This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Fat Assassins. Copyright © 2011 by Marita Fowler. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
ISBN: 978-0-9848902-1-7
First Edition: December 2011
I will kill you.
Standing here next to my best friend with our guns raised, ready to pull the trigger - my mind is devoid of remorse. I leveled the barrel at his chest, marking half-a-tac down from his gaudy gold medallion of Saint Avellino.
I never thought I would be okay with shooting someone.
I am.
Don’t get me wrong, being the harbinger of death isn’t part of my 5 year plan and the parentals would be shocked by my thought bubble. I was raised in a gentle, hippie home where any type of criminal behavior was highly discouraged. I’d never even fired a gun until a few weeks ago, when a lottery ticket set my world askew. They say winning the lottery makes people do crazy things.
Crazy. Yup. That’s the best word to describe the past few weeks.
It’s hard to believe this all started when my best friend, Ulyssa, surprised me with a birthday party. I don’t blame her though, there’s no way she could have known how things would end.
“Happy Birthday Hooker! Ready to get sideways?” Ulyssa asked mischievously, poking her head into the bathroom. She was wearing a sheer black top over a red satin tank top with snug fitting black jeans tucked into a pair of slouchy black boots. Her dark glossy hair was piled high on her head with stray ringlets surrounding her face.
Get sideways? Those are dangerous words coming from her. I opened the medicine cabinet to make sure we had aspirin for my upcoming hangover.
She stood there with a face cracking grin that made my stomach churn.
She’s up to something. “Whatever it is... don’t embarrass me.”
“Are you getting blotchy already?” Her grin grew bigger. “You’re so white-bread.”
Ignoring her taunt, I finished applying my lipstick and checked my teeth for streaks of color.
“Let’s go, Shasta! Them beers ain’t gonna drink themselves.” She dragged me down the hallway and shoved me out the front door. She’s deceptively strong, so there’s no point in putting up a fight.
This is how our friendship’s operated since she masterminded our breakout from third grade fat camp. It was called a retreat, but any place that serves tofu for breakfast is definitely a fat camp. We met on the first day, when we were paired up for self image affirmation. We spent ten minutes repeating scripted dialogue before we decided we were both very happy with our self image. No affirmation required. We spent the next two days working together, mapping out the camp and planning an exit strategy. On the third day, we snuck out at dawn and started our long hike home. Well, we hiked until our parents picked us up after a phone call from the camp counselor. Except for occasionally being grounded - we’d been inseparable ever since.
“Why can’t we just go to the movies or cruise Sonic?” I begged.
“Shasta May Murray. We are not cruising the strip tonight. Get in the car!” Her southern drawl gets worse, the bossier she’s gets.
I settled into the furry seat as she backed the car out of the driveway. A tribal tattoo of pink, orange and yellow racing stripes twisted down the sides of the 1976 Pinto. The car’s Mardi Gras persona always makes me feel like I’m riding in a parade. One day I’m gonna get some beads and sling them at unsuspecting pedestrians.
Ulyssa inherited the cruising wagon from her parents on her sixteenth birthday. Most family heirlooms are houses or jewelry passed down through the generations, but the Grants bequeathed their only daughter a flamboyant Pinto. Motherly guilt and the lack of a down payment are the only things standing in her way of getting rid of it.
The car creaked to a stop near the gas pump and Ulyssa handed me a ten dollar bill. “You pay and I’ll pump.”
Her ex-boyfriend, Johnny, works as a big rig mechanic at the only gas station in town and she avoids going inside anytime we stop. I don’t know if you could officially call him an ex-boyfriend though. She’d only gone on three dates with him before deciding he was too in love with his truck to ever commit to a woman. So she dumped him. He’s used to getting what he wants, so Ulyssa’s rejection drives him crazy.
The rumble of the big rigs pulling into the truck stop always makes me nervous, so I triple checked before crossing the road and entering the store. Johnny was leaning against the counter in oil covered work clothes talking to Bubba.
