CHAPTER ONE
written by Harold Lees
It could’ve only been 10 minutes, but it felt like Lima Lee was reliving her entire childhood as she stood under the looming shadow of the big brick wall with Alan Jackson painted across it. She hadn’t been back to Newnan since Christmas 2017, years before Hollywood hired Michael Bay to create COVID and before Donald Trump Jr purchased that Donald Trump Muppet to take over in The White House once his father had died of “Too Much Butter.” So much had changed, especially about her hometown. She hardly recognized it. Considering she promised she’d come back as “Lima Maybeans: The Next Dolly Parton,” she had hoped they wouldn’t recognize her either.
“Mural? More like immural,” she said to herself.
She knew she wasn’t being fair to Alan. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t create her failure of a country music career. He just inspired it. She ran her fingers across the bricks, paying special attention to his angel-hair-pasta-styled hair and the way the bricks near his crotch just felt smaller. The attention to detail was exquisite, as if the artist had slept with Alan themselves–or at least slept with a brick wall or two.
Bzzzzz. Bzzzzz. Lima’s phone started hugging at her bottom from the back pockets of her Wal-Mart George jeans (the most action she’d gotten there since her first night in Nashville) and she knew who would be calling without even having to look. It’s mama. And mama ain’t gonna be happy that mama wasn’t Lima’s first stop in Newnan.
Lima glanced at the notifications. 17 texts. Seven missed calls. One incoming. Truly not as bad as she’d expected. Lima let it slide for now. Lima still had one more place she had to visit before she could handle seeing her parents: the Waffle House, where she held her last job. Craig would be there. He promised he’d be. In her hand with her cellphone, she also held the receipt where Craig wrote his promise: “The perfect girl deserves the perfect waffle. I’ll be there when I’ve made it. I love you all around the clock.”
Lima pitched the phone and note into one of the shopping bags slung over her forearm, hoping she didn’t just break one of the delicate “Handmade Ornaments” she had bought in Downtown Newnan at a store she’d never remember the name of (or shop at again). Lima disappeared from the gaze of Alfred C. Jackson (the C stands for Country) and rolled back into the Uber, shaking awake the driver she had asked to “pull over by the homoerotic cowboy painting” almost two hours ago.
“My apologies,” Lima said with a drip of sincerity that didn’t get past the driver’s big kitten yawn, “can we still make the Waffle House stop?”
“I need the money. We’ll get you anywhere you wanna go, Ms.”
Lima was back on track! Nothing was going to stop her from seeing Craig again. Nothing would stop her from telling him what she should’ve said so many years ago.
CRASH!
“Lima? Lima Lee? Lima Kathleen Lee!? Young Lady!”
Lima knew that voice as she began to wake up, so a tiny part of her hoped this was all just a bad dream. But no. Lima was not at the Waffle House. She was back home. Not in Nashville in her two-bedroom apartment with three roommates. She was in her parent’s guest bedroom. And that voice? That was mama.
“Arnie! She’s awake! She’s not dead! Santa didn’t kill her!”
Santa didn’t… what?
“Lima? Lima Bug? Lima, you alright? Li-Lee?” Her father’s voice carried into the room, bouncing off everything in the house, so strong that it was impossible to know where he was in their historic downtown home. Though considering she was in a car crash with (apparently) Santa, maybe this was a sign of a concussion.
“Oh, Lima,” her father said as his bear-claw-bear-skinned-bear-warmth-hands took over Lima’s, “what were you doing riding through downtown during the Christmas parade? Were you trying to kill Santa or just the Christmas spirit? You little Scrooge.”
Lima was opening the gift of context, and she couldn’t be more embarrassed, though right now, she was irritated with a particular snooze-brained Uber driver more than anything. She took some pleasure in the idea he was being questioned by Newnan’s finest while she was in a warm bed, even if it made her several steps off her original plan.
“I’m OK, dad.”
“Well, good,” said Lima’s mother with a harrowing sense of gratitude that only meant one thing was to follow…
“Because maybe now you can explain why you don’t love me or your Father enough to answer Our calls?!?!”
Written by Amy Tritz
“I —“ Think, Lima, think. “I was just about to text you back, and then…. I woke up here. Promise.”
Mama squinted at her daughter suspiciously. “You weren’t down there rubbin’ all over Alan Jackson’s mural again, were you?” she half-hissed. “Because I don’t want a repeat of last time. People just stopped talking about it.”
“No, mama,” Lima lied, turning away to hide the embarrassment blooming across her cheeks. “I was just doing some Christmas shopping. I bought something for you.” Lima scanned the room. Wow. Her room was exactly as she’d left it six years ago, save for the few items she hastily tucked into her locally-crafted “Goochy” bag the night she hopped that train to Nashville.
“Have you seen my bags? There were three of them.”
“No, Lima Bug.”
Lima’s heart dropped.
“But they did find your purse,” her Dad said, handing it to her slowly. Knowing.
“Baby, why don’t we go make Lima some breakfast and let her get cleaned up?” Thank you, Dad.
“I’d want to get cleaned up too after nearly murdering Santa, AND embarrassing the Lee name again,” her mother muttered, not quite softly enough to remain out of earshot. Thanks, Mama.
Lima opened her purse, reaching in for her cherished Waffle House receipt, its seven perfect tiny grease spatters still dotting the bottom like little snowflakes. She re-read the words, her stomach backflipping after all these years. She still had to tell him. He had to know. Lima dug a little further into her purse for her cell phone. She listened to her first voicemail. “Hi, Lima. It’s Jerry. Soooooo, there’s no easy way to tell you this——— the studio is going to pass on your album. They just don’t get it, that’s all. But I was thinking, what if we pitch the track Waffling Around for commercials? Lula’s Log Cabin is expanding. Hey, I know it’s not Eggo, but it might earn you a few bucks? I mean, it’s better than dressing up as a chicken and spinning signs. I’m just spitballing here. Call me back.”
Lima felt her anger at Alan Jackson burn hotter than a heap of burning tires. If it weren’t for Alan Jackson, she never would have left Newnan. If it weren’t for Alan Jackson, she wouldn’t have accidentally run over Santa. Lima stabbed the phone with her finger. The second voicemail was from the Newnan PD. With a sense of dread, she opened it
written by Ashley Salsman
Lima listened to the voicemail twice before finally letting the phone slip out of her hand. It clattered loudly across the floor but she didn’t even hear it.
