Page 77 of Cookout Carnage
‘Barbers?’
‘You don’t need a haircut.’
‘Close shave?’
‘Beard lice?’
She took his hand, and he gave it a squeeze.
‘Sherilyn, this town can’t be that dangerous.’
‘It’s not, it’s just, erm, partially unpleasant.’ She pulled him up the street.
‘Gerry’s gym? What’s wrong with that?’
‘Do you like stinky men?’
‘Not on Thursdays.’
‘It’s super smelly,’ she babbled. ‘And they had Legionnaires’ disease in their air conditioner last year.’
‘Er, what about the Midway Boutique?’
Fuck!‘Are you a woman in your mid-sixties?’
‘Not the last time I looked.’
‘The last time my mom bought something from there it had moths.’
‘Moths.’
‘The larvae ate through her sweaters. It was gross.’
‘Flowers for all Occasions?’
‘Um, mealybugs.’
‘Sherilyn, can we stop for a second?’
‘Yes, there’s a bench in the over there,’ she replied, pulling him across the road into the small square in front of the municipal hall. In the middle, a temporary grandstand had already been built for the end of the parade. To the side was a tree with a row of benches underneath. She sat down to catch her breath and wipe the sweat from her forehead. Tristan sat next to her and took off his glasses to clean them.
‘Is anywhere in this town safe to visit?’ he asked.
‘Currently the diner and the museum are the safest and most interesting bits,’ she replied. She couldn’t meet his eyes.
‘And is this, erm, normal?’
Sherilyn felt sick. How on earth did she think this was going to work? ‘Not that normal. It’s just been a particularly hot summer and that tends to make things worse.’
‘Ah,’ replied Tristan. There was a pause. ‘Well,’ he continued. ‘Everyone I’ve met so far seems in good health, so it can’t be all that bad.’
‘Hey there, Miss Sherilyn!’
Her head jerked up.Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod. Limping towards them was a man she could only assume was one of the Thads. In their early thirties and best friends, ‘Post’ Thad was a mailman, and ‘Bank’ Thad worked at the bank as a teller.
Whichever Thad this was, he was stooped over, holding a cane. He had a large hump on his upper back and appeared sixty years older than his biological age. His trousers and baggy top were made from crushed black velvet shirt with a matching cape, and his face was lined with make-up and peppered with warts. Eyebrows larger than hedges sprouted from his forehead. The only hint of modernity about him was a Kentucky Wildcats cap pulled low over his face.
Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed Tristan’s mouth hanging open.
