Mae King, Out at The Kabb Inn


Wayne Michael DeHart   (July, 2021)

Roger Kabb acquired 51% ownership of the Duck Inn & Cabins in Lake Delford, FL, in the summer of 1989, after incessant urging from his live-in companion and business advisor, Madelyn “Mae” King, who took ownership of the remaining 49%, despite the fact that the transaction was fully funded by Roger. The large main building was the  former home to a struggling family-style restaurant flanked by a couple of private dining/meeting rooms sometimes used for weddings and private parties. The rear half of the structure housed the kitchen area and a spacious bar.  (Roger once asked a neighbor what the difference was between a beer joint and an elephant’s fart, and when the guy shrugged his shoulders, Roger said one’s a bar room and the other’s a BAROOOOM! Getting no response, Roger slapped him on the back, saying, “It’s a joke, man, dontcha get it?”)  The main dining room provided a wide entryway into the bar, which also had a separate back entrance. 

A dozen small kitchenette cabins stood quietly aloof in a semi-circle at the rear of the property.

The brick main structure and the wood cabins had sat vacant for almost seven years at the time Mae laid Roger’s money down, but the property had been maintained surprisingly well by Ted & Fred’s Handyman Services, an often unreliable operation run by the unpredictable and unmotivated Myers Brothers. The two slack-offs, monikered by Lake Delfordites as “Shifty” & “Shady “, were somehow able to secure a loan to purchase it on the cheap at auction after Hank Hatter Jr., the former owner and noted kibitzer and gadfly,  died mysteriously and inexplicably from a brutal blend of toxins traced to his butter bowl. The brothers, who had frequented the bar and gone to Vegas twice with Hank shortly before his demise, jumped at the opportunity to cash in on his misfortune with dreams of making a killing on the resale.

A saucy, sassy, stylish Florida State grad, Mae King, 36 at the time and topped with strikingly-scarlet tresses, was intelligent, shrewd, and manipulative in financial and personal affairs. She had discreetly engaged in off-the-wall, off-and-on dalliances with both Ted and Fred Myers, mindless but muscular men of similar age,  before Mae met the much older, semi-sophisticated,  plain-featured, physically stout and financially stouter Roger Kabb. She soon became intrigued by his submissive acquiescence, his passive yet pleasant demeanor, his genuine sincerity and his casual generosity. In the end, he was just a goofy old good guy who made her laugh, frequently and with ease, an accomplishment that other men rarely were able to achieve. (Make no mistake – she had laughed AT many men, but silently and with spite.) Her wish was his command, and the go-along-to-get-along guy, flattered to the max by her attentiveness, responded to her every suggestion, request, and demand with “Roger that”.

It was reported that Fred Myers got off-the-charts drunk on New Year’s Eve, 1988, and drove his ‘84 Dodge Daytona Turbo into an overpass bridge support on I-4 at 84 MPH, just outside of Daytona Beach. A fiery explosion followed and after the flames were extinguished, the charred car and driver were both declared deceased. The remains of the badly-burned body were cremated (Ted negotiated a 50% discount because Fred was already half-baked upon delivery) and his ashes strewn unceremoniously into the sea by his sibling from the end of the Daytona Beach Pier. No services, no eulogy, no tears. When Mae heard about Fred’s inescapable but flashy departure from Handyman Services, she told Ted that Fred would have appreciated the irony of totaling his Daytona after totaling himself IN Daytona. “Too soon for jokes, Mae, too soon. But I sure could use some consoling later tonight, if you can get away from Roger Rabbit.”

Roger Kabb had delighted in purchasing a hard-to-find, low-mileage 1984 VW Alpine white Rabbit Convertible from a barmaid named Binky after seeing a Disney movie not long before Fred’s demise. He thought buying the thing as a weekend getaway car was a hip move for a guy his age (“Just call me Roger Rabbit!”), but Mae considered it a frivolous waste of money and scolded Roger, telling him that such folly was indefensible and beneath his dignity. Later, during one of the occasional aforementioned dalliances Mae indulged in whenever Roger rubbed her the wrong way, she almost split a gut after hearing herself tell Ted that the tacky little car was beneath Roger at the very moment she herself was beneath Ted. Unable to rise to the occasion, his mood shattered by her spontaneous fit of laughter, Ted was confused, clueless and downright offended. Figurative imagery was not his strong suit. “Mae” oui.

Though she had declined Ted’s invitation the night after Fred’s passing (at 84 mph, he likely passed plenty of others before he passed himself), Mae very much wanted to indulge him after enticing Roger into a promise to make a white knight offer for the former Duck Inn. She was cleverly using her leverage, her visage, and her cleavage to negotiate a favorable deal with Ted on Roger’s behalf, and with Roger on Ted’s behalf. The note on the property was coming due July 1, and Ted minus Fred had sunk deep into debt.  With foreclosure inevitable, and nary an offer in sight, Ted was desperate to sell to avoid bankruptcy. Mae badly wanted to reopen the place with the distinctive aura of her own flair and taste, thus she cooed and wooed Ted into Roger-like submission. The two men disliked each other, so Mae kept them apart and, with the bank’s approval, put the deal together herself, stimulating both men to sign off on it just in time, on June 30, 1989,  each in large part to gain further favor with the somewhat mae-gnificent Madelyn King.

