When somebody opens up a conversation with the words “This weekend I thought we’d go to this seafood restaurant that used to be a brothel” One’s first reaction is “Allll right. I can go for that. How long ago is “used to be”?”
When that somebody happens to be your grandmother (the same one married to a preacher) one’s reaction falls along the lines of “Granny do you know what a brothel is and what they normally serve there?” To this she added, “Back in civil war and yes I know it used to be a place where ladies of the night conducted business, but they have great catfish”
So there we were, down to see the GP’s for Easter Weekend with Broccoli and Brookli in tow and somehow wound up in the classic setup to every backwoods horror movie ever made ala “From Dusk Till Dawn”. Tucked away underneath a bridge and just a few feet away from the muddy banks of some unknown river, lies every brother- that-ever-married-their-sister’s dream of fine dinning aka Ezels (apparently that’s French for lady of the night). From the looks of the place and the constant remarks being made by Granny as she pointed to what used to be top floor suites, I pretty much had my mind set on what I was going to find once I crossed the crooked threshold. Instead what I found was worse.
How worse? A squirrel’s face glued to the butt of a stuffed deer worse. Now I should probably end this here and let you think about that last sentence overnight (not that I would blame you for not wanting to), but the story demands to be told.
I’ll say it again; a squirrel’s face had been cut off and glued to the butt of a stuffed deer. Like some scientific experiment gone awry from the Island Of Dr. Moreau, Broccoli was so shocked by it’s presence he just had to know what was literally staring him in the face thus making him forget all about the catfish he had been promised.
So as I was saying; there we were Lucy, Granny, Broccoli, Brookli, Fred, and myself all making direct contact with each other so as not to be grossed out by the table clothes that had not been changed since confederate soldiers once marched in looking for companionship (the place probably smelled the same). All the while feeling the eyes of at least 30 stuffed animal heads (deer, hogs, fish, that squirrel deer thing…a squireer…) staring us down as we attempted to keep the conversation up so as not to hear the sounds of Ned Beatty squealing like a pig somewhere in the not so distant background.
It was during these first few moments of the meal that Fred decided to throw a tantrum…little did we know his cries would make our existence known to something more frightening than a squireer. Suddenly as I sat there calming Fred down (nobody likes to be scolded) everyone at the table looked up in terror at something just to the left of me. As I peered over my shoulder wondering what could possibly make that many eyes bug out at the same time (other than possibly the squireer walking up to take our drink order) I saw none other than:
That’s right!! The story of the witch that tempted Snow White is true except she offers her prey greasy hushpuppies instead of juicy apples. With a crooked finger and the look of the completely insane she whispered “What’s wrong little boy?”
Being the brave father that I am I quickly switched the baby to my other shoulder thus blocking him from any ancient dwarfing curse that could be cast upon him and begged the witch to leave us alone….we just wanted some catfish and were not there to anger the ghost of prostitution past. With that our food was served, the squireer was commanded to haunt my every sleep, and we ran out of there before it got dark and the hillbilly hookers showed up for third shift.