It’s okay to get ahead of the story so long as the story doesn’t get ahead of you
THEIR AUDIENCE PACKED the auditorium, an auditorium with a seating capacity of 200 with even more women filling in the aisles to meet the demand for tickets. More than 200 screaming women, teenaged women, even a few pre-teens dressed in t-shirts that read: “Stay Sexy and Don’t Get Murdered,” “Stay Sexy and Do God’s Mission,” and even “Lock the Fucking Door” t-shirts. Even the toddler on her mother’s knee in the front row wore an SSDGM hoodie, admittedly one six sizes too large, since they didn’t sell an infant size.
Karen and Georgia had been nervous about the live My Favorite Murder show. They were performing in Texas, after all, and not even a comparatively civilized city like Austin, but Butte Fork, population 537, with a church on every corner and a gun shop across every street. Besides the crowd of women waiting outside the historic Howard J. Pecherhead Theater,1 a larger crowd of men stood across the street with protest signs: Karen and Georgia’s photos with the words “My Favorite Murder Victims” scribbled across their faces; their photos with gun sights drawn across them; “A women’s place is in the home. Not on stage!” (sic); “Jesus Loves MSM but their still going to HELL” (also sic).
Karen and Georgia had been nervous about the live My Favorite Murder show. They were performing in Butte Fork, Texas, population 537, with a church on every corner and a gun shop across every street.
The opening show (metaphorically) literally killed with Karen covering the case of Jennifer Lynne Faith, who hired her boyfriend to kill her husband, and Georgia the case of Clara Ledward who — Mexican police shot while she fled she murdering her husband. The highlight, however, was the hometown murder, which involved the case of John Doe, a vagrant murdered outside the stage entrance of Pecherhead Theater. A case police have yet to solve.
When Georgia said, “That’s amazing. I googled Butte Forke looking for famous murders, or any murders, and couldn’t find any.”
Lily May Roundcheeks, who’d told the story, informed her, “That’s because they haven’t found the body yet.” At that moment, two policemen appeared at the back of the theater. “Or maybe they have.”
Karen leaned toward Georgia and whispered, “Why do I have the feeling they’re canceling the second show?”
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Named after the town founder, a slave and brothel owner, who financed the Confederacy without picking up a gun himself. No one spoke of his five wives who, reportedly, ran away with grifters and were never heard from again.
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