As they prepared the property for a new beginning, Roger and Mae briefly sparred over a new name. Roger wanted “The Jolly Roger” or “Kabb Inn’s Kabins”.  Apparently, judging by Mae’s eyeball-rolling, head-shaking reaction, both were off the table before even getting on. She axed the former with It’s not a pirate’s life for me, matey”, but even while gently dismissing the latter option as “a tad too cute”, she did like the play on his name and literally patted him on the belly, which was always a winning play for her. She proposed the simple and concise, “The Kabb Inn,” thus subtly and subconsciously incorporating  the presence of the rustic cabins into the name. He dutifully consented after a few minutes of brooding in the bathroom, his go-to place for working things out. Crestfallen after still another surrender to Mae, he abruptly left and absentmindedly hopped around the driveway, Rabbit hunting. She reminded him that it was in the garage, then quickly took charge of preparing the newly-named inn for its Grand Opening on Labor Day weekend. One of the side rooms was being converted into a dance floor with a small stage  on the far end for special events, no small task in such a short window of time. The calendar turned as Mae worked her butt to the bone, while Roger reluctantly retreated into the shadows.

Meanwhile, back at Ted’s double-wide at Tara ‘n Tino’s MH Park, the amorous action was absent. The added favor with Mae that he expected to gain by accepting Roger’s lowball offer was lost in time, suspended in space. The truth was she had always preferred her dalliances with younger sibling Fred over those with Ted, and now with the property deal done (and Fred more than well done), she had neither the time nor the inclination to return his calls, much less come calling. Ted started drinking heavily like Fred used to do, and as a result, both he and his struggling business continued to hurl. He often stared into the mirror, which in his case was much like staring into the void,  and cursed his lot in life. “Freakin’ Roger Rabbit. Freakin’ Mae King. Freakin’ Kabb Inn.” And then he’d drink some more.

The Grand Opening was a huge success with the locals, and the tourists soon showed up as well. It became Lake Delford’s  mae-n gathering place, where townsfolk enjoyed sittin’ and bullshittin’, i.e., gabbin’ at the Kabb Inn – “goin’ gabbin’ tonight, Luther, there’s TV dinners and pistachio puddin’ in the fridge. Don’t wait up.”  Ms. King worked tirelessly and hired excellent staff while Roger drove aimlessly around town with his top down, honking his horn and waving at old couples and single ladies.  As planned, Ms. Mae soon became the ever-present face of the establishment. While sometimes guilty of getting carried away with all the attention she mustered hot-dogging for the guys in the bar, she relished her role and regaled in it. There were frequent vacancies at the small, nondescript cabins during the relentless Florida summers but her marketing skills always resulted in them being sold out for the entire Winter season at very profitable rates. Screened porches, gas grills, clean linens and proximity to the Interstate sat just fine with the snowbirds migrating down from D.C. and points north.

The place turned a profit by the end of the second year, and Mae King cashed in. The former princess of persuasion vaingloriously promoted and immersed herself in the dual sobriquets of Red Queen of the Inn and Blue Belle of the Bar. Roger begrudgingly faded more and more into the background, a minimized and emasculated man, while Ted drank, spouted jabberwocky, and cussed his neighbors, their kids and their kittens, leading to aggressive admonishments from testy Tara and shaky threats of eviction from timid Tino. Ted missed misbehaving with his brother, felt cheated with the sale price and subsequent success of the Inn, and often fantasized that if Roger was out of the picture, he and Mae could somehow pair up again and he might even become co-owner, and change the name to MaeTed (“Mated”) Manor. Ted thus had a vision, he just needed a plan …  and maybe one more beer.

Upon reaching the age of 70 on March 15th, 1992, Roger Kabb decided to officially retire from doing nothing and pursue the aspirations included in what he called his “free man’s bucket list”.  “Free man” was a jab at the controlling Keeper of his Inn, Head of his Household, and Ruler of his Realm, though he wisely excluded that part when explaining the rationale behind his game plan.  When he carried on about it, the guys in the back bar razzed him and rode him. He persisted, and insisted it might catch on someday. Mae patted him, on the head this time, and said, “Really, sweetie, that stuff’s out of your comfort zone. You don’t know jack nickels about chasing rabbits, much less chasing dreams. Stay home and write stories about going to the places and doing the things on that campy, lowbrow , kitschy list of yours, because your porch light is fading and your headlights are flickering. You’re incapable of traveling alone these days. I might give it a bit of a go in a few years (she choked on those words) because you’ve been good to me, but I’m engaged to the inn right now, so no can do.”

