?” Raoul bellowed as he ran into the house.
He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Tante Lulu up on a ladder before the fireplace kissing a deer head. Well, maybe not exactly kissing, but she was face-to-face with the twelve-pointer his father had bagged several decades ago. She seemed to be smelling it or something.
“Yikes!” she yelped. He must have startled her because the old lady jerked, the ladder shook, she grabbed for the antlers, and the ladder clattered to the floor. By the time he got to her she hung from the deer head with her tiny feet dangling about three feet off the floor.
Once he helped her down, with her spurs barely missing his family jewels, the first words out of her mouth were, “You got fleas, boy.”
“Huh?”
“And the smell! Pee-you!”
He could feel his face heat with color. “I showered last night, but I’ve been wrestling steers this morning. Dammit, old lady, it’s good, honest sweat.”
She shoved him in the chest, which was about how high her head reached on him. “Not you, lunkhead. That deer head has got fleas. And it stinks. Gotta get rid of it.”
“That’s a family heirloom.” Sort of.
“Heirloom, schmeirloom!”
He ground his teeth together. “Where’s Charmaine?” he inquired, about two decibels above a growl.
“Showing Remy around the barn.”
What could Charmaine possibly know about a barn?
“I dint wanna go ’cause it smells like cow poop. Pheeew! How kin you stand it all day long?”
“You get used to it.”
“I asked Remy to shoot me a cow, but he wouldn’t do it. Can you believe it?”
You’re about three days late, old lady. You could have had four dead steers.
“That Remy, he prob’ly shot lots of people when he was in the Air Force but won’t shoot one lousy cow fer his auntie.”
He probably shouldn’t ask, but he did anyway, “Why did you want Remy to shoot a cow?”
“Fer the bar-be-cue.”
“What bar-be-cue? Never mind.” I really don’t want or need to know.
“He wouldn’t shoot a chicken either. Talk about!”
Shoot a chicken! I need an aspirin. Bad.
“Soz I tol’ him I would do it myself… wring the neck of one of those mean ol’ roosters I saw out front, pluck the feathers, pull out the guts. Done it plenty a times before, I reckon. Gonna make some Tipsy Chicken fer t’night. Or mebbe I should save that fer t’morrow. Mebbe I should use some of that catfish I brought with me and make up a pot of Catfish Court Bouillion. Whaddaya think?”
I think I’ve been run over by a cement roller, Cajun style.
“What were you screaming ’bout when you come runnin’ in here?”
“That damn helicopter. You can’t fly that low over a herd of cattle.”
“Uh-oh. Betcha they’s gonna stop givin’ milk.”
He practically crossed his eyes with frustration, though why he would be so surprised at the remark, he didn’t know. Charmaine had said pretty much the same thing. “I run beef cattle, not a dairy farm.”
She made a moue with her mouth that pretty much said, “Big difference!” Same as Charmaine. They might not be related by blood, but these two were alike in way too many ways. “C’mon, sonny boy, let’s have a cup of coffee. I brought you some Peachy Praline Cobbler Cake. I remembered how much you like peaches.”
For the first time since he’d heard that whirlybird fly overhead, Raoul smiled. Oh, yeah, I do like peaches.
He followed her into the kitchen, her spurs jangling the whole way. She looked like a midget clown he’d seen once at the rodeo. Once there, they were greeted by a blast of “Cajun Madness” on the radio, which Charmaine must have left on. Raoul thought, For sure!
“So, how’d you lose your mojo?” she inquired a short time later in that sly manner she had of slipping in a bomb of a question out of nowhere. She’d already plied him with two pieces of cake, to soften him up, no doubt.
He choked on his coffee. “I beg your pardon.”