Down 'N' Derby Read Online Free Page A

“Yeah, any more questions?” I knew I was being an ass again but my head still pounded and Mr. Inquisitive wasn’t helping.
                  “So, that’s when your caterpillar thing started?”
                  “I swear if you make a reference to me becoming a butterfly, I’m going to murder you and leave you here with no good sweet tea for miles—and no ketchup.”
              That got him rolling.  “No, like a stinging caterpillar-you can pick them up but if you touch them the wrong way their stingers come out.”
                  “Yeah, it started a little after that.” 
                  “One more question and then I’ve got to stop somewhere for breakfast.”
                  “We’ve only been on the road for twenty minutes, Hog.”
                  “I know but I’m a growin’ boy.”
                  “Just ask the damned question already.” I snapped at him.  What I needed right now was a steaming bowl of grits and four pain killers for the screwdriver twisting in my eye.
                  “You’re always with girls.  Like all the time—different ones.  Don’t you get twitchy or whatever?” He pulled off the highway onto an exit ramp that looked promising for breakfast.
                  “Yeah, every single time.”
                  True to his word he didn’t ask any more questions but as we sat down to get breakfast at a truck stop I remembered that we weren’t in the South anymore.  But I waited patiently for Nixon to say something.  I could just see it brewing ready to pour me a big cup of Southern boy criticism.
                  “Who in the name of all that’s holy eats potatoes au gratin and cornmeal mush for breakfast?  And why would I ever want a slice of cheese with my apple pie?  Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Mad, you have brought us to Yankeeville.”
                  I couldn’t do anything but crack up at him, especially since his Cajun accent got a little thicker as he picked through the Northern breakfast fare. But what really cracked his canister is when the waitress walked up to the table and asked, “What can I get you guys?”
                  At the words, ‘you guys’ Nixon simply closed his eyes and bit the insides of his cheeks.  I told her we needed a minute and she said, “Let me know when you’re ready, eh?”
                  He finally opened his eyes and asked me if he thought he’d be safe with pancakes and bacon.  We decided we would be safe and we both ordered that.  We paid the ticket and got back on the road. 
                  “If I trusted that place I would’ve ordered a sweet tea to go but dayum.”
                  “Shut up and quit moanin’.  Let’s get ourselves to Omaha.”
                  I drove the rest of the way to Omaha and then Nixon used the GPS on his phone to get us to the teensy powder blue house with aluminum shutters and a screen door whose screen was more of an opened envelope, pulled back at one corner.  We parked across the street in case we needed a quick getaway. I knew there was a good chance he wouldn’t be here, mostly because this had been listed as his residence three years ago but it was the closest one to Louisiana. 
                  We sat there for at least thirty minutes like two rent-a-cops before Nixon cleared his throat and turned to me, “He can’t eat you.”
                  “I know that.  I’m going.”
                  Everything suddenly became louder.  The handle on the car door flopped back into place, the creak of the hinge as it opened, Nixon pushing the eject button on the CD player, it was all so freakin’ loud.  I stepped out onto the road and was met with a honking horn and had to step back to avoid the incoming car.  And of course