Belittled,  patronized, and long since tired of gathering dust on Her Mae-jesty’s Machiavellian mantelpiece, Roger sold his share of The Kabb Inn to her at a conciliatory price with the one condition that the name remain unchanged. She had no problem with that because the locals all referred to it as “Mae’s Place” anyway. She gave him a cashier’s check for both the Inn and the house, then casually but callously wished him well. Her last words to him were fatefully flippant, telling him to “shoot me a postcard now and then”. He saw her flippancy by flipping her off and raised her one, smugly bidding her an overdue adieu and a silent Eff You. The forsaken Mr. Kabb then loaded up the Rabbit and hit the highway, never to be seen again. A barmaid not named Binky once asked if anyone at the Inn had heard from “the bucket guy” but everyone just figured that he kicked it before reaching Kentucky. They named a triple-shot after him – the “Roger That” – at the lady’s tongue in cheek request. Sold well for several years out there at Mae King’s place.

Ted Myers probably should have buried the hatchet with Roger and rode shotgun with him on the latter’s way out of town, doubling as his wingman and bucket list buddy. After numerous unsuccessful and downright humiliating attempts to lure Mae back in, he had abandoned the smoldering embers of his business, sold his double-wide and left for parts unknown. Tara and Tino and the kids and kittens at the Park could finally rest in peace, thankfully while still above ground.

As for Mae, was it mentioned that she was intelligent, shrewd, and manipulative in financial and personal affairs? Her assets  continued to grow, and were now impressive by any measure. She was sole owner of the Inn, owned her own home, had beaucoup bucks and a bountiful bustline that lasciviously lured in a wide array of unsuspecting, upscale gentleman callers. They bought her this and that and some of those, but it was never enough. Next man up! She was the pearl in her own oyster and she filleted her own fish.  When she walked into the restaurant, or entered the bar, or strolled past the cabins, she did so to cheers of “Maaaae”. She felt like Norm in that TV show. Life had dealt her a great set of . . . cards, and she played them well. Subliminal Poker was indeed the name of her game. Rephrasing Kenny Rogers, she knew when to hold men and knew when to fold men. She never walked away from the game,  but she always cashed in her chips, this lady in red.

1998 had reached its expiration date and 1999 was bidding to burst in with a bang. The Queen of the Inn had the  final festive touches in place for a high-spirited New Year’s Eve celebration. All of the cabins were booked, the pantry and bar were well stocked and Roger That’s would go for half price all night. Still fabulous at 45, an energetic and enterprising Mae looked as good as ever. The cards kept coming, and after a Royal Flush, the lady was prepped to party, psyched to the max with Aces and Jacks. And those six-inch blue stilettos paired with that dazzling red dress laid out on her bed, well, ding, dong, the Belle would gong tonight.

But somewhere in the back of her mind, an unsettling tingling arose. What the hell was that? It was like there was an incoherent intrusion trying to find a nesting place. She shook it off, but it kept coming back as the dinner hour drew near.

In town to find some noisemakers, i.e., a half-dozen guys from the Elks Club, she ran into the soft-spoken but sulky and sullen Carrie Butler, who quickly reminded Mae that it was the tenth anniversary of the day her fiancé, ne’er-do-well Harry Howe, a drifter who was fresh out of the lower ranks of the Navy and a relative  newcomer to Lake Delford, had  vanished on the night of his bachelor party over in Daytona Beach.  Carrie never got to marry Harry, and never got over it. She was convinced he got cold feet or hooked up with a hookah” or some such thing and had gone back home to Jersey. Mae had forgotten the story, probably because it was overshadowed in town by the violent death of Fred Myers and the quirky death of a beloved old lady on that very same night. Mae made the mistake of recalling Fred’s demise out loud, and Carrie exploded in resounding rage. “Fred Myers? That rat turd pig went to the strip joint with the guys. Knowing what a Lothario he was, he’s probably the one that talked my man into running for the hills. Fred effin’ Myers. Glad he fried. Bet he cried. Hope he suffered before he died.  Well, gotta get home before the drunks come out. Have a nice New Year’s, Mae.”  Whoaaaa, reckoned Ms. King ( stunned that Carrie knew what a Lothario was, and now second-guessing her own past dalliances with a rat turd pig), didn’t see that one coming, but she’d make a good offset to the Elks Club guys tonight. Hope she shows up and we can get someone to yell “Fred Myers” at the stroke of midnight.  She’d blow a fuse and do the Wham Bam Slam right into 1999!

Surprisingly though, Mae immediately regretted those thoughts, rued her rudeness, repented, and at least pretended to ask the universe for forgiveness. Just minutes later, however, she was bored already with the reverence thing and regretted feeling regret in the first place. Freakin’ Sad Sack Carrie Butler – oh, please, woman, get a grip. Then, with her stylishly-tousled, blue-streaked hair extensions (to match her stilettos) swaggering seductively  in the light December wind, the Lady headed home to put on the daring red dress that was destined to turn heads and tempt fate.

