“Damnation, Thibadoux,” DuPree
as he pounded on the door of Thibadoux’s shanty on the far side of Mounsone
Creek, just South of Jackson’s curve. “It already be past six. Them frogs got
better things to be doin’ than to wait aroun’ for us to be shooting their
little asses. Whatchu been doin’ in there?”
Thibadoux stuck his head out.
“Pourin’ a bunch of them bottles together to make sure we got a full gallon o’
ol’ Rooster Boudreau’s shine to offer us comfort while we be a-harvestin’ them
frogs.” He held up a crockery jug
“She’s damn near full, podner.”
“Thibadoux, that’s gonna go right
nicely. Mah ol’ lady sent along some biscuits. Hopin’ you got your .22 , cuz I
cain’t find mine nowhere in dat damned house. I’m a’ hopin’ Flower Jo ain’t
pawned it down to Slick Willy’s bait shop again.”
Thibadoux waved an old single shot
Remington. “She’s good to go and I got twenty catridges.”
“I found the bait bucket and
the lantern.” Dupree grabbed the jug and took a long pull on the shine.
“Da’um,” he coughed. “Da’um.”
By 2:00 A.M., the whiskey was gone, and so were Thibadoux and DuPree. Puttering
away in DuPree’s old Dodge pickup in the pitch black, both were as drunk as old
man LeBleu’s mule when she got into the rotten apples behind the outhouse.
They'd cranked off nineteen rounds and not gotten within a foot on a single
Thibadoux declared in drunken
despair, "DuPree, God loves frogs more n' he do us."
Dupree nodded and
“Hell-far, DuPree, you goin’
twice as fast as hell. Be a lot quicker if you’d slow down and stay on Route 41
over ‘dat bayou bridge.”
“Holy hoot in hell, man, don’t tell me how to drive mah own damned vehicle.”
Suddenly, the Dodge headlights
Hootertown Courier, June 4th:
Willie Marvin DuPree, Jr., 52,
and Cletus Thibadoux, 40, both of Route 4, Plugtown, were injured early
Saturday morning when DuPree’s 1974 Dodge pickup overturned on the westbound
approach to the Bayou St. Marie bridge on Highway 41.
Chief Deputy Willfred Shuckus
of the Bojamine Parish Sheriff’s Office told the Courier that official
investigation indicated the two men had been frog hunting with a .22 rifle.
While returning home at approximately 2:20 A.M., Dupree’s pickup headlights
blew a fuse. He managed to stay on the road.
Having no spare
fuse and seeing that a .22
cartridge fit exactly in the fuse slot on the steering column, they replaced
the blown fuse with a .22 bullet. The cartridge restored the headlights, and
they continued their trip. Shortly, the bullet apparently overheated,
discharged, and shot DuPree, Jr. in the testicles.
DuPree, Jr. lost control and
the truck rolled over, saved from plunging into Bayou St. Marie by the new
bridge railing which was badly damaged.
Thibadoux suffered a broken
left femur, cuts and abrasions, and remains hospitalized at Bojamine Parish
Medical Center. DuPree, Jr., in addition to cuts and abrasions, remains
hospitalized for treatment of the gunshot wound to the sensitive area.
Dr. Pierre Rochambeau of the
Bojamine Parish Medical Center advised the Courier, “I got no way of
knowin’ how well DuPree. Jr.’s testicles functioned before, but they never
gonna ever work so good no more.”
Chief Deputy Shuckus stated, “I
been a officer of the law for 26 years, but this is a first. I cannot imagine
how them two got so dumb enough to admit to how this accident happened.”
Willie Marvin DuPree, Jr.’s wife,
Flower Jo DuPree, 15, told the Courier, “Willie Marvin shot hisself in
his whut? Far as I know, he didn’t have none. If he ever did have any, he never
did use ‘um ‘roun’ here. Whut in tarnation would he need spectacles for no how?
He could see jes’ fine. I’d be hopin’ to high h—l, that truck still runs when
they get it up-sided.”
Mrs. DuPree continued. “And, a’
wishin’ them laws would look in the bait bucket behind the seat and see if them
boys got any frogs.”
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has been shot at, shot,
stabbed, lied to and about, and often misunderstood. He currently lives on a
dusty north Texas ranch, where he doesn’t give a damn if school keeps, or not.
Clifton has published approximately 120 short fiction pieces, including upwards
of fifty in Bewildering Stories Mag. He currently has three novels
available through Amazon and other outlets: Nights on Fire, Murdering
Homer, and Dragon Marks Eight. He blogs at
If Charles Addams, Edgar Allan
Poe, and Willy Wonka sired a bastard child it would be the fat asthmatic by the name of Michael D. Davis. He has been called warped by dear friends and a freak
by passing strangers. Michael started drawing cartoons when he was ten, and his skill has improved with his humor, which isn’t
saying much. He is for the most part self-taught, only ever crediting the help of one great high school art teacher. His art
has been shown at his local library for multiple years only during October due to its macabre nature. If you want to see more
of Michael’s strange, odd, weird, cartoons you can follow him on Instagram at mad_hatters_mania.