The Trail to Cousin Myrtles'

            Fat Abe’s Gas Station was a dirty yard at the far end of Rotting Possum‘s dusty main street. It was littered with oil drums and long-dead tyres and in a corner was a battered pick-up loaded with crates seething with raucous chickens.  It boasted a couple of dilapidated gas pumps, a rickety shed with shame-faced pretensions to being an office, and a wooden bench upon which floundered the gargantuan backside of one of the fattest guys I’d ever seen.

            “You Fat Abe?” I bawled, to make myself heard above the chickens. “I’m Harry Homer, Myrtle Homer’s cousin from England. I’m just off the bus from Memphis and Myrtle’s arranged for me to pick up her vehicle here to take on to Coyote Falls.”

            The fat guy stared through me for a moment, then took a long drag on a huge cigar before thoughtfully delving his fat fingers in to the stubbly depths of his multitudinous chins.

            “Yup,” he admitted, “I’m Fat Abe, but right now Mister I’m closed.”

            “Closed?”

            “Closed,” He waved his cigar dismissively. “Break time, Mister, I’m all closed up.”

            “OK,” I yelled, “so, any one here who can help?”

            “Nope, been here on my own all morning an’ I’m all tuckered out, so y’all have to wait till my break’s through.”

            “Guess you’ve had a busy day then?”

            Fat Abe pondered, before blowing a large, perfectly circular smoke ring, which slowly disintegrated over my face in an evil-smelling fog.

            “Nope, y’all my first customer today, Mister.”

            “Well then,” I said, coughing politely amid the smoke, “how about I pick up Myrtle Homer’s car now, and then you can keep going with your break as long as it suits you?”

            “Nope,” said Fat Abe, “If I do that, I’ll have folk a-turnin’ up here all hours, just to suit their convenience, y’all gotta wait, Mister.”

            “OK, OK!” The long, hot, bus ride from Memphis had left me grouchy, “so just tell me when you’ll reopen.”

            Fat Abe favoured me with another smoke ring. “About half an hour, Mister, if I’m feeling amiable.”                   

            “Don’t put yourself out on my account,” I murmured.

            I heard sniggering behind me, and turning, found a small shifty-looking crowd of townsfolk eying me with curiosity. I decided to play things cool.

            “Anywhere I can get a drink while I’m waiting?”

            Fat Abe pointed down the side-walk. “Zak’s Bar’s just down there apiece; Zak’ll rustle you something, if he‘s feelin’ amiable.”

            “Thanks for all your help,” I said.

            I pushed through the batwing doors in to the Zak’s Bar, followed by the street crowd, and found  more shifty folk clustered around the bar and tables. The bartender eyed me suspiciously.

            “You Zak?” I asked.

            “Guess I’m Zak,” he said

            “Beer, Zak,” I said, “if you’re feeling amiable.”

            Zak reached for a bottle, bit off the metal cap and pushed the bottle towards me. “What brings y’all to Rotting Possum then, stranger?”         

           “I’ve come from England to visit my cousin in Coyote Falls.”

            This statement provoked a buzz of excitement and a pimply woman wearing tattered dungarees shouted, “Coyote Falls? Y’all a-goin’ to visit Cousin Myrtle Homer?”

            I was surprised “Yes, but how do you know that it’s Myrtle Homer who’s my cousin?”

            “Well,” said Zak, “nobody but Myrtle Homer do live at Coyote Falls, an we all a-knowin’ Myrtle Homer, cos Myrtle’s our cousin too. We’re all cousins round these parts, Mister, ‘ceptin’, of course, if y’all a McNamara who ain’t cousins to no-one but themselves an’ all of ‘em downright onery”.

            Zak slapped his forehead, dramatically. “Jeez, if Cousin Myrtle’s our cousin, and this dude’s Cousin Myrtle’s cousin, then he gotta be our cousin too!” This observation provoked uproar, and people crowded around, slapping my back, poking my ribs and shouting ‘Welcome Cousin,’ ‘Dang me,’  ‘Lawksamussy,’ and similar rustic phrases. The pimply woman tried to kiss me, but she was ugly and had B.O., so I ducked. I was extremely shaken by this unexpected outbreak of cousins and thought that Cousin Myrtle might previously have mentioned them.