“Hey there, Shasta!” he said, staring past me at the gas pumps. “What are ya’ll up to tonight?”
“Um. Not sure. I think Ulyssa’s got a birthday party planned.”
“At Buck’s?”
“Yup.”
“Sounds like it’ll be a lively night with a birthday girl in the house,” Bubba said, taking the money from me. Bubba’s a redneck nickname usually reserved for corn-fed country boys missing some teeth. But, everyone thought it was hilarious to call an orange tinted New Jersey transplant ‘Bubba’. The name stuck and he’d become an honorary redneck running Buck’s karaoke nights for the past four years.
Ulyssa honked the horn impatiently.
“Thanks. See y’all later,” I said, disappearing out the door.
The parking lot at Buck’s Shot was nearly full, confirming my suspicions that she’d organized a full scale party for my twenty-third birthday. Tossing Ulyssa a dirty look, I pulled myself out of her fruit striped car.
Walking into the belly of the old converted barn, we gave our eyes a few seconds to adjust to the shadowy bar. Even in the low light, I felt my neck blotching up when my cousin, Tater, yelled at us from across the dance floor.
“Hey, cuz. Happy Birthday!” He ran through the crowd knocking people out of the way, and grabbed me in a bear hug. When he’d finished crushing my ribs, he stepped back and handed me a FedEx envelope.
“Ah. Thanks, Tater. You shouldn’t have,” I said, shoving the envelope into my pocket to avoid any public humiliation. I really meant it. He shouldn’t have.
Last year, my birthday present was stolen CDs from the local pawn shop. I knew they were stolen because he apologized for the missing cases. Apparently, he had to leave ‘em behind at the pawn shop so the owner wouldn’t notice the missing discs. The music selection is really limited, so I ended up with the soundtracks for Platoon and Ghostbusters. Not my normal music preference, but he was really proud of the gift, so I kept them in the car to prove my gratitude.
And I was grateful... that he didn’t get caught by the redneck owner who takes a hard line stance on thievery. He keeps a fully loaded Winchester on premise for security purposes, but doesn’t usually shoot shoplifters. He simply confiscates valuable items off the would-be thieves and adds them to his inventory for resale.
“We got beers to drink,” Ulyssa said, clipping Tater with her hip as she made her way towards the mirrored shelves of alcohol behind the bar.
We bellied up to the bar as Buck sat two Michelob Lights on the counter. “Happy Birthday Shasta! These are on the house.”
I leaned up and planted a kiss on his wrinkled cheek. “Thanks, Buck. You’re a sweetheart.”
He blushed and shooed us toward my d
esignated birthday table near the bandstand. Ulyssa had gone overboard, decorating the table with a mixture of bachelorette novelties and over-the-hill gag gifts. It looked like a birthday party for a sex crazed senior citizen. My face flamed purple and Ulyssa grinned, proud that she’d hit the mark. I sat down, surrounded by lewd novelties and black crepe paper, and took a long swig of my beer.
I glanced around the bar trying to figure out who was here to celebrate my birthday and who was here out of habit. My eyes landed on a cozy couple near the bathrooms.
Is that Ulyssa’s boss in the corner with another woman? I nudged Ulyssa and she followed my stare.
“Ooohhh. There’s rumors flying at work, but I didn’t believe them.” She leaned forward for a better look. “Oh, no. That’s Salvo’s wife.” She looked around nervously. “I hope he don’t find them here. He’ll blow up this whole bar, just to kill ‘em.”
“Do you really think he’d blow up the bar?”
“Probably. He’s got a weapons bunker somewhere up in the mountains. He’s not all there and Rick knows that!”
“Some people don’t have any sense.”
“Tell me about it.” Ulyssa looked at her watch before standing up and grabbing my empty bottle. “You stay put! I’ve got the next round.”
My anxiety skyrocketed. She never checks her watch when we’re partying. Please no strippers, I silently prayed, staring at the door. I relaxed a little when the rest of our dysfunctional gang came through the door. The twins, Mitchell and Mitsy, held the bar doors open for Sam who was carrying a cardboard box. They all gathered secretively around Ulyssa at the bar before following her back to the party table. I braced for embarrassment, but they just wished me happy birthday as they sat a giant cupcake on the table.
