Inside, Rene heard boots thunder across the decrepit floor. The whole camp shook. With a slam and a tug, the door raked across the bare floor. Nancy crinkled her nose. The smell of stale cigarettes and mildew was subtle, like a shovel in the face. The odor was so thick they could taste it. “Ooh...” Nancy gagged. Before she could get another word out her eyes bulged.
Standing before them in a dazzling white robe and dunce cap was one the biggest Klansman they had ever seen. Sun spilled in through a smallish window across the room, giving the Grand Dragon an aura of godliness. “Miss Patrick, come in. You’re even prettier in person than you are on TV.” A booming voice, cane syrup smooth and twice as sweet, flowed from behind the patch of bed sheet that veiled Earl Bumfus’ face. With that one sentence, he struck just the right tone, respectful, flattering, and playful. Nancy giggled.
In full here, if you can take the cracker-fried heat. Mon Dior!
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1 comment:
Hell, that ain't nuthin'.
Try this opening paragryph from one of my Yankee Northern sci fi micro stories:
When I signed up for the headless soldier program, I was nervous. My commanding officer said it was better than going to the dentist. At first, I was worried that without a head, I'd have trouble meeting and, er, interacting sensually with women.
Boy, was I wrong! Ever since the decapitation, or skull component relocation, I've been a big hit with the ladies. And enemy combatants are scared shitless of us when we run toward them, firing our rifles, headlessly. Especially the Haitian rebels, who are superstitiously stupid to begin with.
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