            "Lawdy" shouted Zak, "I never knew we had an English cousin. There’s nobody in Rotting Possum ever bin further than Catfish Creek, this is more excitin' than a whole mess o' molasses."

            "My hubby Joe always said we come from England way back," said the pimply woman. “Old Zeke Homer, Joe’s Daddy, swore that the Homers was English lords who high-tailed it out ‘cos the King had a mind to be a-sawin’ their heads off.”

            “ Old Zeke Homer died of moonshine poisoning,” scoffed a man. “He talked eyewash mostly. The Homers weren’t never lords, not even in Catfish Creek, but come a-runnin’ up here from Missouri after Huckleberry Homer done shot the Sherriff there.”

            This debate on the Homers’ ancestry was interrupted by the wail of a klaxon. “Hey, that’s Fat Abe’s break time finished,” said Zak. “Y’all better get off quick, Cousin, ‘afore he shuts for dinner.

            I left the bar immediately, trailed by all my new cousins. Fat Abe was still on the bench, puffing a cigar and cradling a can of beer. I sighed. The thought that this elephantine degenerate was probably a blood relative was humiliating..

            “I’ll take Cousin Myrtle’s vehicle, now,” I said, “if it’s convenient.”

            Fat Abe fingered his chins for a moment. “Guess that’s OK, Mister. Looks like y’all next in line, anyway.”

            Fat Abe felt in his dungarees pocket and threw me a key, then pointed to the chicken-laden pick up. “There y’are Mister, all gassed up and ready. Myrtle Homer will be most appreciative of you deliverin’ her chickens.”

            I stared at the pick–up in disbelief. The clucking was deafening and I could almost touch the smell.  The interior was filthy, the upholstery torn, and I was sure I could see daylight on the passenger side where the floor was rotting away.

            “I‘m not driving that,” I said. “Not with all that clucking and chicken stink and anyway that truck’ll disintegrate before it gets out of town. And I understand the road to Coyote Falls is none too good?”

.           “Not exactly a road,” said Zak “It’s just a track as far as Deadmans Creek, then y’all gotta take care you don’t get stuck in the swamp. Them water snakes don’t take kindly to bein’ disturbed, and Cousin Jethro swears there’s ‘gaitors in there . Somethin’ ornery took his leg off a while back anyways. After the swamp, it’s straight over Skull Mountain an’ through the pass, an’ if there ain’t no McNamaras a-waitin to blast your ass, it’s a straight run down to Cousin Myrtle’s.”

            “I can’t drive that,” I whined,  “don’t you have a car I can rent?”

            “Nope,” said Fat Abe. “Had one, but the McNamaras’s shot it up on Skull Mountain. Cousin Elmo Homer got lucky that day, the cougars finished him off afore the McNamaras got to him. Now Mister, y’all better get them chickens a-movin’, cos Myrtle Homer’ll be dang-blasted ornery if they ain’t in Coyote Falls by nightfall.

            “Best take ‘em, Cousin Harry,” advised Zak. “Cousin Myrtle do get badly riled when she’s crossed and there ain’t no accountin’ what’ll she do when she catches up with y’all.” 

            I left Rotting Possum with the cheers of my new cousins scarcely audible above the noise of the chickens. The pick-up lurched and bounced alarmingly along the deeply rutted trail and the gear stick had a mind of its own, often preferring a different slot to the one I’d selected. The dust was choking me, and the constant jolting was exhausting. However, when I reached Deadmans Creek, an hour down the trail, the  ruts became a quagmire concealed beneath standing water,  Several times I left the vehicle to check if it was safe to proceed, and was subjected to attacks from squadrons of mosquitoes, cheered on by the chickens.

