“How hard do you think I’d have to pull to tear that skank’s weave out?” Chastity cooed evilly as she watched Prudence Du Pree take the runway for the evening gown part of the competition.

“Thinking of changing up your talent routine? I’m sure the judges would love to see you and Miss Plastic Tits get all entangled for their pleasure, if you know what I mean.” Said the girl that was checking Chastity’s dress for any errant strings or fluff.

“Chardonnay, you’re disgusting.”

“Can’t help it if I learned what you taught me,” she smirked. “Now get ready to walk. You’re up next.”

Prudence Du Pree swept back into the wings of the theatre, like some kind of vision of whipped pink sugar, glitter, rhinestones and butterfly wings. All the girls ooh’d and aah’d, congratulating her on looking so radiant.

Chardonnay and Chastity were the most complimentary of all.

Chastity took her mark, and waited for the announcer to call her name. “I’m going to leave that slut in a shallow grave, you just watch.”

“I’ll bring the shovel. Now go win this. You deserve to be Miss Memphis Princess.” Chardonnay whispered back as Chastity took to the runway.

Memphis Note
The Miss Memphis Princess pageant is the local preliminary to the Miss America pageant. It awards the girls with scholarship money and strives to teach them to values that will better the community. And, for the life of me, is something I’ll never not be creeped out by or have to make fun of.

Physically, there was nothing to her. No tits, no ass, no hips, nothing for men to notice, just a tiny skeleton with some over-tanned skin pulled tight across it.

Which pissed them off even more every time they lost to her.

In competition circles, they called her “Slow Roasted Sally”, partly because that’s the only way she cooked meat, and partly because her refusal to ever wear any kind of sunblock had left her with permanently florid skin.

“If I don’t rub sauce all over my ribs while they cook, then why the hell would I do it to me?” Was her regular retort to that question.

Sally was a force to be reckoned with in barbecue cooking competitions. She had a room full of trophies taller than she was, and a smoker that was custom built to her – closely guarded – specifications.

She cooked dry and slow, traditional Memphis-style. Which sometimes didn’t always impress the judges in those other “heathen” places.

“Cooking styles and local preferences and all the rest of that is just bunk. Good barbecue is just good barbecue.”

Then she’d always be quick to add, “Ain’t my fault if mine’s just better than everyone else’s.”

Memphis Note
Barbecue competitions are a lot like gang wars – certain groups from certain places are just never going to get along. Which is why there are a half dozen competitions claiming to offer the true “World Champion” title, because there’s no way that Texas brisket judges would ever admit that Memphis dry-rub ribs are better, or that a North Carolina judge could ever cop to liking a sweet Kansas sauce instead of his local mustard sauces. Barbecue is a crazy thing, man.

Life and Death sat across from each other at a table in the main showroom of a dingy Holiday Inn near the airport. Around them a throng of nerds drifted between board, card and roleplaying games. Memphis GameCon was in full swing.

“I find it remarkable that even after all the times I’ve excoriated you for not taking our divine task seriously, you still insist in making light of it,” Life said humorlessly.

“Aw, c’mon man. Don’t be like that.” Death leaned back in his chair, smirking. “This is awesome!”

Life harrumphed.

“That whole chess game shtick is old news.” Death waved dismissively. “Just be glad I didn’t pick an iPhone game. You’d really be screwed then.”

It was true, Life hadn’t taken to modern technology as easily as death Death. He gave in with a sigh. “Terms?”

“The usual. You win, people live. I win, people die.”

“The method?”

“I dunno know. It’s the South in the Spring. Was thinking a good storm, tornadoes, maybe even hail. Maybe throw in a flood if I beat you really badly.”

“And the game?”

“That’s the best part, man! They’ve got all the games you’d ever want. I’ll even let you pick.”

Memphis Note
Memphis GameCon is a convention for gaming enthusiasts of all kinds held in the fall of every year. The best part of it is the wall of games they’ve cobbled together. They let con attendees come and check the games out like a library, so you can play whatever you want. Forget the bizarre panels on LARPing, go just so you can play out of print games.

It’s just the two of us, standing on the stage, bathed in light, mics in hand, cords dropping down, trailing away into the darkness. Many have stood in our place, and all have fallen away. Our eyes lock, we’re all that stand between each other and the prize.

Warriors. Poets. Musicians.

In this moment the two of us are these things and more.

The beat kicks in and my whole state of being transforms, transcends.

My mind is a machine gun and I slip the safety off. My mouth becomes the barrel, hard, belching flame, never closing. My words the rounds, chambering, firing, reloading. It is all reflex, done without my conscious control.

The assault is furious, unrelenting. It is the story of my life, in my words, what else could it possibly be? The truth pulls no punches, and no one can stand before it.

My piece said, I shift back to my other self. My words are no longer weapons, I am again at peace.

And for a moment, there is nothing but silence.

Then a thud as his mic drops to the stage floor and his light goes out. He can’t even reply.

I stand alone. Triumphant.

Memphis Note
I wrote this at the Memphis Music Launch that’s going on right now. 48 hours to go from nothing to a band with a concept and a plan. It’s like standing at the heart of a storm of creativity. It is beautiful.

Connie couldn’t watch, it was too much for her. She knew it was rude, but she turned her back on them when they came for her, waving her hand, motioning for them to go ahead and start.

Turned away, she heard them pick up the plates and start to eat. She glanced anxiously around the room, looking every where but at the judges. Cold, mean eyes stared back at her. The other contestants knew her double chocolate banana raspberry truffle nut bars were the best thing going. One of the contestants made a threatening gesture at Connie.

Panic rose in her throat. Had she ever walked away from her station? God only knows what those other women might’ve done to her precious batter when she wasn’t looking. They were like pit vipers, only worse. Pit vipers didn’t poison their own, and she knew the other contestants sure as hell would if it meant a better shot at that first place ribbon.

The sounds of chewing ceased, and she could hear the scratch of pens on score cards. She turned around, the judges nodded and she looked down. They’d eaten all of the bars. The ribbon was as good as hers.

Memphis Note
Every year at the Mid-South Fair, there are a myriad of cooking contests. Some constrain the cooks by only letting them use specific ingredients, some are open to anything. I’ve always wondered how cutthroat they got.