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January 27, 2013 / Andee Frizzell

The Journey Begins

chickenMy boyfriend at the time, Spencer and I were driving from Miami, across the southern states to New Orleans to meet my parents for a week. We rented a sporty little convertible and were making our way across Georgia, Alabama into Louisiana when we stopped for gas at a Bob’s Gaterbait and Gas.

It was really late at night; Spencer had been driving for about six hours and felt the need to stretch his legs. As he walked, hobbled around the vehicle trying desperately to get the muscle kink out of his right butt cheek, I headed in to the gas station to pay for our gas.

The cashier was a cantankerous old swamp veteran that had no time for idle chitchat with a foreigner. He stood about five feet tall behind a few feet of plexiglass that had a microphone on a metal tentacle and a sliding drawer where you would hand over the money. I’m Canadian, this kind of Pope mobile bulletproof service station was like nothing I had ever seen before.

Attached to the service station there was a fried chicken outlet. Directly behind me stood two huge, metal swinging doors that served as a barrier between me and the chicken massacre that was happening on the other side. I could hear a whole lotta squawking and then BANG, end of squawking.

As I was being schooled on the instructions of proper sliding drawer etiquette, the phone behind the glass rang. The old timer answered without any word of greeting. As if the caller could see through the phone, the old man nodded his head in agreement to whatever was being discussed on the other line.

He abruptly hung up, again without acknowledgement and reached for the microphone. “Bubba!” he croaked, “BUBBA!”

Suddenly from behind me the metal doors swung open and the largest mountain of moving man flesh stepped forward from the deep dark bowls of the killing room. He must have been 7 feet tall, carrying about 400 hundred pounds and had more chins then well…a Chinese phone book  To make the picture grotesque, he had on an apron that was covered in dripping blood. He came out wiping the blade of an axe on the sleeve of his shirt.

“Bubba, you have a collect call from jail.” Spat out the old man. “It’s your wife.”

Every fireside tale starts with a journey and I am posting this on the eve before my road trip across Canada begins. I’m driving from Vancouver to Toronto, alone, in the winter. I’ll keep you posted…..


One Comment

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  1. Patricia Stewart-BertrandPatricia / Jan 27 2013 6:22 pm

    LOL! Well, you won’t run into any Bubba’s but you might find a Jacques or two. Be careful with black ice. We don’t want to lose our favourite Wraith Queen. 😉

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