Whew, I got off easy.
“Oops, almost forgot.” Ulyssa grabbed a crown with Sexy Bitch decorated across the front in fake jewels.
“Don’t do it,” I pleaded.
Mitsy and Sam cheered as Ulyssa shoved the crown on my head.
“Traitors,” I scowled, making them laugh and hoot louder.
“Keep it up and I’m moving tables,” Mitchell announced, pointing at the bouquet of penis straws. “I already feel like my masculinity is being tested.”
“What would the guys at the factory think if they could see you now?” Ulyssa jibed.
“They’d probably make me start using the women’s bathroom.” Mitchell works with a rough crew over at Lower’s ammo factory and partying with a bunch of women wasn’t going to help his reputation.
“You shouldn’t worry about what they think,” Mitsy responded. She’s sweet as iced tea with a gentle temperament, perfect for a Wal-Mart tobacco counter cashier. People always like her, even when she’s telling them they’re too young to buy cigarettes or declining WIC payment for chewing tobacco.
Sam is the third member of our Wal-Mart triumvirate and the least diplomatic. She can’t afford to be. She’s a pharmacy tech in a region where prescription pill abuse is the number one drug problem. It’s as dangerous as security duty in Baghdad, to hear her tell it.
“Got another one this week. Y’all want to hear the story?”
We nodded.
“We had a feller come into the store on Friday night wearing cami hunting overalls and a Mexican wrestling mask with his blonde goatee hanging out the bottom. He walks right past the door greeter, straight to the pharmacy, points a plastic bag at me and demands I give him some oxycodone.”
“Did you do it?” Mitchell asked.
“Why, hell no! I could see right through the bag and it wasn’t a gun. It was just his damn hand, so I figured I’d teach him a lesson.”
“Oh, no!” Mitsy gasped. “What did you do?”
“He was stoned outta his mind, so I gave him a big bottle of Tagamet. Told him it was generic oxycodone cause we were out of the other kind. He grabbed the bottle and ran out the door past the greeter, who thanked him for shopping at Wal-Mart.”
Mitsy gave Sam an uncertain look. “Did you kill him?”
“Lord no! It ain’t deadly. It’s used for indigestion.” Sam started laughing while the rest of us waited for her to explain. “Buuuuuttttttt it just happens to turn urine BLUE.”
The table howled with laughter.
“When he sobered up and realized he was pissing blue, he rushed over to the hospital. I’d already warned the hospital and police about the robbery. So, when he showed up they nabbed him and called me down to the station to ID him. Sure enough, it was George Dilford.”
“George Dilford’s been arrested again? He cain’t stay outta trouble.” Johnny appeared out of nowhere, grabbing the last open seat at the table. His lumberjack sensuality had Mitsy and Sam staring at him with undisguised lust.
“He got arrested for stealing acid reflux pills from Wal-Mart. He thought it was oxycodone,” Ulyssa snipped. “And why are YOU here? You weren’t invited!”
“I wouldn’t miss my girl’s birthday party,” he said, giving her a wink.
She groaned and rolled her eyes. “First off, I’m not your girl. Second, it’s Shasta’s birthday - not mine. So, you can leave now, stalker!”
“Happy Birthday, Shasta! This round’s on me.”
Jumping up from the table, he started taking orders before Ulyssa could protest.
“Two Michelob Lights, one Bud Ice, one Hard Lemonade, and one Zima?”
Everybody at the table looked at a scowling Ulyssa.
“Fine. Glad you can profit off my stalker!”
The table erupted in cheers and Johnny rushed off to the bar before she could change her mind.
Bubba fired up the karaoke system while we waited on our free drinks. “Check one. Two. Three.”
“We can hear ya fine Bubba. Git ‘er started,” a drunk yelled from the back.
“Simma down,” he joked.
