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A moratorium was now placed on church potlucks.
The last one caused a flash fire when the Barbecue Pit exploded, sending
miscellaneous pork bits and ribs, along with Bob’s Secret Ingredient
(lots of whiskey) flaming sauce, flying over to Old Miz Guthrie’s tiny old house.
Old Miz Guthrie heard screaming coming her way,
and then smelled the barbeque fire on her roof.
“Oh, Lordy, Lordy! My house ‘s
afire!” As fast as a squirrel on
a live wire, she scampered out the door, wringing her hands while the fire
department extinguished the barbecue flickers of flame.
No damage done, Old Miz Guthrie thanked everyone,
shushing them away, and hurried back inside.
Looking around at her immaculate, nicely decorated home, she
raced down the steps to her basement, which was packed with fire-proof chests of
gold coins, jewelry (oh, how she love nice jewelry), and packs of one-hundred bills.
Unbeknownst to the community, Old Miz Guthrie was
quite a spendthrift made possible by her late husband’s last bank
robbery in 1955 in Chicago. I better get outta this town.
The next day her brother Raffert showed up at
night with a big van and they moved everything from the basement during the big
school dance. Just before she closed the
front door, Old Miz Guthrie turned the cooker on high, with bright flames crawling
to a dishtowel.
The town mourned for her. Damned BBQ sauce.
This is a Wed. Words from 2015, and it was different. I hope you can enjoy. It was created by Delores, who has given up computers, River has taken up the slack, but might like to have someone else to share this. Are that person??
