Fat Assassins by Marita Fowler Read Free Book Online

blessed with ‘a gift’.” 
    She stared into my palm and traced the lines. She tilted her head backwards and closed her eyes. She muttered incoherently, pressing her pointer finger into the center of my hand. I shivered as she hummed the last few words, looking directly into my eyes. I jerked my hand back and Ulyssa stepped away from me so Mrs. Mullet couldn’t grab her too.
    Smelling our fear, she raised her eyebrows and sneered at us. 
    I tried to stare her down, but the goosebumps on my arms gave me away. I huffed and spun away from the table, blindly stomping past the rest of the booths toward the parade route. 
     
    The bleachers lining the dirt arena were starting to get full, so we squeezed past the first rows to get a seat on the fourth row.
    “Don’t let that old bat ruin your day!” Ulyssa tried to console me, but I just kept thinking about her weird chanting.
    What does it mean? What’s gonna happen to me? Cajuns are supposed to be skilled in black magic. I don’t event believe in the occult, what’s wrong with me?
    “She was so convincing . . . .”
    “She’s just mad we didn’t buy any of her junk,” she interrupted me before I could continue. I think the old woman made her nervous too.
    We caught sight of Sam and Mitsy looking for us on the bleachers. Ulyssa stood up and gave a big whistle to get their attention. We made room for them as they pushed through the crowd.
    “Where’s Mitchell?” I asked.
    “He signed up for the Rooster Rodeo. I guess there’s a $100 prize for whoever catches the most roosters in three minutes,” Mitsy explained. 
    “I hope he wins!” 
    “Yeah. Me too. He needs some new parts for his car, so the prize money would come in real handy,” she explained, looking a little worried. “But he ain’t never chased a chicken.”
    “It should be pretty fun to watch then!” Sam laughed. 
    “When is the rodeo?” Ulyssa asked.
    “They hold it here, right after the parade. He said he wanted to spend the time stretching and getting psyched up. I hope he don’t get hurt.”
    We turned our attention to the middle of the arena as a grey haired man made his way over to a microphone stand inside a gazebo.
    “Ummhmmhmm,” he cleared his throat and tugged his bow-tie. “Howdy everybody! I’m mayor Tim Whittal and I’d like to welcome you to the annual RoadKill Cook-off and Festival!” 
    A light applause followed his introduction.
    “The results for the Possum Trot 5K are posted over by the pavilion. We’re pleased to have over one hundred participants this year. Great job everybody!” 
    He paused to pull a slip of paper from his pocket. 
    “Today’s Rockin’ Redneck Parade will start off in grand style with the Marlington marching band. They will be followed by an antique car drive-by and once the cars have cleared the field we’ll crown the next Miss West Virginia Roadkill Cook-off and Junior Miss West Virginia Roadkill Cook-off.”
    “A display of our finest bovines will conclude the parade and begin the farmyard competitions, Rooster Rodeo and greasy pig chase. So, y’all settle in for some good old fashioned fun and don’t forget to support your local Booster clubs by purchasing snacks at the concession stands. Thank You!”
    Another round of applause fizzled as the Mayor hobbled off the field. 
     
    Rhythmic drumming announced the arrival of the band before they came onto the parade ground. Thirty polyester clad musicians marked time at the gate, awaiting a signal from the drill commander. With a wave of his hand, he released them into their performance. 
    The band erupted into an overwhelming combination of clarinets, flutes, trumpets and drums as they marched around the edge of the arena. Pouring around each side of the gazebo to form a diamond, they began sidestepping while playing a vaguely familiar song. When they finished the song, they were all in straight lines. With a final wave of commander’s hand, the band began filing out the arena