She couldn’t breathe.
The tightness in her chest was suffocating and she grabbed onto the nearest chair to steady herself. She couldn’t draw a full breath into her lungs, no matter how deeply she tried to inhale. Her palms were sweating and she clutched that chair back as though it was the only thing keeping her from flying into orbit.
How did they know?
How COULD they know?
She was so careful…..at least, she thought she was. Apparently not.
She squeezed her eyes shut so tightly she saw stars. Her heart was pounding so hard in her chest, she wasn’t sure how everyone else in the house couldn’t hear it. She could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks and wondered if she might pass out.
The detectives words echoed in her ears.
Her mind was racing but she knew now was NOT the time to panic. Lima took several slow, deep breaths – in through her nose, out through her mouth.
“Smell your flower, blow out your candle,” she murmured.
“Calm down, Lima,” she said out loud. “You don’t know what they know. Cracking under pressure is not an option. Don’t go telling on yourself because you can’t keep your shit together. Did the ‘Telltale Heart’ teach you nothing??!”
She realized her fingers were cramping and slowly released the death grip she had on the chair. Lima’s heart rate was so high, her Fitbit buzzed on her wrist, flashing a message about “logging this workout.” Lima scowled at it and felt foolish for losing control like this. One voicemail and she’s sweating bullets, half-ass ready to sing like a canary. The irony! She laughed out loud at this and walked over to the mirror. She was still a bit unsteady on her feet, like a newborn giraffe or someone trying to get their sea-legs.
She stared at her reflection, looking so deeply into her own honey-colored eyes, everything else in the room melted away. She didn’t know how long she stood there, steeling herself for what she knew was to come. Lima’s mind was still swimming as she splashed water on her face and gathered her long hair into a haphazard ponytail.
Lima retrieved her phone from the floor and checked the screen for cracks. None this time.
She could smell Mama’s cooking wafting up the stairs. Definitely bacon. Something sweet, maybe pancakes. Or it could be French toast. She didn’t have the stomach for anything right now but would choke something down anyway, if for no other reason than to avoid Mama fussing at her.
“Limaaaaa…….LIMA! Come down for breakfast!” Dad hollered up the stairs.
One of these days she’s going to ask who in the hell decided to name her Lima. But not today.
She knew what she had to do now. It was never a question of “if” it would ever come to this, only a question of “when”.
Her hand trembling, she reached for the door handle. She hesitated, and then headed downstairs.
written by Mike Boylan
The first thing Lima heard when she arrived in the kitchen was coughing. Wet, whistling coughs, each one sounding more painful than the last. It was her little brother, Paddington. He had been a sickly child and was now a sickly young adult. His nose, which started running on the day of his birth, was still dripping like a faucet today.
“Hey Li,” he said, the L sounding like a D due to his perma-congestion.
“Sup, Pad? You ok?”
“Top notch, compared to you Reject McEntire.”
Daddy swatted Paddington on the back of his head and told him to knock it off. Mama clutched her son to her bosom and kissed the top of his head.
“Don’t you hurt my baby. He still has a fontanelle.”
Paddington is a fontanelle, Lima thought to herself. One gross little soft spot over a dumb, little brain. She obviously loved her brother, but it was more the way that a person loves a friend’s pet. She’d give him a scratch behind the ear from time to time, but she felt no ownership or huge connection.
“The police called,” Lima announced. Her family froze in place, waiting to hear what she would say next. “I didn’t talk to them. Yet. Do you think I should get a lawyer?”
Daddy slammed his plate of scrapple on the table, scattering syrup-covered pig brains over the table. He held up a hand of apology to his wife and then pointed an accusatory finger at Lima.
“You think we can afford some fancy lawyer? Who’s going to defend someone who tried to kill Santa Claus? You know about The War on Christmas, don’t you? You’re basically Hitler, Hamas, and Ted Kennedy rolled into one person. Coweta County hates you right now.”
One lonely tear escaped from Lima’s eye, and made a path down her cheek before landing on her top lip. She sobbed and tasted the tear as it landed on her tongue. She could understand an entire county hating her. She hated herself too. Lima just wished she could remember what happened after she got in the Uber.
There was a hard knock on the front door and Lima’s heart jumped up into her throat and then crashed into her stomach. She felt herself get clammy and thought she might throw up all over the table. When she saw her father’s scrapple still scattered loose amongst the breakfast items, she had to turn away to keep the rising gorge at bay.
“Is someone going to get that,” Paddington whined. “The knocking is giving me a headache.”
“What if it’s the po-lice?” Mama asked the room. “I don’t want them to take my baby. I’ve seen on tv what happens in women’s prisons. She’ll be asked to put illegal things in places where the sun don’t shine.”
Prison sounds delightful, thought Lima. It would get her away from her family, and society, and her private parts would see more action than they had in years.
“I’ll get it,” Lima said, standing up and walking towards the door with heavy footfalls. She felt as if her life would turn on the next few moments. Lima wondered if she should surrender right away or try to run. She put her hand on the doorknob, closed her eyes, and turned her wrist.
“Good day, young lady. Are you Miss Lima Lee?”
Lima opened her eyes and stared at a small, elderly gentleman dressed in Victorian-era garb. His voice matched his outfit, sounding dignified and as smooth as butter when you first open the tub. She wasn’t sure who he was, but he was clearly not with the police.
“Yes sir. Can I help you?”
“Why yes, I believe you can. My name is Ellis Crook and I would like to hire you.”
Ellis Crook? The Coweta business magnate? He was like Elon Musk and Steve Jobs in the body of one of the hecklers on The Muppet Show. What kind of job did he want to hire Lima for? And why? She thought she would be persona non grata around these parts and yet, here was Coweta’s own Granddaddy Warbucks at her front door.
“Uh, please come in,” Lima said, gesturing for the man to enter their cluttered foyer. Lima’s mother scurried over and removed two bras that were hanging off the bannister.
“Do you have plans for Christmas Eve?” Ellis Crook asked.
“Well, we usually open one present before going to Golden Corral and then Mass.”
“Family tradition, sir,” Daddy said. He had removed his Federal Booty Inspector cap and held it against his chest as a sign of respect.
“I see, well, I’m hoping to convince you to buck tradition this year and perform at the Ells Crook Christmas Eve Spectacular Extravaganza and Light Show. I’ve taken to calling it the ECCE SELS for brevity’s sake.”
