Cold-Blooded Killer Fries in Lawn Chair

JALAPENO BEACH, Iowa - Late yest’d’y afternoon Iowa’s ee-lite Swat Team closed in like a pasketti western hang-man’s noose ‘round ‘spected killer Vern McCutlery whilst he was attemptin’ t’ hide in plain sight amongst the humongous crowd of durn near nekkid sun luvers ‘long the banks of the mighty Miss’ippi. Fortunate-like, or unfortunate-like, dependin’ on yer point of view, the Authorities got there too late, ‘cause Mister McCutlery done already expired out there in the boilin’ Midwest sun. Seems that cold-blooded killer done gone ‘n fried hisself plumb dead fallin’ asleep in a lawn chair ‘n heat-strokin’.

Nick-name of “The Corn Stalker,” ol’ Vern, there, was a bein’ tracked fer killin’ his neighbor’s County Fair ‘Ward ‘Winnin’ singin’ billy-goat. Them Swat boys reckon Vern just got sick-‘n-tired a hearin’ that there goat a beltin’ out them disk-oh songs all dadgummed day long. Cain’t say we wasn’t sick of ‘em too, truth be told.

Anyhow, Granny Fannie, what owned that goat, sez she seen Vern yest’d’y mornin’ standin’ in his corn field down by Yeller Brick Road plumb dressed up like a scarecrow. Now Vern always was a weird ol’ bird, doin’ crazy stuff out in that corn field, so Granny didn’t think nothin’ ‘bout it. Then she saw Singin’ Billy walkin’ over yonder toward Vern’s fer his daily constitutional. That’s the last time she seen Singin’ Billy alive, turns out.

‘Bout noon, Granny was a fixin’ t’ eat ‘er lunch whilst Billy sang, like per usual, only she couldn’t find ‘im. So she gone a walkin’ up Yeller Brick towards Vern’s when she seen a plumb horrible sight right in Vern’s parlor winda. Right there was Singin’ Billy, a wearin’ a pink leisure suit, all a covered in blood, and a spinnin’ round ‘n round on the Victrola with bright lights a flashin’. Had his throat cut 'n tongue was plumb gone. Granny liked t’a croaked her own self right then ‘n there. Then she called the cops on her newfangled cellular.

Them cops showed up in a heartbeat ‘n figgered ol’ Vern done blowed a gasket ‘n kill’t Singin’ Billy in cold blood. They looked ‘round but didn’t see Vern nowheres, so they called fer help. Purty soon them Swat boys showed up with a big ol’ coon hound t’ sniff ‘im out. Got a scent trail in a New York minit, then just a followed it over t’ that there ree-sort. Took ‘em all afternoon t’ git there, though. ‘N by then it was too late.

Vern, him bein’ paley white skinned ‘n all, was just a layin’ there in his fancy go-flat lawn chair wearin’ nuthin’ but his BVDs ‘n redder ‘n a juicy Lucifer Pot Belly tomater. Skin just oozin’ ‘n blisters ever where, dead as a beer keg after a barn dance. Daggone shame. Specially ‘cause he done owed lotsa people money.

Oh, well. ‘Least ol’ Vern done teach’t us all a coupl’a less’ns. Ya gotta git lotsa rest ‘n ree-laxation come night-time. ‘N if yer gonna be outdoors-like, ya gotta high-drate ‘n gob on that sun blockin’ stuff. Or elst.

Is one good thang what come of it, though. ‘Least we don’t gotta be a hearin’ that infernal disk-oh no more.

04.06.10