            It was late afternoon before I cleared the swampland and commenced the winding ascent of Skull Mountain. The trail had reverted to its rutted state, making progress slow, and the sun was setting when I eventually drove through the pass and began the descent to Coyote Falls. I hadn’t got far when I saw a notice by the side of the trail:

WARNING

This heres McNamara country!!

HOMERS SHOT ON SIGHT

Yall got that?

So high tail it out RIGHT NOW!!!!!

            Although the notice was intimidating, I was more concerned about the pick-up parked beside it, the tall bearded man sitting on the bonnet with a shotgun over his knees, and the three armed, bearded men who were standing grinning at me with malicious anticipation.             “My oh my,” said the man on the bonnet, “if that ain’t Myrtle Homers old pick up. Are you in there, Myrtle Homer?”

            One of the men sauntered over and peered in at me “Sure don’t look like Myrtle Homer, lots purtier than Myrtle Homer.”

            Everyone except me laughed.

            “Not Fat Abe come a-visitin, Padraig?” asked the man on the bonnet.

            “Nope, Shamus” said Padraig, “lots purtier than Fat Abe, too.”

            Shamus slid off the bonnet and strolled over, his hand cupped round his ear. “Now, what’s all that cluckin’ there, Padraig? I do believe I’m hearin’ chickens.”

            Shamus examined the chicken crates, casually poking at the protesting birds with the barrel of his shotgun.

            “Well now” he said, sorrowfully, “looks like Miss Myrtle got some new chickens, so soon after we hijacked the last lot, too; some folk don’t never learn. And who might you be, Mister?”

            “I’m Harry Homer, Myrtle Homer’s English cousin, just passing through. Sorry to be a nuisance; if you could point me in the right direction...?”

            “ Oh my,” said Shamus, “here’s us all a-lyin’ in wait for Homers and one drives up and surrenders.”  He looked at me, thoughtfully. “Don’t seem right to be a-shootin’ him straight off, though, him bein’ a stranger an’ all, an’ not knowin’ our ways, t‘ain’t hospitable. Not much fun for us neither.”

            “OK, Harry Homer,” he decided. “Myrtles place is down the trail a-ways. You get goin’ now, real quick, cos me and the boys are a-countin’ to ten, then we’re a-comin’ after you and gonna shoot y’all stone dead afore y’all get to Myrtle Homer’s. One……….”

            I didn’t hear “two”, as I was already careering wildly down the trail with the Mcnamaras, whooping excitedly, chasing me down in their truck. In my mirror I could see Shamus on the back of his vehicle, firing at me over the cab. Shot was peppering my pick-up, and hysterical squawking from the chickens indicated that they were taking heavy casualties. Then, unaccountably, the McNamaras’ pick–up swerved and overturned, catapulting Shamus head first in to a bush. Down the trail in front of me a small figure was brandishing a large rifle and jigging about triumphantly.

            I drove down and stopped beside the figure, a tiny grey-haired woman, who seemed to be incredibly angry with me.

            “Lawd save us, Harry Homer, y’all got my chickens shot, yer dang dumb fool.”

            So this was Cousin Myrtle. Padraig had been right, I was lots prettier than she was.

                I followed Cousin Myrtle in to her house and was astounded to find Fat Abe, reclining in an easy chair, drinking beer and blowing smoke-rings.

            “What the hell are you doing here,” I asked.

            “I’m a-visitin’,” said Fat Abe. “Myrtle Homer is my Mummy, Cousin Harry.”

            So Fat Abe was my cousin; my humiliation was confirmed. “But how did you get here before me?” I asked.

            “Cousin Young Sherriff Seth brung me in his sheriffs helicopter, Cousin Harry; cuts out all that crap with the trail, the swamp an’ the McNamaras an’ all.”

            “You came by helicopter,” I yelled, “and I drove the pick up? Couldn’t you have brought me as well?”

            “ Sure could,” said Fat Abe, “but if we’d had given y’all a ride in the helicopter, who in hell would’ve brung Mummys chickens?”

1988 words, plus