The summer of the Ninth Ward Strangler, I worked Gig’s Frog Stand on East Pontchartrain dishing deep fried legs to hungry tourists lurching between bars. We made a killing that year, but not on crispy amphib snacks.
Like clockwork, the Strangler struck every weekend. By the six or seventh killing, the media had a field-day. So did everyone with a murderous grudge. On Strangler Saturday folks expected folks to turn up missing.
Me and Gig went frogging at Bayou Tete Saturdays anyway, so for a couple thousand bucks, we didn’t mind hauling the corpse of some poor sap that crossed the local mob.
That was until we added a second stand on West Pontchartrain—territory of both the Strangler and the mob’s gator-bites food-truck. Long story short I got gagged, Gig got bagged and we both got dumped in Bayou Tete last Saturday. And some idiot made four-grand on it.
Like clockwork, the Strangler struck every weekend. By the six or seventh killing, the media had a field-day. So did everyone with a murderous grudge. On Strangler Saturday folks expected folks to turn up missing.
Me and Gig went frogging at Bayou Tete Saturdays anyway, so for a couple thousand bucks, we didn’t mind hauling the corpse of some poor sap that crossed the local mob.
That was until we added a second stand on West Pontchartrain—territory of both the Strangler and the mob’s gator-bites food-truck. Long story short I got gagged, Gig got bagged and we both got dumped in Bayou Tete last Saturday. And some idiot made four-grand on it.
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