Hours later, the evening was going wonderfully well at The Kabb Inn. The food was great, the bar patrons were boisterous but well-behaved, and Mae had red velvet whoopie pies delivered to the guests in the cabins.  The band played, songs were sung, the dancers swayed, bells were rung, everyone stayed, and all felt young. The Red Queen of the front & The Blue Belle of the back exuded euphoria and ecstasy.  She commanded the room, a rose in full bloom. Blitzed, bombed, bawdy and ballsy, she was making out at the Kabb Inn as the countdown to midnight began. As it got louder and the big ball on the five television screens was starting to drop – “EIGHT, SEVEN,” – that tingling in the back of Mae’s mind not only returned, but did so with a vengeance in the form of a thundering flashes of crimson lightning that teed her up and drove her into the rough. Aptly, “FORE” was likely the last word she heard, as that’s where the counting stopped on a dime at that moment in time.

The sound of gunshots cut through the countdown and chaos quickly ensued. Two hooded figures were seen running brazenly out the back door, but not a soul gave immediate chase. Both wore full-face Mardi Gras style masks, which were part of the New Year’s Eve tradition at the Kabb, thus no one could describe them, a hurdle heightened with everyone at the former Duck Inn duckin’  for cover in the panic and hysteria that rippled through the rooms. Finally, as the immediate shock of the moment subsided, Tara and a few manly men stepped up and ran outside in blind pursuit, but all they saw were red taillights fading into the distance. 9-1-1 calls were placed and the pursuers clumsily piled into a car and a truck and raced into the darkness, but alas, the perps and the taillights had merged into the murky night.  

Back at the Kabb Inn, shrieks and cries melded with stunned silence and sobs. Few saw the ball drop and no one cared. The scene was horrific, the patrons horrified. The boozed-up band, in the spirit of the Titanic’s musicians, ignored the clamor and continued to play “Auld Lang Syne,” but no cups  o’ kindness were raised in good cheer. The organist hauled ass when he heard someone scream “call the police”. Old habits die hard too.

Word spread fast. At a little past 6:30 AM, almost an hour before sunrise, locals gathered at the Breakfast Barn downtown. An Orlando television station was going live to a news conference taking place in Marion County. Officials announced the 3:20 AM capture of two male suspects and an ongoing hunt for a third. “Police believe that each of the three men fired one shot into the back of the head of Madelyn King, 45, of Lake Delford, killing her instantly.  Ms. King is the owner of The Kabb Inn down there in friendly Lake Delford, where the tragic event took place during a large gathering of some sort last night. The two captured men have been identified as brothers Theodore Myers, 48, and Frederick Myers, 44, both of Smyrna, up in Tennessee, not to be confused with New Smyrna Beach over near Daytona.

Sobs of anguish and gasps of disbelief ricocheted off the plastered dry walls of the eatery.

The Myers brothers arrest aside, it was suddenly clear to the sharper tools in the Barn why Harry Howe had never come home to marry Carrie Butler. Dang. (But on the upside, as a Navy man, Harry must have felt right at home riding the waves once again as he was scattered into the Atlantic.)

The official wasn’t done: “The suspects’ sedan popped a tire near that big dairy farm, you know the one, hopped off the roadway, and burrowed into a deep manure pit, where our officers found them knee-deep in dung, laughing like fools and jabbering like drunken idiots, which they apparently are. They offered little information about the third man, who they say approached them at a Nashville strip club and offered a big wad, which we think means a lot of money, to join him in what seemed to them a harebrained plot to kill Ms. King right in front of her cohorts, which is not a dirty word. Saying their lives sucked anyway so why not, they described that man, who goes by the dumbass aliases of Jolly Roger and Roger Rabbit, as a pasty-skinned, hairy-eared, goofy old guy from Loo-a-ville. That’s in Kentucky, ya know. The alleged assailants insist that the two handguns now in police custody were each fired only once into the victim, who was struck by three bullets. They said that the driver, the Jolly Rabbit guy, felt sick and pulled his car over on State Road 40, east yonder of Ocala, right near where the Hasty Freeze used to be before an alligator bit that little kid. He left the keys, grabbed a gun from that console thing between the seats, and made a weakened getaway into the woods near Mill Dam Lake. The public is cautioned that he is said to be off-kilter and batshit crazy, excuse my French,  and is definitely armed and presumed dangerous. We have that entire area surrounded and believe his arrest is a-comin’. We’ll let y’all know
what’s what when it’s all figured out.” 

And now it was also very clear why no one had received word of Roger Kabb’s assumed demise somewhere on the Road to Nowhere,  a.k.a  Bucket List Boulevard. (No sirree, naysayers at the Inn, the bucket guy had definitely NOT “kicked it before reaching Kentucky”.)

As the group struggled to digest and make sense of the report, an entirely different goofy old guy entered and saw the bewildered, shocked expressions, the anger and tears of people he had known for years. He heard someone murmur, “I can’t believe she was murdered like that, it’s so awful.” “What? A woman was murdered, right here in Lake Delford?”, he asked in disbelief. Silent nods confirmed the news. “Who was she?” Folks looked away. Seemed no one wanted to break the heart of the kindly old fellow. “Speak up, people, who was she? Tell me.”