“Perform? Me?”
“I’ve been following your career since you placed fifth in “Coweta Got Mad Talent, Yo” twelve years ago. I always thought you’d make an impact and it turns out I was right. That song about Wafflin’ has me tapping my toes all day long.”
Lima couldn’t believe her luck. Instead of the entire county hating her, this fine, proper, Southern gentleman with a voice like a snobby butler was giving her a chance to redeem herself in front of the entire county.
“I’ll do it. Thank you, Mr. Crook.”
“Just a second, young lady, you can’t just quit a tradition. What about Golden Corral? Your brother loves getting close to all the entrees and the chocolate fountain.”
“Oh Daddy, we can go the next day. Or the day after that. Please?”
“Mr. Crook, is this a paying gig? Mama asked. The man chortled and took Mama’s hands in his.
“Of course, my dear. Why this will be the biggest thing to happen here since Edward Furlong parachuted onto the field during the East Coweta -Newnan game when he was here to film “Pet Sematary 2.”
I’m going to be a star, Lima thought.
Written by Tony Lees
As the door closed behind “the grand Master Crook” himself… Lima’s phone began to ring.
Only not her personal line…
It was another ring all together… she gasped as she heard Miley Cyrus sing…
It’s a party in the U.S.A. !!!
Something clicked inside her… Lima’s face grew relaxed.
She ran up the stairs, two at a time, and crashed into her room.
Slid across the unmade bed and grabbed her carry on bag.
Pulled up the velcro bottom and snatched up another phone.
Purple, like the color of royalty, and ringing now for the second time. “Everybody’s so crazy” playing as she stared at the name…
MASTER TONE… it read
She swiped the
green icon…
Simultaneously switching on her true identity…
It was her true Love, none other than Tone Loc, the famous rapper from the eighties, and the Love of her life.
Also, the leader of the cult MandM. Or, Monster Messiah… as it was called.
Tone went straight to the point… “Is he dead? The Fat man, is he dead?”
Lima, calmy stated, “No…
The sled was too big… It is not over yet.”
Tone ,who had just released his new songs, “Funky cold Messiah”, “Wild Child” and “Get Loced after Stark”… was furious…
“You only had one job …” He said
“Kill the Fat Man…”
Lima, or “Madame Legume” as she was known in the MandM was devestated.
She knew that the knowledge that Tony Stark was the true Messiah must come out…
But , with the Fat Man still around, the message was pointless…
MASTER TONE, spoke quickly…
“Before we do the concert, the job must be finished…”
And then click! He was gone.
Lime pulled her Black dress from the depths of her suitcase and put it on.
Letting down her Raven locks…
She went to the mirror and began putting on her blood red lipstick…
Today, the Fat Man dies…
The world must know..
Tony Stark is the Messiah!
Chapter 6 written by Katie Anderson
Yes, Tony Stark. THAT Tony Stark. You know the one.
That’s right. Anthony “Tony Stark” Starkly, the illustrious former vice-vice principal of the equally illustrious, and equally as washed-up, Newnan School For Super Smart Students And Stuff (NSSSS). True, the school had only lasted a few years before being shut down for E-SPLOST tax evasion, but it still competed heavily with whatever Linda Mink was up to for top educational news of the day. These days, the abandoned school building educated way more young armadillos and opossums than it did young humans, but that was to be expected as it was technically within the Turin city limits.
Anyway, none of that history mattered now. What mattered is that Newnan (and the world) needed to know the truth. And no one would believe it while Santa was out here dancing with sugar plums and putting kids down for long winter’s naps. (Or however that story went. Lima had never been known for her reading comprehension scores.)
Lima pulled the straps of her little black dress up and spun around in circles a few times in front of the mirror. It wasn’t to get a better look at herself, though. The stupid zipper up the back was just out of her reach. Finally, she gripped it and tugged it the rest of the way up. Grimacing as she rubbed the ache out of her bicep, she did take a moment for vanity at the vanity. She blotted her blood red lipstick, finger-combed her curls, and slipped her feet into her size 11 Doc Martens.
Getting outside was surprisingly easy. After Master Crook had left, the rest of her family had drifted back into the kitchen. Lima’s mother was now watching Paddington eat a giant plate of bacon the way any mother would watch their infant trying their very first solid food. Lima’s father was shoveling eggs into his mouth while scrolling through the latest Fox News headlines on his cracked iphone 5. All Lima had to do was walk down the stairs and out the door without making too much noise. In her size 11 Doc Martens.
Luckily, Tone had prepared her for this moment through hours and hours of dance-based training. Lima was out the door and on the sidewalk along Greenville Street before anyone was the wiser. She took a deep breath and set off down the broken pavement, letting her size 11 Doc Martens be her guide back towards downtown.
Downtown was deserted. Not in a post-apocalyptic way. Or even in a “Santa was very recently almost a murder victim” way. Just in the usual way that downtown always is before 10 am on any given Sunday. All the good people of Newnan were still inside their homes, prepping for a morning of church services and an afternoon of harassing underpaid wait staff at local restaurants. (All the less-good people of Newnan were already at the 8:30 am services, repenting in advance for how many customers’ meals they were about to spit in that afternoon.)
Lima’s size 11 Doc Martens echoed along the empty streets in the same way that a duck’s quack echoes inside a soundproofed box. She knew exactly where to find him. Santa may have ridden into town on a fire truck and he may have slid along city streets in his sleigh, but all those county-maintained roads could only lead to one place.
Lima was going to walk right in, shout his name, and finish the job that she had been sent home to do. There was no time left for distractions. No time left for waiting for crosswalk lights. No time left for reading historic plaques nailed to brick walls. No time left even for waffles.
No. The time was now. She was here. Santa was here. They were going to finish this.
Squaring her shoulders and taking a deep steadying breath, Lima pulled hard on the metal and glass doors and strode inside the dimly-lit room, letting the door to The Alamo swing shut slowly and softly on its safety-engineered hinges behind her.
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?”
written by Shawn Tritz
“No!” Madame Legume was trained to stay focused until the job was done. She would not be distracted by Craig.
Lima swung around with her butter knife posed for a deadly throw. A gentle but firm hand grasped her throwing wrist. Craig said, “Lima, baby, don’t.” She seemed to waiver a second but Craig felt Lima detach her prosthetic arm to free herself while dropping the butter knife into her free hand all in one deft maneuver.
