written by Abrielle
Lima, or “Madame Legume” entered the Alamo with a cold determined fury, her Doc Martens stomping in beat with the Zac Brown song playing from the speakers overhead. “Chicken Fried” would be the last thing Santa heard before he died. That, and Lima’s murderous shouting of his name to make sure he knew it was HER that finally sleighed him, she would jingle the bell of truth for all to hear.
Hmmm, “Chicken Fried” and “Santa died” had a nice ring to it. She made a mental note to use that for her performance later. Chickens died and were fried all the time, the crowd would LOVE it. Everyone in Georgia loved fried chicken.
Shaking herself back into reality, Lima scanned the interior of the Alamo and locked eyes on a man with a white beard and jolly light in his eyes. He was seated in a cozy booth alone, wrapping a platter of garlic knots with a sparkly green sheet of paper.
She recognized him as one of her old neighbors, Nicholas Stain. His wife did love a good platter of Alamo garlic knots. Just as much as he liked skipping church for a deserted dining experience.
She was thankful he looked unarmed. Nick was known for his love of deer hunting almost as much as his love for christmas, so killing Santa would probably get on his nerves. Without his weapon, the only threat he posed was a drawn out conversation no one wanted to be a part of. She ducked behind a table, ignoring the strange look from one of the employees she’d been ignoring since she walked in. She REALLY hoped Nick wouldn’t recognize her, she didn’t have time to hear about how tall she’d gotten, or how much she looked like his wife at her age.
No, she was on a mission. She wouldn’t let Tone down.
She peeked over the table, turning her attention to the other side of the room. That’s when she saw him, in all his mythical glory, wearing a suit of red, gold, and coal black. With white bandages wrapped sporadically around his body. He was pitifully hunched over the Alamo bar, practically inhaling a fresh glass of eggnog. He stopped for air and groaned, wincing as he lifted his now empty glass towards a bartender who’s back was turned, probably doing his best to ignore Santa’s request for more.
She felt sorry for him. The bartender, not Santa. He wouldn’t be getting a good tip after she was done. But Santa had to go, and it was time to strike.
Lima rolled dramatically from her hiding table to the next, not so gracefully catching the back of her dress on a chair and knocking it over. An unbothered employee picked it up behind her and continued on his way. Clearly Lima’s stealth training had been paying off.
As she got closer to the bar, she pulled a knife from a hidden pocket in her size 11 Doc Martens, eyeing her target. She hopped nonchalantly onto the stool next to him, aiming her blade so it could plunge into his reindeer loving, Tony hating heart, when a voice froze her in her tracks.
“What’ll it be?”
She turned her attention to the now forward facing bartender, and her face went paler than usual. She felt her mind shift from the cold presence of Madame Legume, back to the Lima Kathleen Lee who worked at Waffle House all those years ago.
“…Craig?”
Newnan Time with Harold 