Three women hemmed and one man, well, he hawed. 

Finally, a well-ordered waitress gently pulled him close and tipped him off. “They all know that you knew her well, Mr. Wright. I’m sorry to tell you that “she” was … Mae King, out at the Kabb Inn.”

(Though truly saddened by the news, he fondly recalled the time that he and the late Mrs. Wright were caught making out at the cabin at Camp Hickey the summer before the war, when they were both fifteen, even though they knew in their hearts they were dancing to the beat of Satan’s drum. He forced himself to suppress a smile, not wanting to appear disrespectful seeing how Ms. King was probably being dissected in a lab right about then. The latter image brought a welcome tear to his eye, and the waitress pressed the old-timer’s head to her bosom to comfort him. “Dang, girlie”, he thought, “how am I supposed to look sad with those things in my face?” He bit his lip real hard so he wouldn’t laugh but it got impaled on his tooth and caused him to begin crying full-out sloppy tears. Perfect. But he was now certain he was going to hell when his ticker took a breather, though that thought was assuaged somewhat by the prospects of seeing the Mrs. again. Mr. Wright may have been a tad old, you see, but even though he was already projecting about his last ride on the bus, unlike poor Madelyn, he wasn’t dead yet.)

As dawn flickered through the Ocala National Forest, an exhausted Roger Kabb, after frequent stops to pee and sit a bit, heard the sounds of bullhorns and barking K-9’s getting nearer to his final resting place on a decaying pine log.   Swarms of deeply disturbed fire ants had emerged from opposite ends of the log and merged into one agitated army, surreptitiously surrounding him.  The agitated insects then blew their cover, incessantly invading his space, catching his eye. He stared down at the frenzied freaks and whispered “What are you bozos lookin’ at? SHOOT ME a postcard, she said. Well, I met her halfway on that one, didn’t I. Her call. Three strikes and no balls and she’s out.  Game over. So you deviant miscreants can just bite me.And they did. 

Undeterred, he pulled a pen and a faded, folded paper from his shirt pocket, spread the coffee-stained sheet open, scrawled a shaky check mark into one of  the last two boxes he had added only six weeks earlier, crumpled the paper into a clump, and tossed it five feet forward, where it was certain to be discovered, scrutinized, analyzed and interpreted by some arrogant young know-it-all forensics dweeb. “You can analyze the crap out of this but you still won’t know jack nickels, son, about this Free Man’s Bucket List of mine. Just you wait though, sometime soon, everyone will. People will talk about it, share it, maybe make one of their own,” he mused, amused. Despite the anguish of ants gnawing at his ankles and Johnny Law closing in on him, he inhaled a deep dose of brisk morning air, held it, savored it, then surrendered it, fittingly setting it free.  

He hummed a few bars of Grace Slick’s “White Rabbit,”  grimaced, then grinned like the Cheshire Cat as he recalled the two lines that summed up the last chapter of his life. Unfortunately, he wasn’t sure if he could quote them to the surging, six-legged, sadistic stingers due to copyright laws, which bummed him out.  Checkmated, he wished for words of his own, but none came.

After retrospectively peering through his looking glass from his vantage point, and assuming the unhinged Roger’s posthumous blessing, the writer offers the following lines to succinctly summarize the subject and substance of the story as set forth this day herein:

“Ding, Dong, the Queen’s Inn Red . . . King’s cold and dead . . .  her wily head, filled with lead . . .  daring dress matched the shade she bled  . . . engaged to the Inn but left unwed  . . .  reached for the stars, but saw them instead  . . .  the White Knight upped and fled . . .  twitched like a rabbit down the road ahead . . .  his headlights dimmed and his mind just sped . . .  his last list lost, overlooked, unread  . . .   Fred returned and was declared undead  . . . he and Ted were jailed and pled,  wet the bed with their watershed,  overwrought and underfed   . . .  three dull needles hung by a thread . . .  each wrapped tight in the spite she spread . .  bringing up the rear while the cold Miss led . . . she did herself in with the shit she shed . . .  none could remember what the dormouse said  . . .  Hatter 1’s too Mad to ease their dread . . . Hatter 2’s underground from  laced cornbread  . . .  the ’84 Turbo’s cheap retread,  slid in the rain like a downhill sled . . . it’s Howe he descended from a-hole to a-shred . . .  all checked out with the Grace of  Zed . . .  and Carrie wrote a  book that the whole town read.”

The jig was up, the chips were down, her hare left home, his rabbit left town. In full view of the cops and the dogs that were almost upon him, this Kabb was out of gas as he raised the gun to the rising sun with just enough breath, strength, tenacity and time to finish that final countdown from where it left off at the Inn that bore his name – “THREE, TWO, ONE . . .


He got it, alright. But it was no joke.