But Craig was quicker, grabbing her other arm and whispering “mascarpone” into her ear.
Lima’s will faltered as she pivoted.
How could Craig do this? After all these years, how could he invoke the code word they agreed to all those years ago in spy training school? Sure they made vow to keep each other grounded on all their future missions. But that was before they took separate paths with different Coweta spy agencies. Agencies that sometimes collaborated, but often clashed with their goals.
Lima looked deep into Craig’s familiar facial features. The crooked nose forming a side facing chevron, the side smile that first drew her in. Those eyes, one unwavering, both dark and fierce. The other…kind of dark too, but with movement that was always off-time like it was suffering from dial-up internet lag and slowly looking away, seemingly interested in what’s happening to the side.
Her senses returned and she thrashed around to catch a glimpse of her prey. Santa had just finished paying his tab and was wheeling out of the Alamo, stopping to wish others a Merry Christmas. But no matter what Lima did, she couldn’t free herself from Craig’s hold. Or maybe she didn’t want to. Her head was all fuzzy, like an oft-washed Snuggie crammed into her brain. Regardless, it was torture to get so close to mission accomplished, only to see him escape her clutches in the mere 840 seconds Craig contained her wrath.
Lima was crushed. She came to her senses and brought a roundhouse that connected with Craig’s head sending his eye into a crazy, spiral orbit. Lima’s Pa always knew those clandestine Muay Thai lessons behind Target were worth the hefty price he paid. Craig let go and Lima was off.
Lima knew this wasn’t that last she’d see Craig. She would get her answers about the Twister fiasco of ‘02 involving her, Tone, and Craig as spy school recruits. But now was not the time.
With one less arm, she raced out to the square, blinded by the sun, but Santa was nowhere to be found. The throngs of market attendees were everywhere. Suddenly, a tomato nailed her in the side of her head.
An old lady shopping at the farmer’s stand yelled out, “You miscreant!”
“It’s the lady who tried to kill Christmas!” squealed a young girl.
Lima tried to maintain her dignity settling for a quick walking pace, keeping her chin held high.
A young hipster came out of the coffee shop and threw a near-empty cup of coffee at her. A permed up teen walked out of the gym and tried to snap at her with his sweat-dripped towel, narrowly missing. “Why did I park across the square?!” thought Lima chided herself.
A handful of records came arcing through the air like wild frisbees, each one crashing as they just missed her.
Lima was momentarily thankful the art store was only occupied by older women as she swatted away the attacks of macramé when out of the corner of her eye she noticed the oldest of the group trying to lift a large unpainted porcelain statue. Lima dashed to the safety of her car.
“What am I going to do?” Lima was in a sullen state. Her mission was foiled and Master Tone was going to be furious. Her phone jumped to life on silent buzzing.
Lima answered, “Hello?”
“Greetings, Miss Lee.” It was the now familiar voice of Ellis Crook sounding as smooth as the chocolate fountain at Golden Corral. “I just wanted to make sure you got the details to the 2024 ECCE SELS tomorrow night. I emailed you some details.”
“Oh! Yes. I’m sorry. I’ve been running around trying to get my head chopped off,” responded Lima. “But can you just remind me where it’s going to be?”
“I do declare. We don’t need any tragedy befalling your purty crown. The ECCE SELS will be for the grand opening of the brand new Mega Roundabout for Newnan!” Crook’s voice turned from smooth to icy “I hope you aren’t thinking of backing out of our deal, Miss Lee.
“Like your song says,
‘Wafflin’ around, can’t keep flip-flopping,
Life’s a short story, and I can’t keep stopping.’“
Lima should have known. Word on the street is that Ellis Crook had the scoop on some sordid deals members of the local council members were involved with. Since then, it seems Mr. Crook has had the town in his back pocket, giving him free reign to do all sorts of crazy things. The latest of his stunts is convincing the city, county, state, and federal government to turn the I-85/Bullsboro Drive exit into a gigantic roundabout. Sure the 14-lane-wide circle would be the first of its kind. And the appeal of non-stop movement alleviating the rush hour jams that happened daily was present. But were the multi-level ramps, bright LED and audio billboards, and loop-de-loop exit directly to Walmart seemed excessive.
“Of course not Mr. Crook. I just…”
Ellis Crook cut in, “No no. You will be there. You will be the star of the show, taking center stage at the roundabout during the light show. And when your song officially becomes the tune for Lulu’s Log Cabin syrup, your music career will finally take off. We’ll all walk away happy.”
Lima Lee had mixed feelings about it. Sure she would finally get the spotlight…but for syrup? Much less a brand always associated with scrapple. Was this her lot in life?
“And I wanted to save the surprise, but I can’t help myself,” continued Mr. Crook. “Not only will your song finish with Santa’s arrival…”
“Santa?” thought Lima. “My chance to finish the job?”
“But we’re also going to have a certain local celebrity joining you on stage,” said Ellis Crook. “Name rhyming with Gallon Saxon…”
Lima Lee was stunned. Her head started spinning and her vision blurred. Was this really happening?
“Oh and uh, don’t forget to wear your waffle costume Miss Lee. Oh, this is going to be so delightful. It shall be absolutely lit.” And with that Ellis Crook hung up.
Oh, I forgot to mention. I used Gen AI to help write lyrics for Wafflin’ Around. In case you want to post it (in the story or comments) for people to use, here are the lyrics:
(Verse 1)
In the morning light, staring at my plate,
Choices piled high, can’t decide my fate.
Wafflin’ around, like syrup on a stack,
Indecision’s got me, can’t seem to pick a track.(Pre-Chorus)
But life keeps moving, like a runaway train,
Can’t stay in limbo, need to break this chain.
Wafflin’ around, it’s time to take a stand,
In this dance of choices, gotta make a plan.(Chorus)
Wafflin’ around, can’t keep flip-flopping,
Life’s a short story, and I can’t keep stopping.
Decisions looming, like shadows on the ground,
Wafflin’ around, it’s time to stand my ground.(Verse 2)
In matters of the heart, a different kind of waffle,
Love’s a delicate dance, no time to dawdle.
Wafflin’ with emotions, like leaves in the breeze,
But waiting forever, won’t put my heart at ease.(Pre-Chorus)
Clock’s ticking loudly, in this love charade,
Can’t keep stalling, in this masquerade.
