We were gathered on the porch of the Bailey Savings and Loan (Howell Realty) on Friday night of the Watermelon Carnial, enjoying the night and a smooth drink, when Paul and his golfing friends showed up to join us.
The night was perfect with thousands of people in the park and everyone having a great time and I was glad to see some old friends in Paul's group. Stuart Allen and Terry Cutrere.
The music at the Street Dance was heating up, the Tiki lamps around the office were lit and people were slowly heading over to visit when Stuart and Terry decided to go over and check out the street dance. I knew it was probably a mistake as I watched them go and then figured I had better go over and keep an eye on those helpless fools.
The music was rocking as Stuart and Terry walked right out in the middle of the dancers sipping their drinks and tapping their feet to the music. The were completely oblivious to the danger around them.
The girls from the Slaughterhouse crowded on side of the street, wearing their bloody white aprons over their dark green uniforms. Each had a butcher knife on a chain dangling from their waist and
was sipping from a Mason jar.
Across the street, the girls from the Sawmill, wearing overhauls, big black boots and also drinking moonshine glared across at the other side. Each of them had a big hammer and a long trim knife at their side.
It was a disaster in the making when Bertha Stone waddled over to Stuart, offered him a chaw of Tobacco and told him she wanted to dance. He graciously declined.
She grabbed him by the lapels with her sausage size fingers and said "I told you I want to dance" and laid her knife across his chest. Off they went. Terry stood there open mouthed a moment too long when Eloise Turdlow from the Slaughterhouse grabbed him and started to dance with a butcher knife laid on his shoulder. Several of them looked at me but I hid behind a little blue haired Grandma doing the Twist and managed to get away.
It was a race after that, the girls wanted to dance and Stuart and Terry could not escape. When one of the muscle bound Sawmill girls stopped, a big Slaughterhouse girl had her butcher knife out waiting to dance. Moonshine flowed as these girls glared at each other and stomped to the music. I left them to their fate.
Several hours later I saw them staggering over to my office. Drunk on moonshine, their clothes ripped and torn, bleeding in several places and a shell-shocked grimace of fear on their faces.
They disappeared soon after, I hope they had a good time.