Maybe Mae had been right.
Maybe he should have stayed home and written stories.
Like this one.

Roger that.


Writer’s Notes:

The inside scoop, filling in the blanks, the rest of the story!  The light fluff first, then the heavy stuff.

  • The Mad Hatter (“Hatter 1”) and the Cheshire Cat remain in a time loop and are presumed to be doing well. Alice Liddell’s White Rabbit (not to be confused with Binky’s-then-Roger’s white Rabbit) lives on in lore, but has gone blind and can no longer tell time. Gary Wolf’s Roger Rabbit, divorced by the Mae-like Jessica, paired up with a fox named Mona from Arizona, and they moved to Allbunny, NY, where they had hairy human triplets. Thankfully, all resemble Mona, even the boy.
  • Hank Hatter Jr. (“Hatter 2”), whose bitter, baneful butter bowl set off the events chronicled here, was buried while wearing a white cowboy hat adorned with the letters “HH” in gold thread – just like his father before him. There was no Hank III or Henrietta. His fish couldn’t swim and his knock-kneed wife ran away with a damn Yankee from Vermont. And then he began to run with the two-faced Myers Brothers, lost his way, and had to pay. Poor Hank.
  • Grace Barnett Wing Slick, now 82, was tagged with two “Queen” titles of her own during her career. She has one child, a daughter named China, who is now age 51. The band on the dance floor stage was cranking out her “Somebody to Love” just minutes before the fatal countdown began at the Inn on 12-31-98. (You just can’t make this stuff up.)
  • Jack “Nickels” Nicholson and Morgan FreeMan, both 85,  are reportedly still pursuing their own individual bucket list items, as time allows. Freeman is still going strong in Hollywood while Nicholson has been pretty much inactive since 2010. But we’ll always have “Here’s Johnny!”
  • Zed’s dead, baby, Zed’s dead. He went out with a bang and his passing was well short of graceful, but his Harley proved to be Butch and Fabienne’s saving Grace. “Whose motorcycle is this? What happened to my Honda?” (Tara ‘N Tino’s “Pulp Fiction” has a Honey Bunny in it – rabbit fan fare.)
  • Mrs. Wright had passed away at the dinner hour on New Year’s Eve, 1988, alone in her bedroom, after choking on a three-layer whoopie pie with extra cream filling. Sweet to the bitter end, she was. Mr. Wright was away in Daytona Beach that evening “celebrating something” with some of the younger guys from town. (Rumor was he had been hookah-huntin’ with the boys.)
  • Mr. Wright missed the Mrs. but remained mischievous right up until his last ride on the porcelain bus in 2004. He and Mrs. Wright had no children or living siblings, so he curiously left an $8,000 certificate of deposit to the bald guy who owned Babe’s Bakery – the source of that whopper of a whoopie pie to which she was fatally attracted.  The coroner said her blood alcohol level was off the charts and she was so badly impaired she should never have been allowed to drive that whoopie pie down her throat without supervision. On his death bed, Mr. Wright confessed to the ICU nurse that he had once touched Mae’s left breast from behind (when Mae was still alive, just to be clear) and another guy standing next to him paid the price. He asked if he might still go to heaven and the nurse told him she doubted it. He took his last breath with his middle finger extended.
  • Tara and Tino Quentin and their six children are alive and residing in Waco, Texas. They sold the MH park for good bucks and headed West.  The kids all got married to non-family members and have children of their own. Quite a Qlan, all of them living on the same six acres. T &T occasionally toast  Ted with shots of bourbon and “coke” and send him greeting cards in the slammer with smiley faces on them.
  • Navy vet Harry Norman Howe could have learned a valuable life lesson when he asked Fred if he could borrow his car while drunk to the nines – had he not nodded off at 84 mph.  With too much beer on the brain, he really was having second thoughts about marrying stick-in-the-mud Carrie and may not have gone through with it anyway after returning home. She had a nice rack, sure, but she always wanted to stay home and watch sitcoms and play with her two black cats. So the nomadic young man got plastered, much like the walls of the Breakfast Barn, and then got behind the wheel and got plastered all over again 11 minutes later. His ashes got a brief reprieve in the cool Atlantic waters before being inhaled by the fishes in the months that followed. The crash was reported at 11:44 PM on 12-31-88. He was so intoxicated that had he just waited at the club for the midnight celebration, he might have passed out, got deposited in an alley by the bouncers, slept it off, and never got behind the wheel that night.  He then may have realized that a good, albeit boring, woman with a nice rack is hard to find, returned home and married Carrie and lived a long and more-or-less contented life. Their 20th anniversary cake might have read “Carrie and Harry – N. Howe !” Damn shame, for sure.
  • Carrie Butler’s first and only book, “Howe: He Lost,” had sold 8,464 copies as of December, 2012. It was a 177-page paperback Peyton Place wannabe that focused more on twenty years worth of Lake Delford scandals and gossip than on her near-marriage to Mr. Howe. Because it was a fictional piece, everyone got new first and last names except her former fiance’, whose last name was preserved for her chosen title. But instead of Harry Howe, a Navy vet, he became Sammy Howe, a former Marine. Her spinster days ended on July 4th, 2003, when she married . . . (drum roll) . . . Dick Johnson, the bald guy who owned Babe’s Bakery. Her book, which “the whole town read,” didn’t make waves outside of the county. But despite it airing plenty of local dirty laundry, she became a cause célèbre of sorts and evolved into a more outgoing and less bitter woman. Dick ‘n Carrie’s “BIg Fat Whoopie Pies,” billed as being “filled with passion and pride,” became a fixture at the inn, where they sold for half price every New Year’s Eve. The book, incidentally, via it’s inside scoops, was able to rehabilitate Roger Kabb’s reputation (poor guy’s mind was blown, and that cancer thing, how awful), while demonizing Madelyn “Mae” King (her mind was blown too, of course, but all that “shit she shed!” No lady, she. Calling the inn “Mae’s Place” became lame, uncouth and very uncool, and was sure to draw a scornful glare and a much-deserved finger wag.  In the end, Freakin’ Sad Sack Carrie Butler Johnson did indeed get a grip, while Mae King was the one doing the Wham Bam Slam right into 1999. For Ms. King, turned out karma really is a bitch, and then some.
