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Hezekiah Frobey, Edgar Poe’s brother-in-law. Hezekiah was also the one who learned to make perfume outa gators and built that bad old factory in the swamp.
           Lemuel Lee figured Edgar Poe was his great-great-great-great-great uncle. Some people even said he looked real similar, exceptin’ he was taller than his Uncle Edgar, but the black eyes was the same, and the slicked back hair, and now that he was tryin’ to grow a mustache, the resemblance was kinda spooky, though his mustache wasn’t growin’ in too good and he knew he’d never have his Uncle Edgar’s class. Once he’d seen some a Uncle Edgar’s old notebooks in his Aunt Bessie’s attic, but he guessed they’d been throwed out when the attic had been cleaned up and turned into bedrooms for his cousin Ida Frobey and her brats.
           All in all Lemuel Lee was proud a where he come from and had a real family feelin’. If he didn’t have a family feelin’, he sure as hell wouldn’t be helpin’ his Aunt Ligie to get that brand new kidney she was always whinin’ about.
           Of course the Poe gene was a bitch, but that was the way it was when you was favored with the gift. All in all, he figured that nine of his kin had killed themselves or someone else in one way or another. His Aunt Bessie had hanged herself. His Uncle Abner had stuck his head in an oven. His cousin Jeb hadn’t killed himself, but had killed an old woman by mistake when he was robbin’ a gas station. And they all wrote ballads or was good on the harmonica or could tapdance, which was why he himself was an artiste and his own moods went up and down like some goddamn rollercoaster.

    Chapter VI.
    In which the Artiste falls prey to melancholy thoughts.

    While he was cleanin’ up the surgery after yesterday’s operation, throwin’ away the itty-bitty pieces and puttin’ the big pieces in a plastic bag, Lemuel Lee was thinkin’ that one a the really good things about gators is that they’re useful even when they’re dead. Aside from the skin, which was made into wallets and change purses which made toursists go apeshit and which Uncle Earl sold in the Lizard World gift shoppe alongside the seashell art and coconut candies, a dead gator could be sold for meat. A dead cow or a dead sheep wasn’t none too good for sellin’, cause in that case you’re forced to compete with the A&P. But gator, though it’s tough as chewin’ on an inner tube, was somethin’ you could always sell for good money to the Magnolia diner, where tourists -- and especially their little brats -- always gobbled it up as a genuine Florida treat.
           That was why, after he picked up his paycheck, Lemuel Lee drove his pickup truck to the Magnolia diner and delivered the mortal remains a Caesar’s alligator wife. Rico, the cook (a smart little Cuban who knew how to shut the hell up) had been given forty dollars to spend: as usual, Lemuel Lee would give twenty bucks to Uncle Earl, leavin’ him and Rico twenty more to split:
           “Catch you later, man,” said Rico.
           “Keep cool, “ said Lemuel Lee.
           You’d think -- since it was payday and he had an extra ten dollars in his jeans -- that he’d be feelin’ good. But no, he was feelin’ mean enough to kick a cat.
           Was it the Komodo? Not likely. Fortunately, the operation had been a success and the Komodo (so Uncle Earl had told him) would be almost good as new for the Monday show. No sir, that wasn’t it: there was other problems that Lemuel Lee felt gnawin’ on his innards, makin’ him sad and testy, bringin’ him down. Ever since he’d lost his lucky snake-rattle keychain, he’d just been feelin’ worse and worse. Too bad, too. Cause ordinarily on Fridays, after he’d got paid, he’d drive into Fort Myers, go to the Bijou Adult Cinema, jack off, eat some popcorn, then after the show stop off for a six-pack and some Slimjims at the Seven-Eleven and keep drinkin’