Thirteen Cursemarks

Latigo Flint isn't afraid of anything, not even demonic possession. See, Latigo Flint is the quickest quickdraw there ever was; a squinty-eyed gunslinger born out of time. And squinty-eyed gunslingers tend to take things in stride. But unease ain't the same as fear, and so I'm not ashamed to admit there's something that makes me a mite uneasy:

I didn't think much of it, the first time a turtle bit one of my birthmarks off. After all, I had twelve more, and honestly, what were the odds of that happening again.

(It was a tad unsettling though when the wound scarred into a pentagram.)

I was pretty angry the second time a turtle bit one of my birthmarks off--both at the pet store owner and also at myself for believing him when he told me Mr. Bumples was a perfectly gentle turtle.

"Ow!!!" I hollered and heaved Mr. Bumples across the room. I shot the pet store owner a very angry glare. "Your wretched turtle just bit one of my birthmarks off!!!"
"That's odd." He replied. "Mr. Bumples has always been an exceedingly gentle turtle."

Then that wound also scarred into a pentagram.
"What the blazes." The owner exclaimed. "The spot where Mr. Bumples bit you just turned into a pentagram."
"Yeah, eerie ain't it?" I replied and pulled up my shirt. "Just like the other time."

Then he asked me to leave his store.

Some years went by and with them came a bizarre succession of turtle inflicted bite wounds--all to a birthmark, and all scarring into pentagrams. Let me tell you, I was pretty distraught the night I received my seventh, courtesy of a turtle on a shelf that I mistook for bookend. For with that, I officially had more cursemarks than birthmarks. I got good and miserable-drunk that night and ended up falling off a footbridge into a coy pond. My thrashing attracted turtles (of course) and just like that I'd collected bites eight through eleven.

Number twelve was a real bummer 'cause I saw it coming and was bit anyway. What happened was a little girl asked me to hold her pet turtle while she bought an ice-cream cone.
"I can't do that little girl." I explained. "If I hold your turtle while you buy an ice-cream cone the little bastard is gonna bite one of my two remaining birthmarks off and then it's going to scar into another pentagram."
She started crying and swore it didn't bite. She said it rarely left its shell, and besides, wasn't even a turtle but rather a tortoise instead.

Shamed by her tears I accepted the thing. It immediately hissed, jumped up and bit my second-to-last birthmark off.

"Son of a Bitch!!!" I shrieked as the girl complacently licked her cone and watched my wound scar into a pentagram. "Which live in the desert and which live in water?" I bellowed.
"That's easy." She replied, taking her pet from my trembling hands and giving it a little kiss on the top of its shell. "Turtles live in the desert and tortoises live in water."
"No no no!!!" I howled, hopping around like a madman. "You've mixed them up little girl." I shoved her face close to the wound. "It's turtles that live in the water!!! You own a turtle!!! You lied to me and if I get bit one more time, I'm holding you responsible for my godforsaken soul!!!"

Then I ran screaming into the night.

That was about an hour ago.

So now keep your goddamn turtles away from me.

I'm not even kidding.

From here on out I shoot anyone holding a turtle if they so much as face the little beast in my direction. And that goes for hosts of nature shows too.

(I need a new TV by the way.)