Read Online The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove by Christopher Moore - Free Book Online
Authors: Christopher Moore
Tags: Humor
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SUN GO DOWN ON YOU IN THIS COUNTY, so we always plan to get where we goin' 'for dark.
My secret recipe a gallon jar of chicken guts I keep buried in the backyard for a year. Itakes that jar and punches some holes in the lid and toss her out in the water. "A catfish smell them rotten guts, they be there lickety-split," I tells Smiley. Then we hooks up one them chickens and throw it out there and we sits back and has us a drink or two, me all the time talkin trash 'bout that five hundred dollar and Smiley grinnin like he does.
'For long Smiley doze off on the bank.Ilets him sleep, thinkin he be more disappointed if he wake up
and we ain't caught that catfish. Just to be sure, Istarts to pull in the rope, and 'for I got it pulled in ten feet somethin grab on.That ol' rope start burning through my hand like they's a scared horse on t'other end. I musta yelled,cause Smiley woke up and goes running off the other way. "Watch you doin?" Iyells, and that old rope burnin through my hands like a snake on fire.
Well, that it, I think, and I lets go of the rope. (A Bluesman got to take care of his hands.) But when the rope come to the end, it tighten up like an E string and make a twang – throw moss and mud up into my face – and I looks round and see Smiley crankin up that Model T Ford. He done fled the rope on the bumper and now he drivin it back out the bayou, pullin whatever out there in the water as he go. And it ain't comin easy, that ol' Ford screamin and slidin and sound like it like to blow up, but up on the bank come the biggest catfish I ever seen, and that fish ain't happy.He floppin and thrashin and just bout buryin me in mud.
Smiley set the brake and lookback at what we catch, when that ol' catfish make a noise I don't know can come out a fish. Sound like woman screaming. Which scares me, but not as much as thenoise that come back out the bayou, which sound like the devil done come home.
"You done it now, Smiley," Isays.
"Get in," hesay.
Don't take more than that forme, cause somethin risin up out the bayou look like a locomotive with teeth, and it comin fast. I'm in that Model T Ford and we off, draggin that big catfish right with us and that monster thing coming behind.
'For long we got us some distance, and Itells Smiley to stop. Wegets out and looks at our five-hundred-dollar catfish. He dead now, dragged to death, and not lookin too good at that but in a full moon we can see this ain't no ordinary catfish. Sho, he got his fins and tail and all, but down on his belly he growin things look like legs.
Smiley say, "What that?"
And I say, "Don't know."
"What that back there?" he say.
"That his momma," I say. "She ain't happy one bit with us." seven It has the soul-sick wail of the Blues, the cowboy tragedy of Country Western. It goes like this:
You pay your dues, do your time behind the wheel, put in long hours on boring roads, your vertebrae
compress and your stomach goes sour from too much strong coffee, and finally, just when you get a good-paying job with benefits and you're seeing the light at the end of the retirement tunnel, just when you can hear the distant siren song of a bass boat and a case of Miller calling to you like a willing truck stop waitress named Darlin', a monster comes along and flicks your truck and you are plum blowed up.
Al's story.
Al was drowsing in the cab of his tank truck while unleaded liquid dinosaurs pulsed through the big black pipe into the underground tanks of the Pine Cove Texaco. The station was closed, there was no one at the counter to shoot the bull with, and this was the end of his run, but for a quick jog down the coast to a motel in San Junipero. On the radio, turned low, Reba sang of hard times with the full authority of a cross-eyed redheaded millionaire.
When the truck first moved, Al thought he might have been rear-ended by somedrunk tourist, then the shaking started and Al was sure he was in the middle of the bull moose earthquake of the century – the
My secret recipe a gallon jar of chicken guts I keep buried in the backyard for a year. Itakes that jar and punches some holes in the lid and toss her out in the water. "A catfish smell them rotten guts, they be there lickety-split," I tells Smiley. Then we hooks up one them chickens and throw it out there and we sits back and has us a drink or two, me all the time talkin trash 'bout that five hundred dollar and Smiley grinnin like he does.
'For long Smiley doze off on the bank.Ilets him sleep, thinkin he be more disappointed if he wake up
and we ain't caught that catfish. Just to be sure, Istarts to pull in the rope, and 'for I got it pulled in ten feet somethin grab on.That ol' rope start burning through my hand like they's a scared horse on t'other end. I musta yelled,cause Smiley woke up and goes running off the other way. "Watch you doin?" Iyells, and that old rope burnin through my hands like a snake on fire.
Well, that it, I think, and I lets go of the rope. (A Bluesman got to take care of his hands.) But when the rope come to the end, it tighten up like an E string and make a twang – throw moss and mud up into my face – and I looks round and see Smiley crankin up that Model T Ford. He done fled the rope on the bumper and now he drivin it back out the bayou, pullin whatever out there in the water as he go. And it ain't comin easy, that ol' Ford screamin and slidin and sound like it like to blow up, but up on the bank come the biggest catfish I ever seen, and that fish ain't happy.He floppin and thrashin and just bout buryin me in mud.
Smiley set the brake and lookback at what we catch, when that ol' catfish make a noise I don't know can come out a fish. Sound like woman screaming. Which scares me, but not as much as thenoise that come back out the bayou, which sound like the devil done come home.
"You done it now, Smiley," Isays.
"Get in," hesay.
Don't take more than that forme, cause somethin risin up out the bayou look like a locomotive with teeth, and it comin fast. I'm in that Model T Ford and we off, draggin that big catfish right with us and that monster thing coming behind.
'For long we got us some distance, and Itells Smiley to stop. Wegets out and looks at our five-hundred-dollar catfish. He dead now, dragged to death, and not lookin too good at that but in a full moon we can see this ain't no ordinary catfish. Sho, he got his fins and tail and all, but down on his belly he growin things look like legs.
Smiley say, "What that?"
And I say, "Don't know."
"What that back there?" he say.
"That his momma," I say. "She ain't happy one bit with us." seven It has the soul-sick wail of the Blues, the cowboy tragedy of Country Western. It goes like this:
You pay your dues, do your time behind the wheel, put in long hours on boring roads, your vertebrae
compress and your stomach goes sour from too much strong coffee, and finally, just when you get a good-paying job with benefits and you're seeing the light at the end of the retirement tunnel, just when you can hear the distant siren song of a bass boat and a case of Miller calling to you like a willing truck stop waitress named Darlin', a monster comes along and flicks your truck and you are plum blowed up.
Al's story.
Al was drowsing in the cab of his tank truck while unleaded liquid dinosaurs pulsed through the big black pipe into the underground tanks of the Pine Cove Texaco. The station was closed, there was no one at the counter to shoot the bull with, and this was the end of his run, but for a quick jog down the coast to a motel in San Junipero. On the radio, turned low, Reba sang of hard times with the full authority of a cross-eyed redheaded millionaire.
When the truck first moved, Al thought he might have been rear-ended by somedrunk tourist, then the shaking started and Al was sure he was in the middle of the bull moose earthquake of the century – the
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