Wayfaring Writer

Driven by a violent desire to write.

French Fried Fun (Short Story)

Wow! It’s been awhile since I last posted. I’m looking forward to posting more regularly, and I hope you are too.

Sometimes I get stuck trying to think of an idea for a story. So I hit the internet and look for pictures to give me ideas. The picture below inspired the following story. Hope you like it!

French Fried Fun

How I get myself into situations like these I will never truly understand.

I lay on my back in thick Louisiana mud with a foot long branch sticking from my chest while some returned from the dead voodoo priest in the form of an eight foot tall swamp tree cackled menacingly. He was holding Sajaa up by her throat with his considerable strength and giving his super villain monologue.

Remy Francois Lebeau, besides holding the title for the most French name ever, was burned alive in the 1800s for witchcraft, but it didn’t stick. Now he was back and abducting descendants of the families who were responsible for his death. Sajaa and I were hired to find the children and kill the maniac.

Well, Sajaa was hired, I’m a subcontractor. As a general rule I usually stay far away from anything involving ghosts, demons, or anything you can’t give a good solid smack. But Sajaa batted her eyelashes at me and waved a lot of much-needed money in my face to convince me. Plus there were children involved, and I don’t like it when the dark things in the night mess with kids.

Looking up I saw Sajaa was in real trouble. Her face was turning an unattractive shade of blue and her movements were sluggish and weak.

“-will pay for all their transgressions against me, and I shall rise from the swamps with an army-” Remy droned on not really paying attention to the fact that his main audience was about to pass out. Nor was he paying attention to me, which was a little insulting.

“Hey you French fried frog!” I shouted. He turned, and I threw a handful of industrial plant killer into his face. Remy screamed, dropping Sajaa into the mud, and grabbed his burning eyes. As he screamed his back arched backwards to a painfully unnatural degree and his cries sounded like wood grinding together in a hurricane.

Sajaa moved quickly, slapping a black, gooey ball to Remy’s back. He turned and swatted blindly at her, but she was already out of his reach. While his back was turned I stuck another glob to his leg. When he swung towards me I backed out of his reach and threw another handful of plant killer in his eyes.

Remy renewed his screaming while Sajaa and I kept turning him around and around, sticking over a dozen gooey balls on various parts of his body, and retreated to a safe distance. Remy cleared his eyes and pointed a long, knobby finger at us.

“Your blood will feed the roots of this swamp!” he rasped at us.

I held up the remote detonator with a smirk and waggled it at him. “Sorry Remy, maybe you’ll be able to put yourself together after another two hundred years.” The voodoo priest looked down at the dozen or so sticky bombs of Semtex plastered to his body. Semtex wasn’t exactly cheap but I had “found” a bunch of it during one of my other gigs. Fear and anger warred over the tree priest’s features as he roared and charged us.

We ducked behind a fallen tree and I pressed the button.

Each of our sticky bombs had only a quarter pound of explosives in it, but with the dozen we stuck to him it was more than enough to punch his ticket. The whump of the explosion shook the woods and made waves in the muddy wter. Shards of wood whirled by us and peppered the clearing in the swamp. We came out from behind our cover and all that was left of Remy Francois Lebeau was splinters and a small, smoldering stump. I poured gasoline and salt over it and set him on fire again. Just to be sure.

Meanwhile, Sajaa was busy hacking at the wooden cage where the children were being held. They were all a little dirty and a lot scared but in seemingly good health. We began our walk back to the little town they all called home.

One of the older girls was leading the way back, while Sajaa and I brought up the rear in case there were any more baddies in the woods.

“Nicely done Sage. You’re pretty good for a girl.” I complimented. She rolled her eyes, “Misogynist, you know I hate that name.” I nodded, “I know, that’s why I keep using it. I want my cut as soon as we get to the city, I’m flying out tonight.”

She snorted, “Is it only about the money for you?”

I looked over the dirty, frightened faces of the children around us and replied, “No, not always.”

About Luke Geldmacher

I grew living on an island in the middle of the Chesapeake Bay in Maryland. Currently, I live in a 40 acre farm in Cookville, TX. I sometime write about life issues, but my passion is sci-fi and fantasy storytelling.

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