Wafflin’ around, it’s time to take a chance,
In matters of love, need to find romance.(Chorus)
Wafflin’ around, can’t keep flip-flopping,
Love’s a sweet melody, and it’s time for hopping.
Hearts are calling, no more being bound,
Wafflin’ around, let commitment be found.(Bridge)
Life’s a journey, with crossroads to face,
Decide my path, in this vast open space.
Love’s a journey, no time for delay,
Wafflin’ no more, it’s time to find my way.(Verse 3)
So here I stand, with a resolute heart,
No more wafflin’, time to play my part.
Decisions made, I’ll embrace the unknown,
In love and life, I’ll let my seeds be sown.(Chorus)
Wafflin’ around, I’ve stopped the flipping,
No more excuses, no more tripping.
Decisions firm, on solid ground,
No more wafflin’, a new chapter’s found
written by Daniel Powell
“Tomorrow, huh?”
Lima sat, silent, unsated. The world had plopped a platter befitting a king. But still, empty. Something was missing.
Her arm.
But something ELSE was missing. She looked into her rearview mirror, preparing to back out from her spot on the square, but she paused. She didn’t see her eyes. They were brown, dim, solemn, as hers often were, but they darted back and forth in a nervousness that she felt foreign to. She tried to catch the glimpses connecting 1 to 1 with hers but her mind addled and focal points rattled. She couldn’t catch a clear view of the eyes in the mirror. As they darted she started to feel hot. An immense heat. Frustrations a fumarole. Burning. STEAMING. Grabbing the mirror to steady the gaze with no avail.
Until she finally shut her eyes and SCREAMED! She felt her eyes imprint into her eyelids like a pinpoint hammer slamming brail, but when she rubbed her eyes she could understand nothing. It’s not her writing. It hadn’t been. The mission. Ellis. It was Craigs codeword that subdued her that struck the chord.
It has never been her. Everything she did was always somebody else’s plan.
Even a dream she thought hers. Alan Jackson. His image sprawled across her shut eyes like a sunbeam drive in. Projector set to burn the image. Cars honking in a cacophony of deadstop traffic. Her muse, her inspiration was a shepherd and she the herd. She had realized that every song she had written wasn’t for her, but it was for him. It was always under the assumption that she wanted him to be proud of her. Songs she wrote she realized were not for her.
Nothing was.
Her eyes opened.
She looked into the rearview mirror, preparing to back out from her spot on the square. Moving her car into reverse with her one arm and then back on the wheel. She slowly starts to back out.
“Ms!”
The voice made Lima slam onto the breaks. She didn’t see anybody in the rearview. She rolled her window down to take a more pervasive look.
Stain. Nicholas Stain. Standing right in front of her car. With a rambunctious self-seriousness.
“I saw you with that butterknife. Had me a little confused, cause from where I’m standing, I could have sworn you were…”
Don’t say it.
“Unarmed”
Worthless.
“Ha, yeah, I guess it got lost in the shuffle, huh?” Lima leaned out the window. She put on a quick shiver to show the man she was cold, hoping this would entice him not to waste her time. She wasn’t cold. She had never felt hotter.
“Musta, musta. Hyeck hyeck! I didn’t know you were back in town, Lima. How’s Mama?”
“Oh, she’s uh,” another shiver, “She’s good, she’s good. Stayed home with Paddington tonight. Somebody knocked on our door too hard so he got a headache, you know how it is. Always something, right?”
“Always something.”
He smiled.
“Well, I’ll tell my Mama you were asking about her, alright?”
She looked into the rearview mirror, preparing to back out from her spot on the square. This dawdling old man can wait. Indefinitely, for all Lima cared. This time as soon as she saw that it was clear she was planning to slam on the gas. Perhaps to send Nicholas a message. Perhaps to blow off steam. Perhaps because it’s the closest thing to running she could muster.
“I’ve heard the songs, Lima.”
Lima pauses, letting out a sigh as the sound of a three shift change puts the stick uncomfortably into park. She leans out the window once more. Eyes abruptly affixed to the man.
“Oh yeah?”
“Of course.”
“And how were they?”
His jolly eyes showed a violent white. Bright and cold. Cheeks rosy like a bloodied battle.
“Empty.”
Her heart sank. She had never cared about his opinion. She never cared about him. This was just more proof. More proof that even this old Stain held more power over her than she ever held over herself. This man was nobody, so why could this hurt so much? She shivered.
“Well, they’re telling me it’s gonna be in the commercials after I sing at the ECCE SELS tomorrow, so it can’t be that empty, haha!” she put on a tremendous smile to show the man she was thrilled, hoping this would entice him not to waste her time.
The man smiled. Hair in dancing curls as the wind blows, flickering in front of his eyes, but never once did he blink. He gave a slow, long nod.
“I’m sure they’re going to really enjoy it!”
“Thank you! See, that means a lot!” Lima with a relieved sigh slowly begins to roll up her window, gazing back into the rearview mirror.
“My only hope is that you will too.”
Lima’s head, almost without her consent, darts back in his direction. She took a few looks back and forth before realizing that he was gone. Even with all of the lights in the town showing brightly, there wasn’t a trace of the man. The clock in the square struck 9 times, but between each strike felt a lifetime of thoughts.
Lima stepped out of her car to see if she could catch a glimpse of where he might have gone, but there was nothing. Nothing. Except her prosthetic arm, lying on the ground where the man once stood. Stretched out, palm down, almost as if it beckoned her. A handshake with a granddad you haven’t seen in ages or the stretched out arm of a hug with your grandmother. It was there. She was there.
She picked herself up and promptly reattached her arm. She slowly entered her vehicle, still giving cautious glances to see if Nicholas was still there, finding no signs. She sat, silent, but now… Smiling.
“Lima, I think it’s time for a new song.”
She looked into the rearview mirror, preparing to back out from her spot on the square.
written by Sean Thomas
Through the now clear rearview mirror, Lima looked. Lima allowed herself to stare at the emptiness behind her. Lima shook her head once more, trying to clear the last bit of fog that remained. She quickly backed out of the parking space, slamming on the brakes as she threw the car into drive. Stuck. She felt stuck. She looked back once more. The silhouette of a man in the distance caught her eye. It looked like Alan Jackson himself. Another figure passed, obscuring her view of the country legend.
Craig.
Or at least someone who looked like Craig, just stumbling around in front of the Alamo.
And then Santa.
Her father.
