Burl “Crop Duster” Delacroix, 62, of Whynot, Mississippi, was carried off Saturday by what Sheriff Tubb described as “a chemical baptism gone sideways.” Witnesses say Burl had been “safeguarding” a suspicious jug of Clementine Wilbanks’ communion punch, which he’d spirited away after the funeral to “study the carbonation.”
Turns out mixing fermented fruit juice with discount pesticide—found in Clem’s garden shed, marked with her initials and a crude angel doodle—makes something closer to napalm than nectar. Burl went sky-high in his lawn chair and came down fertilizer.
He leaves behind his fifth wife (estranged but still cashing his bingo winnings), three parakeets that only swear, and a shed full of unlabeled jugs. May he fly circles round the cherubim on his eternal patio glider.
Among the debris: a laminated flyer for a Pickled Okra Canning Workshop signed “Love, Loretta.” Somebody should check the brine.
“God gives and the pantry explodes,” muttered Pastor Buck, wiping his hands on a casserole.