Johnny returned with a full tray of booze and we all sat enjoying our drinks, watching the first singers of the night. Tater howled about Friends in Low Places, while the crowd sang along. A couple songs later, Johnny took the stage, dedicating the song to Ulyssa.
Shifting her back to the stage, she tried to ignore his rendition of Rebel Yell. “I can’t wait for the festival next weekend. Y’all still going?”
“Hell, yeah!” Mitchell responded.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Mitsy exclaimed.
Sam nodded absently, distracted by Johnny’s pelvic thrusting stage performance.
“We’ll leave bout seven and pick Sam up on the way out of town.”
Everyone watched Johnny dancing closer to Ulyssa’s chair.
The catcalls and whistles grew louder with each step.
“Let’s play some pool. I need to do something before I kick Johnny’s ass for embarrassing me.” She shoved her chair backwards into him. His hips were on the backward rotation, so the chair smacked into his leg, narrowly missing his manhood.
“Okay. I don’t know how good I’ll play right now.” The pool room felt miles away as I trailed behind her. “I’ve only had a couple beers but it feels like I’ve been shooting tequila all night.”
Everything swayed as I tried trying to lay a quarter down on the edge of the pool table to challenge the winner. After a couple of close calls, I slammed it onto the wooden frame, giggling at my accomplishment.
“Howdy girls,” a deep voice greeted us from the other end of the pool table.
I tilted forward, staring through the glow of the billiards lamp. My breath froze as I saw the source of the greeting. “Deputy Hottie!” My hand slipped off the pool table and I careened sideways toward the floor.
“What the hell?” Ulyssa yelped, as I accidentally clotheslined her, knocking her to the floor with me. We lay on the dirty bar floor surrounded by peanut shells and beer caps.
“It’s Deputy Hottie,” I whispered.
Deputy Hodde leaned over us, “That looked like a bad fall. You girls okay?”
“Helloooo, Deputy Hottie,” I slurred, staring up at him w
ithout blinking. “Where’s your uniform?”
Damn.
Obviously I’d lost my tolerance for alcohol because I’m acting like a full on drunk.
“I’m off duty tonight. So, you can call me Eric,” he laughed, leaning over to help us off the floor. His strong, warm hand clasped mine as he pulled me to my feet.
My world tilted again and everything went black.
The grating sound of a blender leaked under my door and echoed off the walls. I wish trailers didn’t carry sound so well. It’s great on rainy nights, but living in an aluminum can with a noisy roommate isn’t so relaxing.
Make it stop.
I tried pulling the pillow over my head, but the alcohol induced cotton-mouth smothered the breath out of me.
Grrrrrtttttt-grt-grt-ggggrrrrttt.
Must find noise.
I stumbled down the hallway, trying to force my eyes open.
Grrrrrtttttt-grt-grt-grt-ggggrrrrttt.
Must kill noisemaker.
I grew meaner and meaner the closer I got to the source of the noise.
“Welllllll, hello there party girl!” Ulyssa greeted me with a plate full of toaster waffles, sausage patties, and maple syrup. “How ya feeling?”
Maybe I’ll forgive her for the blender.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“You were a maniac last night!”
“I can’t believe I got wasted on three beers!” I sighed as the syrup saturated my taste buds. “What time did we get home? Bout eleven?”
“You really don’t remember?”
I shook my head.
“3 A.M.! We partied like rock stars! You really don’t remember playing pool, singing karaoke or riding home in the police car?”
She was starting to annoy me as much as the blender.
My blank stare answered her questions.
She sat thinking for a few minutes before carefully asking her next question. “What was the last thing you drank before you blacked out?”
“Hhhmmm. I guess it was the beer Johnny bought us.”
“Sonofabitch! I think he roofie’d you!” She stabbed her fork into the waffle, shaking the TV tray legs and making me flinch. “I bet he was trying to roofie me and his dumb ass mixed up the beers. I’m gonna beat him senseless when I see him again!”
Fat Assassins (The Fat Adventure Series) Page 1