Her mother.
Her eighth grade History teacher.
Oscar Hiller.
Oscar Hiller? The same kid that spent more time in the principal’s office than in actual class.
Oscar “Killer” Hiller.
Or at least someone who looked like what Lima imagined Oscar would look like if he had grown up, pulled his life together, and made something of himself. Oscar Hiller, silhouetted by a soft glowing blue light. Everything behind her becoming a blue.
Tap, tap.
Lima slowly turned to look away from the rearview, the mirror, and her past. Lima looked to her left, but her memory still focused on Oscar. Killer Hiller.
She imagined Killer Hiller shouting her name, though only as a whisper.
“Lima…”
Tap, tap, tap.
“Lima…”
Tap, tap, tap, tap!
“LIMA!!!”
Lima stopped looking behind her. Her attention and focus moved rapidly to the figure in her window. Killer Hiller stood there in all his majestic glory. Hands on hips. Eyes covered by shades. A tag reading “Hiller” on his chest. A shield on a field of blue. Lima slowly rolled the window down.
“Killer?” she asked, both trying to confirm his identity, his intentions, and her own sanity.
“It’s Officer Hiller now.”
Lima blinked. The kind of blink that is designed to clear your vision, to clear your mind, and to reestablish that what you are seeing before you is actually real.
“Officer Hiller?” Lima’s vision became fully focused. She saw “Killer” now as Officer Hiller. A cop!
“Lima, you’ve made quite a mess.”
“I have?”
Officer Hiller looked down at Lima, letting his filler slowly pull his shades down just enough so that he was looking directly over them and into Lima’s very soul.
“Lima, we all know that the parade incident was the fault of the Uber driver, not yours.”
“You do?”
“We do.”
Lima tried to compose herself. She thought about the accident and realized that she was not the one at the wheel. It could not be blamed on her. She glanced around her mind for some sort of understanding to what was real. Craig? Tone Loc? Tony Stark? Was she really a spy? Was this
all in her head? Had her life in Nashville, the failed music career, the completely unsatisfying series of failed relationships she had caused her to manifest an alternate reality as Madame Legume in a pathetic attempt to make her feel more fulfilled that she actually was?
For the first time that she could recall, Lima allowed herself to smile in acknowledgement of how terrible her life actually was, but that everything she had gone through was all in her head. I mean, she would surely have to seek treatment at a mental health facility. Probably the kind with
bars on the windows. She could finally get help with all of the failed self-medication that she clearly knew she had been unconsciously doing. But at least the world made sense to her again in that moment. All she had to do was…
“However,…” she heard Officer Hiller say. “What we found in your bags left us with several questions. Why did you have a brick in there that was clearly taken from the Alan Jackson mural?”
Lima’s head shot back in the direction of her accuser.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“And why did you just try to kill Santa in the Alamo?”
In that moment, Lima realized that he was less asking and more demanding some explanation.
Snap, snap, snap.
Lima’s eyes snapped back into focus.
A woman in a well-fitted suit sat before her, one hand holding a pen that was tapping a well-worn notepad, and the other hand was mere inches from Lima’s face.
“Welcome back, Lima. I’m Detective Goings. Are you ready to start answering some questions?”
Lima glanced around the room, realizing that she was now in a police interrogation room. It was dark, but not too dark. Nothing stood out. There was a giant mirror and a single door as the only entry and exit point.
“Questions?”
“Yes, First things first, can you confirm your identify for us?”
“Am I being detained?”
Detective Goings looked straight through Lima, as if she did not understand the question.
“Yes, you are being detained for questioning.”
“Okay. Lima Lee. That is my name. I stole the a brick from the Alan Jackson mural because I need help. I attacked Santa because I have been living in my own fantasy world for the last several years. I convinced myself that I was a spy worked on a mission to cover for the fact that I am not a very talented singer-songwriter. I need help.”
Detective Goings dropped the pen and propped her head on his fingertips.
“That is very candid of you.”
“I need help!” Lima pleaded.
Darkness.
The sound of someone scrambling to their feet.
Clunk.
Bang.
Slam!!!
Crunch.
Thud.
Light.
The light from an insanely bright flashlight illuminating the room.
Blinded, Lima tried to focus. She say the detective face down on the table opposite her. Then,
she saw something else.
Nose.
Eyes.
Lips.
Tone.
Tone Loc!
“Lima!”
“Tone! What are you doing here.”
“You said you needed help,” he replied, with a bit of a tone in his voice.
“When?”
“Just now, to the detective.”
“But, but, but how did you get in here?”
“Ace.”
“Like a playing card?”
“Ace Ventura: Pet Detective.”
Lima shook her head, not really sure what to make of this.
“Like the old movie?”
Tone Loc stared down at Lima incredulously.
“No one know this, but Jim Carrey is as method an actor as they come. When I auditioned, I had to go to and graduate from he police academy, get a job as a cop, and live as a cop for three months. I learned the ins and outs of police stations, so it was very easy to break into this Podunk one. Also, watch it with the ‘old’ comments.”
As Lima looked into Tone’s eyes, it all became clear. She wasn’t crazy in believing she was a spy. She was just your regular Southern crazy. It all made sense in that it made no sense at all.
Her mind started to think back…
Snap, snap, snap.
“Girl, stop that. We gotta go!” Tone demanded.
They quickly moved towards the door.
Through the darkened halls, tone led Lima.
Out the back door and into his car.
Speeding off.
Lima relaxed for the first time since being home.
It didn’t last.
“I have some new information for you,” Tone said, interrupting her peace.
She glanced over and saw an envelope in Tone’s outstretched hand.
Lima grabbed it and opened it.
Inside were pictures.
Santa, at Walmart.
Santa, at the parade.
Santa, at Target.
Santa, hammered at a bar.
Santa, hitting a blunt.
Santa, getting out of his car.
Santa, entering his home.
Santa, sitting on his couch.
Santa, taking off his hat and beard.
Santa, unmasked, sitting on his couch.
Anthony Starkly sitting on his couch in a Santa costume.
“Tony Stark is Santa!” Lima exclaimed.
The music slowly turning up as they sped up down the road towards their inevitable destination.