  • Now, more than 23 years after they did the dirty deed and were incarcerated for life with no chance of parole, the Myers Brothers are separated again, after accepting plea deals to avoid Florida’s death penalty at Raiford. Fred died a bitter man in 2012 from liver cancer, leaving Ted behind for the second time. Ted, now 71, has long been a model prisoner and is actually remorseful for his role in the death of Mae King. All three shots were fired simultaneously, two by Ted who held his own gun in his right hand and Roger’s gun in his left hand. Fred fired the other shot. They couldn’t miss as they were standing side-by-side directly behind her, fully-masked, at the moment of impact. Ted still tells himself that Fred fired a split second before he did and thus rationalizes that Fred’s bullet killed her while his two were just window dressing and really didn’t matter when all was said and done. When the brothers returned to the getaway car with Roger waiting at the wheel, Ted laid Roger’s gun in the center console and the car accelerated into the night. So the original report that the guns taken from the brothers at their shit-pit arrest had only fired two of the three shots, and that Roger had exited the vehicle with the third gun in hand, was accurate. It was obvious that Kabb was too frail and slow to go in with them and do his own dirty work, so the brothers felt their best chance of getting away clean was to stick him in the getaway driver role. Things were going great until Roger unexpectedly (to them) pulled the car over saying he was sick, grabbed his gun and left them with a generous amount of cash in the car. He disappeared into the night, not knowing that Ted, in the front passenger seat, was close to shooting him in the back for running out on them. Likewise, neither brother ever knew that before he pulled over, Roger contemplated shooting both of them as soon as he picked up his gun. “Three dull needles hung by a thread.”
  • Fred, knowing the business was going downhill and hankering for a new start with hairdresser Hillary Horney from Haines City, gladly handed the uninsured Daytona’s keys to Harry and hitched a ride to Winter Haven from a scary-looking woman while Harry was still in the club. When he heard what happened on the news, that he himself was no longer among the living, he saw an opening, bought a junker, scooped up Hillary and the pair headed to Ohio, where her girlfriend lived, assuming the names Jeff and Joanne Jenkins. Fred bragged he was “gonna put the Sin in Cincinnati.” Turns out Hillary’s girlfriend was, well, actually her girlfriend, and Fred wandered aimlessly into Kentucky and on down to Tennessee, working odd jobs and lamenting the loss of his Turbo. He had planned to get hold of Ted at some point and tell him he still had a pulse, but didn’t get around to it for a few years. When he finally did contact Ted, the latter was persona non grata back in Lake Delford and took off to join his brother without telling anyone. The brothers formed another handyman business in Murfreesboro and had pretty well screwed that one up too when one Roger Kabb suddenly stood before them on Black Friday night, 1998, in that strip club. Kabb, slow-witted and semi-senile at 76, appeared emaciated and on his last legs as he lured them into his devious plan with his last remaining wads of cash. ( I know, you want to know how Roger found them, right? Fred had dropped the Jeff Jenkins ID and these two clowns were operating under their real names, and Roger found them by looking in Tennessee phone books after a tip from his longstanding contact person (snitch) at the Inn, a guy who also stayed in touch with Ted after he left town, and who kept Roger apprised of all of Mae’s activities. Roger told the brothers he was dying (which he was) and had just added a two-part grand finale to his free man’s bucket list. Roger had visited 68 strip clubs since leaving Lake Delford years earlier, and it was there, in #69, that he scored for the first time in years. Three miserable human beings with nothing left to lose, and all three had been screwed, in some form or another, by Madelyn “Mae” King and her red tresses. It was “go time.”
  • There was a time when news that “the rabbit died” was greeted with either joyous applause or gloom and despair. Here, it was left up to the reader to assess whether Roger’s Rabbit died somewhere along his yellow brick road or if it was in fact the getaway car. Word is that neither was the case. His Rabbit was found in a Louisville parking garage after his death. It was not only alive but it was well.  Neither of the brothers wanted to use one of their vehicles and Roger feared that, even almost seven years since he left, driving through town and  pulling into the Inn’s parking lot in that easily-recognized thing might draw someone’s attention and wreck the plan. So he bought a red 1985 Chevy Cavalier beater from a used-car dealer for $500 and told the brothers they could keep it if they got back. Neither liked that “if” part, but hey, it was as good as the crap cars they were driving, so they went with the plan, not knowing that Roger had no intention whatsoever of making the return trip, no matter how things played out. Despite his demented state, Roger had left a will, and the Rabbit, per his wishes, reverted back to its original owner, Binky. He also left Binky a huge amount of cash he had stowed away in a safe deposit box back in nearby Deltona. She used the money to buy the Inn and re-named it  . . . “The Jolly Roger Inn” because, you see, it WAS a pirate’s life for her, matey. Binky and her life partner hired “Big Ruby Red,” a Mae King-like presence with the same big-as-life personality to pull in the customers but with none of Mae’s negative attributes, to run the place and restore its status as the go-to, social center of the town. Folks gathered and once again shot the shit nightly in the “Bucket List Bar Room” in the back. One might say that Mae left a mess, and Binky cleaned up. $$$$$
  • With the demise of Mae, Roger Kabb was able to check off that second-to-last, recently-added box on his bucket list. He left the final box – his own death – unchecked, though he knew at that moment it seemed both inevitable and imminent. Why not just check the box before tossing the paper away? Why not afford himself such closure? Because he remembered the emptiness he felt when he had checked off the last box on his original list two months earlier. He wanted to feel alive until he wasn’t. Planning his and Mae’s deaths rejuvenated him at a time he was both physically and mentally beyond sick. It gave him a raison d’être. His lowest moment had been checking off that last box and being left without a purpose. He vowed not to do it again, thus never had any intention of checking that box come hell or high water.  And there was one more reason. Sitting there on that log, he knew he was a weak man in more ways than one. Despite being determined not to, he was acutely aware that he could, he might, surrender himself peacefully, belying any such checkmark. Roger aside, do you or I really want to check off everything on our own bucket list? Or would it be best to always have one or two items left to pursue, at whatever cost, to keep our edge, to keep us hungry, to keep us feeling alive?
  • And one last point to ponder: “In full view of the cops and the dogs that were almost upon him . . . he raised the gun to the rising sun” before resuming the countdown.
    After the edited-down version appeared in the Mensa Bulletin, I received feedback from a few very perceptive readers that either questioned or assumed exactly what happened when he completed the countdown. Clearly, he had been successful in rejecting surrender. But had he simply raised the gun to his own head and pulled the trigger? Or did he raise the gun and fire just to draw fire, perhaps into the ground or at the the top of the trees, in the general direction of the approaching cops, knowing they would immediately and instinctively do for him what he didn’t have the courage to do for himself. Either way, Roger Kabb ended his own story and got the last word while controlling the onset and the origin of the closing “BAROOOOM.”He raised the gun and counted down to “One.” And then . . .

