Psycho Ward

Hey Ward, get in here. Uncle Otis is telling the story about working backstage at the Miss America pageant,” Isabel Kransburg said.

Let me grab a cup of java and a sandwich first,” Ward shouted from  the living room. He was in no rush, having heard this story over and over for the past 30 years. “Is there any Colby cheese?  I can only find Edam, Emmental, and Gruyere. And I need ham.”

Isabel plopped down on the Chesterfield they’d bought last month from Sofa City in Dayton.  Her brother Davis worked there and got them a good discount. “You want another Corona?” she asked her uncle.

"How ‘bout Madeira?” Otis slurred.  He hadn’t made much sense since the stroke and there was little hope he’d get better. “Butler’ll bring it.”

“Oh great,” thought Izzy, “Ward’ll* just love being thought of as a Butler.”

“Miss Montana woulda been my favourite,” Oits began.  “Hazel Ewing Ferguson. A buffalo farmer’s daughter, or was it bison? Badger? Don’t remember. She gave me the itch though. Turned out to be a damn crab orchard between that girl’s legs.”

"Ward!” Izzy yelled.  Surely she didn’t have to go through this alone.  Again.

She heard him mumble something above the clanging of the frying pans.  What was in hell was he doing in there? You’d think he’d become a baker. This was turning into some kind Albee play.

Otis rambled on about Lorain, Florence, and Mary Esther, a superior trio of Atlantic City lesbos who tried to mount Dora (aka Miss Indiana).

“They weren’t near as bad as that fruit Dale, the camp crook with a Prince Albert who kept trying to give me a red butte with his dry prong,  Gayer than Niles from Frazier, he was.” 

Izzy realized that he was baskin’ in a  Long Lake of lies now, but the old guy was only about two rivers from crossing into the hollow creek of the great beyond,  and she’d learned to Piqua her battles a long time ago.  And it’s not like he’s a psycho.  Ward should be here soon, and he had a way of quieting down old Otis.

"Did I ever tell you about Miss Lousiana?  Old tall Madge, from down on the plantation.  Vermillion gown and smelled of Vidalia onions. Her talent was something about art as healing."

Ward!  It’s almost 9pm … aren’t you going to come out here?”

Sorry it took me so long,” Ward said, coming into the living room and chewing on his sandwich. “Didn’t realize it was so late, and I’m awfully tired of  this.”

And then, like out of some Hitchcock film, he reached under the sofa, pulled out a tomahawk, and buried it in the old duck’s head.

Comments

[Big Blogger]

Tight. Very tight.

[bob]

Sorry ... really busy past couple of days and didn't have time to hyperlink all the sources, jazz it up, or do a count. I've got all the back-ups/sources if you're fussed. I don't think it'll come close to the others, but it was a good crack.

[Big Blogger]

'Crab orchard' - Laughed? I nearly almost actually wet myself.