“Cold coolin’ at a bar, and I’m lookin’ for some action…”
written by Brandon King
The anger Lima felt as she remembered everything Santa Stark had put her through was quickly becoming too much to bare. She had put her life into her spy job and now felt like she knew nothing about the REAL WORLD or her parents or Tone Loc or Craig or her sibling or Alan Jackson. Every moment that passed she got further from herself and closer to madness. It was too much. Lima kept whispering that to herself. “It’s too much…” Was she really on her way to kill Tony Stark, the Jolly Saint Nick, our Messiah?
But then Lima was struck with a different question: would she ONLY kill Tony Stark Claus? Or could she do something more to finally stop the madness.
She pictured herself back in Nashville. An acoustic guitar. An empty bed. CMT playing in the background. The few times her phone wasn’t blowing up with calls from the spy agency. At the time she hated those moment, but now it was the only place she wanted to be.
Lima wasn’t even noticing how much pressure she put on the gas pedal. She didn’t even know where she was driving. Something deeper and darker was now guiding her. Freedom was on the gas pedal. Lima was just behind the wheel.
“Slow down Lima. Tony’s Summer Grove residence is just on the left up here.”
She heard it again. Being told what to do. “Slow Down”? Who does Tone Loc think he is. Who does he think he’s talking to. She was Lima F*CKING Lee.
The pedal was now touching the floor. Tone Loc help tight to the seatbelt. He didn’t even bother saying anything. He knew what was coming even before Lima took the sharp turn into the Summer Grove sign and the bricks crushed him to death.
Lima shoved a brick off her shoulder and onto the pile of them that laid on top of Tone. Passerby’s began to slow down and attend to the scene. All asking the same. “Are you OK?”
Lima had never been more OK as she slid a pair of pistols into the waist of her jeans, still warm with Tone’s blood. Lima began to walk towards Tony Stark’s house. An Iron Man inflatable wearing a Santa hat donned the front yard. What a narcissist.
“Ma’am are you ok?! We just called the cops!” called out a wave of voices behind her. Lima wasn’t afraid of no cops. The only thing that could possibly stop Lima–
“Bean, stop…”
was the voice of Craig.
Craig made his way to Lima, still bruised and beaten from their last encounter, where Lima felt betrayed by Craig’s tactic. But the more she thought about it, the way Craig tried to calm her down, the more she realized he was just doing what he thought was best for her. She could see it now.
BLAM! BLAM!
Two bullets and Craig exploded into pieces.
Lima knew the exact self-destruction spot that Craig had surgically added to his body after breaking too many rules in the spy agency.
She appreciated that Craig wanted to take care of her. But that was the old Lima. The old Lima just listened and listened and listened. No more listening. Lima kicked open the door to Tony’s house, just as he was recording a video for Make A Wish Foundation promising eternal life and eternal gifts.
Both pistols found their way into the holly holy jolly path of Tony Stark’s gaze.
“What do you want your gravestone to read? Tony? Messiah? Santa?”
“Why not… dad?”
Lima froze. The pistols still stuck on Tony, but with no power for Lima to squeeze.
Tony Stark dug his fingers under his chin and pulled the skin back, dropping the face of Tony Stark on the ground and revealing Lima’s own father.
“I’ve been watching you. When you’re sleeping. When you’re awake. I know that you’ve been bad not good, Lima.”
Lima was running every scenario in her head about why her father would be both Tony Stark and Santa Claus. Oh, and the Messiah.
“The day you and your Uber driver almost killed me? I was there watching you. But I guess I got just a little bit too close… stupid me. But Lima, I had to. I had to keep an eye on you. You’re my Lima Bean. My baby girl. My super trooper love bug. I couldn’t leave you alone out there in the big scary world. All for the chance at a Spy Badge and a Platinum Album? You can be so much more. I knew it. That’s why I became Santa, to inspire you with gifts. That’s why I became the Messiah, to forgive you. And that’s why I became Tony Stark, because I know he’s your favorite actor. I did all this for YOU, Lima.”
His words were touching. He loved her. He wasn’t asking anything OF Lima, but just expressing love FOR Lima.
“And Lima… there’s one more person I’d like you to meet. So you truly know how much I love you.”
Her father turned his back and picked up a guitar that Tony/Messiah/Dad/Santa had in the corner and he began to strum. That’s when Lima heard it. The song. The song that got her into this. The song that inspired her enough to be stupid enough.
“Way down yonder on the Chattahoochee…”
BLAM! BLAM!
written by Harold
Detective Goings patted dry the makeup he had just finished applying around his eye. He hadn’t worn it before. Was it even supposed to get so wet? But the amount of looks he was receiving from his black and thin blue bruises began to naw away at his confidence. He had NEVER lost a suspect before. He had never lost in a police chase. In fact, he had never even so much as taken a punch from a criminal. But what happened when he had Lima Lee in custody, before being attacked by Tone Loc and having his interrogation room destroyed, that stuck with him. His fellow cops wouldn’t say it. But that almost made it worse: Detective Goings was a loser.
Goings had to beg to be put on the SUSPECT ON THE RUN case of Lima Lee. Sheriff Lenn Wood told him that he wouldn’t get any help on the dung piles of paper work he;d be working through, but that didn’t matter to Goings. He was willing to put everything to the side until he could finally see Lima Lee behind bars. She had murdered Craig, Tony Stark, the Messiah, Tone Loc, Santa Claus, but more than anything, she made Detective Goings look like a bonafied sucka.
Goings pulled up to the shabby “house” right across the Turin city limits. He wasn’t sure if he was looking at a door or just a plank of wood with a painted doorknob on it. Either way, Goings was ready to get going out of here. But not before he talked to his next suspect.
Lima’s mother was a bust. Craig’s family was a bust. Lima’s friends from Nashville were no help. If anyone might have an answer, it would be this kid.
Going past by the Subaru with a worn out Uber sticker that kissed the bumper and let his fist meet the “door” of the crumbling wreckage that only a Turin resident would be willing to live under. Three knocks. With force.
The smell of pot hit Goings long before the door opened, but when it did he wasn’t surprised by what he saw: vampire white, Olsen twin thin, pirate facial hair. This was a Turin resident alright. And the exact Uber driver he was looking for.
“Woah, man, I don’t want no trouble! That’s not my weed, dude! It’s my cats!”
Detective Goings lifted a hand to the boys face, as if to say “woah, girl” to his wild horse antics. The stallion went quiet. But he still might need to be put down.
“I want to ask you about an incident that took pla-“
Detective Goings was immediately cut-off.
