From: Kip Carlson #14: A Deep, Dark Itch, aka The Preparation H Caper
Chapter 12: Deep in a Lick o’ Trouble

When I came to in the Atlanta morgue, I immediately realized two things. One, passing gas in a morgue drawer was not a good idea and, two, like a leaky tube of KY jelly, Rex Barlowe had once again given me the slip. Nonplussed, I got myself out of the drawer and breathed deeply of my surroundings. Never before had I so enjoyed the cadaver-tinged air of the morgue. However, my pleasure was short-lived when I realized that I was naked. Rex had been a crafty one. Knowing my fear of public nudity, he had taken my clothes and arranged the bodies so that they could stare at me with their unblinking eyes. And so, like that time in Miami when Marie Indigo drove me to the pier and forced me to disrobe at gunpoint (see #10: The Case of the Cuban Cutie), another nightmare had come true.

In spite of my involuntary bashfulness, I was able to keep my wits and discover the two clues left in the room with me. The first was found on the toe tag. Ignoring the note that the cause of death was carnivorous herpes, I noticed that the toe tag was not the standard issue for the Atlanta morgue (see #5: Southern Fried Gumshoe). Instead, this toe tag had come from the Natchitotches Toe Tag Factory in Natchitotches, Louisiana. Second, one of the bodies was wearing a John Deere cap, denim overalls and hip waders, not the typical urban fare that was usually seen in Atlanta. No, this body spoke Creole, I could almost smell the okra on his breath. It was time to go south, deep south, into bayou country.

Rex’s half sister, Rita DeRita, had married into a Cajun family some years ago, and, although Rex and his sister never quite got along, family was still family, even for Rex Barlowe. Dusting off my patois, I arrived in-country hot on his trail. It was easy, almost too easy. Posing as Quebecois freelance writer, Pierre Lapin, I hitched a ride into the bayou with some good, old boys. Tonight, one of the local pentecostals was throwing a nocturnal jubilee complete with torches, firewater, and spicy, Cajun dishes called Bella, Micheline and Honeysuckle. Bouncing around in the back of their late-80s F-150, me and the boys passed the grain, spat the chaw and prophesied on tonight’s carnal exploits. For a little while, I let my guard down and revelled in their easygoing, earthy ways.

After two bouncy, hazy-grained hours, we arrived with the celebration in full swing. The air was filled with fiddle and accordian music; the light from numerous bonfires flickered lustfully among the trees and teased the makeshift love shacks standing along the periphery. Revellers danced and gyrated in wild abandon. The air was alive with anticipation.

I, too, succumbed to the heady atmosphere, though it was not due to the overripe, sweat-glistened, t-shirted nymphs who pranced about at will. No, Rex was here. I could feel it, and I knew that he knew that I knew that he knew.

Jumping manfully from the truck’s bed, I had begun my cursory inspection when a gape-jawed local put his arm around me and shepherded me to some nearby shadows. Expecting to be waylaid, I was surprised to have a toad pressed into my chest. “G’on”, he slurred.

Squinting into the shadows, I saw a trio of Cajuns, all with toads in hand, pull the amphibians to their faces and lick them. Understanding bloomed like algae in a tepid pond in August when it’s really, really hot out. I’d done this once before and the effects were not altogether unpleasant, or uncontrollable, so I indulged, lest I appear inhospitable. When I finished tongue-grooming the little bugger, a second toad was pressed into my hands, like yet another beer among friends.

It was at this moment that the effects of the first toad hit home. I stood there, holding the second toad, looking it in the eyes and trying to stand firm on the suddenly shifting ground. The toad blinked once and said, “Well, are you gonna lick me or not? I’m not getting any younger you know!”

“Bunny?” I asked aloud, making a reference to my second wife. “I told you that using cut-rate plastic surgeons was going to catch up to you one day.”

The toad blinked twice in response, before issuing a belchy, “Rrreeex!”, peeing on my hands and hopping out of my grasp.

It was then that the ground caved in under my feet and the world spun like sitting on an impossibly large top and staring straight up with kaleidoscope eyes. I knew then that Bunny’s predecessor had been named Mickey. As in Mickey Finn. I’d been given a laced toad.

The following moments were a bouncing, driving blur of sweaty breasts and bearded faces. I hoped, deep down, that there were separate bodies involved. In my lustful confusion, I pitched forward to kiss the one and got the other by mistake. A hammy fist to my temple ended my notions and my memories for the remainder of the drive.

I came to in a Monroe, LA Toys ‘R’ Us, naked, in a pile of assorted stuffed animals. My sweat-soaked body was covered with an iridescent haphazard fur. My tongue looked like it had cunnilingualled a rainbow, while the rest of me felt like I had been worked on by an angry taxidermist who only occasionally trimmed his fingernails. ‘Stuffed’ seemed to be the short, apt description of my predicament. As I surveyed my latest pickle, Papa Smurf winked at me. I flipped him off. Dirty, little blue bugger…