Fat Assassins by Marita Fowler Read Free Book Online Page B

Another contestant copied his strategy, grabbing the second chicken off the Mayor. They were tied 2-2 with a minute left. 
    Mitchell spotted a chicken heading our direction and gave chase. 
    The chicken picked up speed. 
    The faster Mitchell ran, the faster the chicken waddled. 
    Mitchell leapt to grab the bird as it went airborne. 
    An odd force held me transfixed as claws rocketed toward me. 
    Everyone ducked as the chicken kicked me straight in the face. 
    A burly guy seated in the row behind us grabbed the chicken as it deflected off my head. 
    “Alley-oop!” He yelled slinging the chicken back towards Mitchell, who snatched it midair and sprinted back to his cage. He shoved the lid closed as the buzzer sounded. 
    Mitchell threw his hands up in victory!
     
    I sat there stunned by the poultry violence.
    “Shasta! Shasta! Are you okay?” Ulyssa’s voice cut through my shock. “You’ve got scratches and blood all over your face.”
    I ran my hands over both cheeks feeling the painful ridges just below my cheekbones. The chicken had left three scratches on each cheek. I pulled my hand away and surveyed the blood and dirt mixture. “I don’t understand what happened.”
    “You got dropkicked by a chicken!” Sam said.
    “You helped Mitchell win!” Mitsy said, trying to make me feel better.
    “Why didn’t you move?” Ulyssa asked, staring at my bloody cheeks.
    “I don’t know. I was paralyzed.”
    “You’re lucky that bird didn’t pluck out your eyeballs,” Sam injected, “Chickens are mean.”
    “Are you okay to walk or do you want to stay and watch the pig chase?” Ulyssa asked. 
    “No way. If a chicken messed me up this bad - I don’t even want to see what a pig would do.”
    “Y’all ready for lunch?” Sam asked, apparently on her own agenda today.
    “Yeah and chicken sounds real good,” I growled.
    “That’s my girl!” Ulyssa patted me on the back. 
     
    Most folks walked around sampling the different types of roadkill recipes so they could vote for the People’s Choice award. I wasn’t feeling to adventurous, so I settled on a dish called Wascally Wabbit stew. Mitsy chose an even less adventurous option, baked potato. Sam and Ulyssa wandered off further in search of more interesting dishes, returning with mystery meat. We picked a table near the main walkway, so we could keep an eye out for Mitchell. He joined us about fifteen minutes later, wearing a Chicken Chasing Champion t-shirt.
    “Little proud, aren’t we?” Sam asked. 
    “Not really. I got chicken poop all over the other one.” We all groaned in disgust. “It was old, so I just threw it away.” He shoved Mitsy over so he could sit down on the end of the bench.
    “You still smell like poop!” Mitsy said, squeezing her nostrils closed.
    “Whatever. I’m starving. What’d y’all get?” he asked, eyeballing Ulyssa and Sam’s plates. “All that running around, worked up my appetite.”
    “Sloppy doe sandwich,” Ulyssa answered, wiping a chunk of bread around the plate to sop up the remaining bits of sauce drenched, ground meat. “It was yummy!”
    “I got the armadillo and roadrunner tacos,” Sam said, happy with her celebrity choice. “It’s what they showed on the television.”
    “Rabbit stew,” I added. 
    “Hmmmm. Decisions. Decisions. I’ll be right back.” He disappeared, returning a few minutes later with a heaping plate of meat and vegetables. 
    “What’s that?” I asked.
    “Bambi Kabob.” 
    We sat chatting comfortably while we waited on Mitchell to finish his kabob. Dusk was starting to settle over the town as the festival lights came on. Strings of white Christmas lights were twisted around poles to illuminate the different sections. 
    Mitchell was finishing up the last of his food, when a young man in overalls sprinted past us carrying a shovel with an animal carcass draped over the sides. “Coming through! Make a hole! I got a live one!” 
    Mitchell gobbled the last