Moonpie McGee

Phyllis waddled down the counter of the Waffle House to pour coffee for a long-haul trucker. Her mouth's autopilot engaged, asking the road-weary driver if he wanted his hashbrowns scattered, covered, smothered, topped, chunked and/or diced even as her eyes followed the latest arrival. Two priests fought the stiff front door for entry, one abnormally tall and unusually thin, the other short and stocky. They cast their eyes about the restaurant either looking for an empty table (plenty of those) or a potential threat.

Short n' Stocky held up his left index finger and closed his eyes. The finger wagged slowly back and forth as if he were scolding a child in Super Slo-mo. His whole forearm began to pendulum back and forth at the elbow. Then his arm stopped with a jerk almost as soon as it began. The finger pointed left and the strange duo followed it.

After answering a chorus of, "Welcome to the Waffle House!" with absent-minded waves they plopped down across from each other in a booth and stared at nothing in particular.

Tall n' Thin said, "So, do you think he’s legit?"

Shorty hoped so though he didn't say this out loud. He regarded the menu dubiously and said, “All good things in their own time. The Dogon peoples of West Africa were fond of saying that if you wanted to catch a lion you should follow the gazelle. Ergo, if you want to catch a redneck...ah, there he is now.”

A man appeared at the door and was immediately bathed in a chorus of Waffle House welcomes. He looked right then left. His eyes were obscured behind the reflective lenses of a patrolman's sunglasses, but Shorty could tell that the newcomer's gaze had locked on to them like heat seeking missiles. The top of the man's half-mesh trucker cap crested the 6'2" mark on the door used by the employees to gauge a robber's height. The cap was blue mesh with a yellow front sporting a Largemouth Bass, and blond hair jutted from underneath like hay. A reddish goatee framed his mouth in which a toothpick twitched as with a pulse of its own. He wore faded blue bib overalls over a short-sleeved white t-shirt. Shorty saw one blue-ink tattoo on each muscular bicep. One said "Baby" and the other said "Hey". Tucked underneath his arm was a folded newspaper.

The diminutive priest invited the bumpkin to sit down and said, "My name is Larry O'Donnell and my tall friend is Eugene Heynecker. Glad you found us. What can we do for you?"

The man did not answer right away. He grabbed a chair from the kitchen-side bar, pulled it across to their booth and sat backwards in it with his forearms propped casually on the table. The hayseed regarded them both in turn while the toothpick twitched up and down between his teeth. Just as the silence began to edge into the red zone meter of uncomfortable the man leaned back and opened the newspaper with a flourish. He flipped through the paper purposefully as a man who seemed wholly familiar with the medium and knew where he wanted to go. He folded the paper back on its spine, folded it in half again and flopped it down in front of him with a satisfied grunt. He raised his right hand high into the air and jabbed the index finger down on the bottom left of the page with enough force to rattle the flatware.

He began to read haltingly out loud in a voice full of luxurious southern twang, "Careful planning is the best policy for now. Local matters become more intense. Extra work this afternoon could have you getting home late. Learn to be more practical when it comes to your personal abilities. This evening you may feel more intuitive than usual. You may find yourself in matters of importance."

Larry the Short blinked several times and waited for the punch line. This hayseed had contacted them (as the Bishop predicted) for a meeting that would “shew unto ye the variform evil in thy midst”. Larry’s orders had been specific. Find out what he knows and who he’s told. Then ‘negotiate’.

Larry’s eyes drifted to the yokel’s truck as he began to speak. "Perhaps if you told us the nature of your distress we could provide concise guidance. Does this have anything to do with the girl outside?"

Hayseed looked left, the toothpick ticking with the rhythm of a metronome, and regarded the woman outside. She was petite with brown hair and pushing fifty. She wore a long, white dress with matching sandwich board that read, on the front, "The End is Nigh! Ezekyul 1:16." She said nothing as she paced slowly around the country boy's white, battered Ford F-150. When she turned, they saw the back of the sign, "Repent ye for the time of harvist is upon you! Genusis 5:24."

"I allow as how she has a point, but she hain't with me. Anyways, you hain't heard a thing I done said. Do you'uns know what I do fer a livin'?" Hayseed sat back and produced a corn-cob pipe and pouch of Captain Black tobacco while the ministers shared an uncomfortable glance. He filled the pipe and tamped the moist tobacco down as he deftly produced a wooden match. He tucked the toothpick behind his ear for later. The hillbilly struck the head of the match with his thumbnail and touched it to the bowl of the pipe, sucking thoughtfully while the tobacco sizzled. "Reckon not then. My name is William McGee, head of Alien Abduction Recovery, Ink. Call me Moonpie."

For the space of five seconds everyone at the table was silent. Moonpie returned his attention back to the horoscopes as if he were studying for a final exam. Larry rested his forearms on the table drummed his fingertips together nervously. Had the Bishop been mistaken?

