Page 29 of Lula Dean's Little Library of Banned Book
“You better be careful,” his brother, Jeb, had told him. It was the first time they’d spoken in months. Years earlier, Mitch had bailed out the family farm, where his brother still lived, but Jeb wasn’t big on phone calls or gratitude. “You’re starting to sound like a Nazi with all this white men shit.”
“You know I’m not a Nazi,” Mitch said. “I’ve worked with a million gays and Jews. Liked almost all of them.”
“The Nazis sure think you’re a Nazi,” Jeb replied.
“So?” Mitch demanded. “What am I supposed to do about that? I can’t tell them who to like.”
“You’re kidding,” Jeb had responded, like the self-righteous asshole he was.
“Fuck you. This is war,” Mitch told him. “It’s time to choose sides, and I’ll take all the help I can get.”
Jeb did not choose Mitch’s side. It stung a bit, but looking back, his brother had always been a fucking libtard. Mitch tried not to hold it against him. He knew it must have been hard for Jeb growing up in his shadow. The only way for Jeb to stand out was to be as different from his brother as possible. So he’d been the sensitive child. The smart one. Then he went to vet school and started saving sweet little kittens and everyone loved him and thought he was the greatest thing since sliced fucking bread even though Mitch was talented and famous and had millions of followers.
Halfway between Atlanta and Troy, Mitch pulled over for gas. A cuck at the next pump kept sneaking peeks over his shoulder.
“For fuck’s sake, just ask,” Mitch told him. Nothing annoyed him more than a man with no ’nads.
“Okay. What’s it cost to drive that beast all the way from New York?”
“What?” Mitch looked down at his jeans and boots. He’d worn them home after his last day of playing a good old boy type. The costume manager was one of the best in the business. He had to appear authentic. “Do Ilooklike I’m from fucking New York?”
“You got New York plates.”
Mitch left the pump in the fuel filler and stomped around to the front of the rental truck. “Moth-er-fucker!”
He kicked the front tire three times with each foot. If there’d been time to turn back, he probably would have. But he needed to get to Troy straightaway.
Just like God told him to tweet back in 2016, he’d had Mitch switchon his favorite news show the previous night. The first thing he saw on the screen was his hometown’s hero, Augustus Wainwright, in all his glory.
“Mayor Randy Sykes resigned yesterday evening and candidates are already lining up to take his place,” said a voice-over. “School board member Beverly Underwood was the first to announce a run, and she’s already making big promises.” The video cut to some prissy-looking blond woman standing in front of Val’s salon across the street from the square.
“Just as book banning has no place in a democracy, a slaveholding Confederate officer should not be honored in the United States of America,” the lady announced. “I am a direct descendant of Augustus Wainwright, and if I’m elected mayor, I will have my great-great-great-great-grandfather’s statue removed from Jackson Square.”
The camera cut to the show’s host, jaw dangling like the bitch had slapped him right across the face. Mitch thought it was sad that his new best buddy didn’t get credit for being one of the finest actors around.
“That statue of General Wainwright has stood on the same spot in Georgia for over one hundred and fifty years—a tribute to the philanthropist who built the county courthouse. Now one woman thinks she has the right to blow a town’s history to smithereens. This!” The host pointed up to a graphic of the statue exploding. “This is what we can expect if we let liberal feminists gain the power they want—to see our heritage and way of life destroyed.”
It wasn’t the host’s heritage, of course. He’d grown up in Greenwich, Connecticut. But Mitch had ancestors who’d fought side by side with Augustus Wainwright.
“Not in my fucking town.” Mitch picked up his phone and dialed the host at his studio in New York City.
For a few hours, Mitch toyed with the idea of running for mayor until he was reminded it would mean actually living in Troy. Besides, his friends in the news business thought he should set his sights higher. There were several statewide contests coming up in the next couple of years—and that might give him just enough time to convince his ex-wife not to open thedoor for any nosy reporters. What Mitch needed right now was to build his profile. So he’d thrown his support behind the feminazi’s opponent. This one was a female, too, but nobody’s perfect. Lula Dean had made a name for herself around Georgia by ridding the local libraries of propaganda and pornography. Woman or not, she was exactly the kind of politician his people loved—the kind that got liberal panties all in a twist.
Just found out my hometown’s being threatened by the liberal elite,he posted.Only two people can save it. Me and @luladeanformayor. Heading down tomorrow to kick some ass.
Lula was suitably thrilled. They agreed to meet at her house the next afternoon when he got to Troy. As soon as Mitch set foot in the place, he started to worry he’d hitched his star to the wrong broad. The lady’s home was done up like the inside of a vagina. Everything was decorated in shades of pink and the furniture upholstered in silk or velvet. The place made Mitch feel itchy and claustrophobic. First thing he did was walk to the windows and check to make sure no one could see in. Having his picture snapped in a room like this would destroy his credibility. Plus, he was sweating like a motherfucker.
“I see you have a flair for decorating, Mrs. Dean.” He brought out the charm while he wedged his manly ass into an armchair. “Does your husband love pink as much as you do?”
“Oh dear Lord, no,” Lula said. “When John was alive, we had our living room done up in tartan with walnut trim. After he passed, just the sight of Black Watch made me burst into tears. I had to go pink for the sake of my sanity. Can I tempt you?” She’d picked up a plate and paused with an unnecessarily large knife poised over a pie in the center of the coffee table.
“Yes, thank you,” Mitch said. “Is that apple?”
“Peach,” Lula said. “I can’t live without peach pie, so my girl and I spend all summer canning them.”
“It’s hard to find a woman who knows her way around a kitchen these days. The feminine arts seem to be dying out.” Mitch took a bite of thepie and forced himself to swallow. He washed it down with a mouthful of coffee and let the plate rest on his knee for a second while he waited to see how Lula would respond.
“Mmmm,” she said, savoring her creation. “And my mama said I couldn’t bake. Can you believe that?”