    Honestly, if I knew, I would tell you.


12:02 AM, January 1, 1999 at The Kabb Inn, Lake Delford, FL:

7:08 AM, January 1, 1999, off SR 40, southeast of Silver Springs, Ocala National Forest, FL:



Minnie Smart’s Mini-Mart


Wayne Michael DeHart   (June, 2021)

Grabbed bread and milk and some orange juice
and asked for a six-pack of bananas for the road
but Minnie snorted and said a no-use recluse
should stay out of sight, not leave his abode
(so I wouldn’t be subject to verbal abuse
from a mean-spirited, spiteful nematode?).
My response was brisk, blunt and profuse:
“Milady (a title befitting this ominous ode),
I’m going home to seduce chocolate mousse
and then double down with pie a la mode,
giving you some time to produce an excuse
for the way you’ve let your manners erode;
to reflect on your words, conclude and deduce,
you crapped on me like a commode overflowed.
She recoiled in anger, said “Get out – VAMOOSE,”
calling me everything from a turd to a toad.
She slammed her size 12 right up my caboose
so hard and so swift I felt my innards implode.
Still, I returned one night for gas and produce,
but my butt once again got firmly steel-toed.
Minnie Smart was combative, her lips too loose.
Her anger flashed fire and her rage was a load.
Then came the night she booted Mayor Bruce;
he fell on his head and his heart soon slowed.
They took her away, she cooked her own goose.
Her weak side showed and her tears free-flowed.
She played her last ace, dropped her last deuce,
checked out in her cell, ducked the dues she owed.
The store was sold and razed, but the land’s in use –
a park for the people, that the buyer bestowed.
The widow of Bruce
had honored his code
of living life’s truce
in true giving mode.