“You’re looking for that Lima girl. Shit. I knew this would happen. Look,” he dug his hands in his pockets and dropped his eyes to the dirt floor that most Turin residents slept on. “I haven’t heard anything about her since she did all them murders last week. I hope she gets caught and pays for her crime, but–“
Detective Goings reached out and ran his fingers down the Uber boys nose. Just like you’d do with a spooked horse.
“Eeeeaaasy.” Detective Goings pet a smooth tune into the drivers neck. “Can I come in?”
Uber Boy stepped back and opened the full view of the hoarders nightmare known as the nicest house in Turin.
“There’s something else. Something I gotta show that she left in the backseat.” Detective Goings wasn’t sure why he didn’t mention this before. “But I was too high to remember.” That explains it.
Detective Goings watched as the Uber Boy shifted through the Burger King to-go bag sitting on the boxes he used as a coffee table. And outside the bag he pulled something that Detective Goings never knew he was looking for: a tape recorder.
Goings hit play and the familiar voice of Lima Lee began to sing. The song was dull, repetitive, a parody of her influences, and empty of heart.
“They’re all like that. Bland as Turin.”
Detective Goings held the recorder closer to his ears, letting every word settle into his brain before he could confirm the void of purpose. But he confirmed it.
“Is there anything else? Did she say anything strange? Whatever is helpful.”
“Nah, honestly, I slept through most of the time with her.”
“I understand.” Detective Goings did not understand that amount of laziness. “Do you live alone? Anyone else here?”
“Just me and the roachats (a term for hybrid roach/rats that were popular in Turin).”
Ok, thought Detective Goings.
BLAM
Uber Boy fell back onto his potato chip bagged couch and was done. Goings tossed the pistol next to his corpse and turned to the hole in the wall for a door. As he merrily took himself back to the car, he began to play the recording again, but this time, he held the rewind button as it played… the lyrics revealed their true message. They revealed the Lima she tried to subdue until she couldn’t just “fall in line” anymore:
In the day of Satan,
A satan took me for a long walk
in the daylight.
He was telling me many things
with beautiful words,
Advised me so wisely,
Telling me for not too kind to people.
He said, “Why should you love and care about people
that never appreciate your kindness? Don’t you see that they only take a benefit from you?
They don’t mind to hurt you whenever they have chance.
You are wasting your time! You are wasting your life!”In the day of Satan
A satan took me for a long walk
in the daylight.
Crowning my head
with all the brilliant ideas
about what I should do and I should be as a human,
Filling my heart
with all world’s temptations,
Shining my way
with his adorable light,
And showing the much happiness and glory I could get
if I let myself following his path.In the day of Satan
A satan took me for a long walk
in the daylight.
He made me fell in love with all of his beautiful words
that I was so ready to take a step
to follow all the words and the path he said and offered.But then my inner soul came
and whispered,
“Are you sure that you’re ready for following his path?
What is your motive of doing goodness, anyway?
To get people’s attention or appreciation?
Or just for goodness itself?
Is your kindness just like the woman’s make up
that will vanish as soon as you wash your face?
Are you sure that you’re ready
for making him a King in your life?”In the day of Satan
A satan took me for a long walk
in the daylight to his kingdom
to marry me and crown me as his queen.
But then I realized that
I’m doing kindness actually for the kindness itself
I’m doing goodness surely for the goodness itself
I’m doing merit definitely for the merit itself
Not for people I’ve helped
Not for people I love
Not for heaven’s sake
Not even for the universeIf people can’t appreciate me,
that’s their problem, not mine.
If people can’t accept
my unconditional love for them
with the proper way,
that’s their problem, not mine.
If people turn to be backstabbers
instead of showing their gratitude
for what I’ve done for them,
that’s their problem, not mine.In my life,
there’s always a day of satan.
As the final word was said, the ground beneath Detective Goings began to quake in hunger, the clouds were suddenly kissed by fire, and the chorus of neighboring screams began to rise up, harmonizing with Lima’s lyrics. Everything was done. Satan could rise, and in no better place than Turin, GA.
Detective Goings peeled the skin from around his ears and the face of the rambunctious detective floated down to the cowboy boots of Lima Lee. She laughed. She had done it. She had brought the song of the devil to the hell pit of the South. She was worried she never would get back here. But she did. The sacrifices had been made. There was only one thing left to do.
“My child…” a voice echoed in her head. She knew who this was.
Satan.
“Satan.”
“You’ve been working hard, my Bean,” the voice bounced through her head and shook every bone that made her.
“And now you must work for me.” Lima demanded. She would negotiate with no one. Not anymore.
“I am giddy with anticipation,” Satan replied, a giggle tagging the end of the sentence.
“You can have Coweta County. I want Paddington in my place.”
Satan smiled. Lima couldn’t see this smile, of course, but she felt a grin appear across his face so wide that her own cheeks began to reach out in an effort to join.
“Why, Lima? If I remember correctly, you don’t feel any deep connection to him. He’s just a pet. A dumb, sick, pet that you can’t lint roll the hair off fast enough. He’s disposable. Country music runs thicker than blood, Lima.”
Lima grimaced in a way only Satan could make someone. He was right, but it hurt to hear.
“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be great.” Lima took a moment. She didn’t recognize the words that she confessed, but they felt at home as they came out. “Paddington still can. He is every bit of strength I am not. He is our legacy.”
“So you wish for him instant fame? A fortune? Celebrity?”
“No. I wish he wasn’t sick anymore. He already has everything else he needs to be great. He’s just never been given a fair shot.”
“Lima, you fool!” Satan shook the sky–basketball sized hail dropping around Lima. “You can make any deal with me and you choose this?! Humans never cease to amaze me in their comfort of disappointment.”
“You’re right…” Lima looked into his eyes. She couldn’t see them, but she knew she had found them. “I have been far too comfortable being far too disappointed. I don’t deserve the chance. Paddington does.” Lima turned away and got into the patrol car. “Heal him.”
She started the engine and adjusted the rearview mirror, taking in one last look at herself. She didn’t even wait for Satan’s response. He’d do it. He had to. The car pulled back out of the driveway and directly into a crack in the ground. The flames embracing Lima as they laid her down to bed. Satan kissed her head. Lima closed her eyes.
And somewhere in the distance, safe from the touch of the devil, Paddington had a smile on his face, so large it made him almost unidentifiable. In a way, he would be. He was a new man.
Newnan Time with Harold 