Phyllis floated over in a cloud of cheap perfume. Moonpie quietly dropped the aviator's glasses down the bridge of his nose with his left hand. His eyes were a pale, smoky blue. He tensed for a moment then relaxed when she asked what they wanted to eat. "Bacon-double-quarter-cheese-double plate, hashbrowns in the rang n' keep them 'maters to yerself." The priests declined.

"Alright, then. I’ll go first." He took a sip of heavily chlorinated water from the clear, pebbled-plastic glass and began his tale.

"Close to three yar gone me'n mah cousin Lynrd wuz sittin' on the tailgate of mah truck sippin' on some Wild Turkey n' speculatin' on the finer things. All a sudden-like we wuz bathed in a bright light. Lynrd yelt to me to throw out the bottle on account of him bein' underaged. I wudn't about to do it 'cuz thar wuz still a good quarter-bottle left. I chugged the last of it and tossed the bottle back behind of us.

But I reckon I done it all in vain, 'cuz thar weren't no police. Me n' Lynrd jus' sat thar a minute with our hands in the air like nuthin' wuz goin' on. Right about then I felt a mite woozy on account I had chugged that Wild Turkey. I flopped down in the bed of mah truck. I looked up n' saw that the light was comin' from this big ol' flyin' saucer. All I could see wuz a big circle of blue light about the size of Tallehdega. The circle spun so fast that mah eyes crossed n' I blacked out.

When I come to it was mornin' and Lynrd wuz gone. I had what ya call amnesia 'bout ever thing afore that. At first I thought that Lynrd done hitched a ride back home, but then I remembered that UFO hoverin' over us like it done. Then I knew. Lynrd had done been abducted by aliens!"

Larry put up a hand, "Okay, Sir. Help us out here. What I hear you saying is that your friend has been abducted by aliens."

"Yep, I allow as how you have most of it," said McGee.

"Well,” Larry continued, "we’re not scientists but, while we do deal with other-worldly concerns, I'm not sure if we can help. We'd be happy to go out to this place with you and see what we can see." What does he know? Who else knows? Manage it.

"Ya'll don't seem to unnerstand. I aim to get my cousin back one way or t'other. Tha's why ah went down to the junior college n' got me an on-line degree in Astrology. An' the one thang I done learned is that we is slowly being invaded. They is replacin' us one at a time, bit by bit with they're own demon spawn. They looks hooman, but they isn't no more than ol' Flash my coon-dog."

"That's preposterous!" barked Larry.

McGee regarded him with the same studious gaze, as though discerning a new species of insect. "Fancy words aside, it's the God-honest truth. When I come to after Lynrd was taken, I found out purty quick that I wuzn't the same. I knew on account of how mah senses were all supernat'rul. Ah could see like a hawk, hear a mouse fart sideways and..." Moonpie McGee paused to take a long drink of water. The bizarre bumpkin set the glass down with a satisfied 'ahhh'. "Ah kin smell 'em from thirty feet off!"

The country boy pistoned back from his chair and reached into his overalls with one smooth motion. Before the chair clattered to the floor he had produced a pistol in his left hand and a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun in his right. The pastors' eyes grew wide as they both slid beneath the table, facing out. Larry could only see McGee's legs and nothing else. Moonpie spun around on the balls of his feet. Larry glimpsed the matronly waitress charging toward McGee, butcher knife in hand. The mad hillbilly blew Phyllis out of her sensible shoes. The air filled with shouts and screams. Shot after deafening shot rang out as seconds stretched into a seeming eternity. Some time later, Moonpie said, "Y’all kin come out now."

The priests crawled hesitantly out from under the table, trembling hands raised tentatively over their heads. The smell of grease and gun smoke mingled, an invitation to a macabre buffet. Larry slowly opened his eyes, dreading the sight of blood, fearing he was next. Billy-Bob McGee cracked open the shotgun while drawing leisurely from his pipe. Two empty red shells plinked a hollow rhythm on the floor.

Larry blinked, confusion dominating his brow. He saw no blood anywhere nor bullet-riddled corpses. The plate-glass window was indeed shattered, several plates of food were

scattered here and there, but nothing worse than ketchup streaked the walls. Shafts of light through the window revealed a fine, gray smoke. Phyllis’ brown and yellow uniform was draped across the counter as if she had just remembered an invitation to go skinny dipping, the charred bullet holes steaming. More piles of clothing littered the restaurant. Hamburger patties sizzled along with the cook’s greasy apron and hat.

Moon Pie tucked the loaded shotgun out of sight in his overalls. “Reckon it’s time fer us to git. We got ground to cover.” He moved the corncob pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other and sauntered toward the door.

Eugene and Larry, slack-jawed, looked at each other. Larry shrugged and followed the man. If anything, their mission was now top priority. And he knew better than to argue with an armed man. The hillbilly pushed through first one door then another all the while whistling a jaunty version of ‘Dixie’. He climbed into the beat up Ford truck, pausing only to tip his hat to the sandwich board prophetess of doom. She continued to mouth impassioned and inaudible pleas without breaking stride.