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The Skin Man
Coonass Humor from the Checkered Demon

He lived down in the swamp, mostly. Had a house he'd built that looked like a doughnut with a mushroom growing up the middle. When the floods came the doughnut, being sealed and holding all the mechanics, floated up the stem to the cap where he lived. He'd look out over the inland sea, lashed by a squall from the tropical storm that'd launched the flood. Cypress trees fell, and that was a shame given their antiquity. Never mind each was an ecosystem.

His horse was an aluminum Lafitte skiff with a couple of monster outboards, good for 60 plus on a calm day. Just the thing to run over by Lafayette to that Acadiana Mall. Do some shopping. He called up Placide, who had some hides, and the German would be in Lafayette buying. He had his own hides. The German loved Nutria and Bobcat.

Go see the skin man, how you been Clotiel, you wit' you boat? I'm walkin', all the essentials. You ready for Coonass New York? It'll have to do. You do with what you got, and he motored them and their trading goods on over by Lafayette. Placide mounted the bicycle once they were tied up in Cousins boat yard. Rode over by the Ramada where the German stayed when he did, and returned in a bit in a Mercedes with the bike poking out of the trunk.

They stood around in the well of the boat rocking, shifting bundles of fur and peeling off extra nice ones. Evaluating. Skins of value to the German, that had brought him to this odd spot. A long, long way from Germany, where the weather got so rude folks put hollowed out animals upon their heads.

Clotiel brought the boat up on plane and rumbled off West. They were up almost 23 grand and hadn't been to town for months. I need some whiskey and stuff, socks. Placide shopping in his head. Clotiel pulled up to a fuel dock and filled the boat, and the drums in the hold. Fuel was cheap. Back to Cousins boat yard to tie up and call a cab to the mall.

All through the mall they trekked, all the stores and stuff. New stuff they'd never seen. Things they didn't have enough power to operate. Clothes made of fabrics that would melt in their world, leaving one naked. Stuff there's no reason to own. They wound up in a food court with a couple of small bags each, having a coffee. Watching the people. Clotiel was staring intently. What you see, Clo? What you zoomed down on? That nun eatin that hot dog. Right over there.

They watched her as pilgrims behold miracles. A spot of mustard peeked out, to be daubed away with a skillful twitch of her napkin. The sausage slowly vanished and they were somewhere else when her eyes went mad and she began to choke. A bite too daintily handled had gone astray and she clutched her throat. Turning colors.

Clotiel sprung up from his chair and ran across to her, yanking up the back of her habit and pulling down her panties, then licking her straight up the butt-crack. She stood up straight as a pool-cue, spit out the clog and slapped the shit out of Clotiel, then clicked off across the mall.

Clotiel sat back down and glanced at Placide, doing the eyebrow thing. I call dat de hind-lick maneuver.


Night City: The Short Fiction of James LaFond: 2015-16

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