Ezra

I do everything Ezra says. That goes without saying. Even though he’s nine. And has no face. Or ears or anything on his head at all. He was born with just a smooth dome atop his shoulders. Except for a lipless slit which don’t speak per se, but he pops a straw into it to suck down beef broth or Aunt Mabel’s okra compote, a nutritious slurry she’d whip up Sunday’s after churching was done. 

It was Tuesday and Frasier was on and Ezra was skulking in his alcove when a thought popped into my head. I stood and shut the TV.

Aunt Mabel was one of those snake people.

This wasn’t my idea, of course, but Ezra’s. He thought this about a lot of folks. Like Reverend Kaye, Deacon Jim, and a good deal of the congregation. But Ezra isn’t right about everything. He thought Miss Mittens was one of those special swimming cats. She weren’t. But he was pretty sure about this. We were under invasion.

Aunt Mabel was snoring on the couch, slid down on the plastic slip cover, dentures askew. She must be one of them. Fake teeth. Wig. Not to mention the caked rouge and blue eye shadow. All of it. She was hiding something.

I fetched Earl’s tools. I wasn’t supposed to touch’em but this was an emergency. After all, he’d left us in the care of a reptile while he was off carousing with that waitress from Zeb’s. Fake tits. Another snake no doubt. But we had to deal with our own house first. We had to be sure. 

I snatched up a utility blade and a paint scraper. According to Ezra the only way to be sure was to peel back the face and see.

Long story short. He was wrong. Again.

ZeroFlash