OCR Text |
Show Ferguson Lives Butch and Fenn Stories 19 I step to the operating table which is still stained with blood from the cat and grease from the fish autopsy. He unclasps the three brass fasteners on the violin case and opens it. On the purple velvet inside is what looks like the white belly of another carp, but Butch turns it over, and I see it is Ferguson, his alligator, dead. "Did he die?" "Murder. Fucking murdered by my father." "Who?" Fenn says. "Ferguson." "Ferguson!" Fenn jumps up and puts his head in the case. That's the way it is with Fenn since he gave up his glasses; he puts his head in things. It's just stupid enough that I kind of like it. "My fucking father murdered him yesterday. Came home..." Butch stops, his throat funny. "Came home, took him out of the tub. Threw him. Out in the Studebaker. To bake the shit out of him." I can barely hear Butch's last words, he's run them so low and fast. "Fucking murder!" he yells, kicking an old shovel into the debris. Fenn sits back with his comic. "Don't tell me," he says. "It's new pet time around here. Right? I recommend a bird. Some kind of really large bird. Of course, you've always got Tiny, the crocodile-lizard dog." Butch drops his arms and looks at Fenn who is reading again. |