Sunday, November 22, 2009

Richie rides again

"where can a man get a goddamn hamburger in this town?!"
"well I reckon they'd rustle you up one down at Mr. Mcdonald's."
"where's that?"
"go on down the road a bit from here and when you start smelling horse shit so bad you can't hardly stand it that's where the stables will be and Mr. Mcdonald's is right next door."
"thank you gentlemen."
"sure partner."

Five minutes pass in silence.

"did you see that fellar, Henry?"
"darned if he weren't the smallest little fancy fellar I ever seen in these parts."
"had him a six shooter, he did."
"said he was looking for a hamburger."
"curious little fellar."

Richie frockmor steps from behind a stack of bales of hay. The two old coots look surprised. the fat one swallows his plug of tobacco. The one behind the counter pushes his hat back on his head and whistles.

"you like to scare the bejesus out of me!"
"what did you call me sir?"
"do what? where did you come from?"
" you take me for a fool sir. i concealed myself behind these bales of hay and listened to your heartless banter. now answer me, what name did you call?"
"you're right easy to miss i reckon."
"oh, so you think so, shopkeeper?"
"i thought you was looking for a hamburger mister."
"what did you call me? i demand it!"
"what did I call you?"
"what did you call me, you dick sucking old toad!"
"my lord."
"i'll eat your heart for a hamburger!"
"my lord, my lord, I meant no harm little fellar!"

The little stranger wrestles his six shooter from its holster and empties four bullets into the old coot. He slumps against the counter and then collapses behind it. The fat one gets up and tries to run out. Richie Frockmor takes aim at his back and puts two slugs through where he calculates the old man's ticker to be. He must be right, the fat one falls forward on his face like a stone. On his way out Richie wipes his boot off on the side of the dead man's face. He mounts his horse with some difficulty and points the beast down the road towards what he already recognizes as the stench of horse excrement.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Crow Wood part one

The first thing Cletus and Hester Jackson ever knew about the Crow Wood was that there was rumored a feller that lived in there somewhere who brewed a fine pure shine. They were juvenile deliquents when the verification of this rumor became their charge and pursue it like noble knights of some kingly table they did. Neither of them had a car because they came from dirt poor families who lived in shacks out on Tobacco Road but they both owned mopeds upon which they poured much affection and attention. They were not aware of the painful truth that being seen zipping about town and country on a souped up moped, a moped obviously tended to with pride, did nothing for their image which they imagined to be that of a couple of tough guys. They were most often referred to as clowns. By everyone.

It was Fat Randy Buttcheeks who had gotten the boys started on the fable of Crow Wood. You see the two young men had been experimenting with altering their perceptions of things. They had started by sniffing glue and drinking Windex. Now, all kids do this so let's not be too hard on the boys. When they came to the conclusion that they wanted to try some alcohol they naturally went to Fat Randy's Pantry on Route Seven and asked Fat Randy Buttcheeks to sell them a bottle of Apple Jack. He refused the request on the grounds that the boys were not of age to purchase such an item. Cletus looked at Hester Jackson. Hester Jackson stared back at Cletus. They asked Fat Randy Buttcheeks how they were going to try out getting drunk if he wasn't going to sell them some Apple Jack. He looked carefully around him to make sure it was just him and the boys in the store at that moment and satisfied that he was safe he intoned: "Moonshine."

For five dollars Fat Randy Buttcheeks had given them a map. And what he explained to them that map proposed to guide them to was the domain of a country feller who was legendary for his crafted homemade spirit and went by the unusual name of Injun Deacon. Cletus observed: "People in these parts do have such strange things they want to be called." It was a brief philosophical moment that nobody noticed. Buttcheeks said: "Now boys," and he looked from one to the other, "the only warning that I must accompany with this valuable piece of information is that the region of which I speak is in the Crow Wood." Cletus and Hester Jackson shrugged. His solemn caveat had fallen on ignorant ears. Buttcheeks sputtered: "Hell, you mean you two dumbasses don't even know about Crow Wood?" Again the boys seemed perplexed and finally Hester Jackson spoke up: "We ain't neither of us ever heard of this Crow Wood place Mister Buttcheeks." The fat old grocery clerk chuckled.

Armed with their map the two boys left the store and went out to their mopeds in the parking lot. Fat Randy Buttcheeks watched them go, thinking to himself that that could well be the last time he would ever see those two morons. He had decided to spare them the details about the sinister nature of Crow Wood, about the stories of talking walking crow men who terrorized the isolated country folk. It was true that not many around those parts knew the stories, they were only whisperings occasionally exchanged between farmers. If there is such a thing, he'd thought to himself as he watched Cletus and Hester Jackson get on their motor scooters and peel out down the road, those two baffoons will be knee deep in it by sun fall.

Cletus had studied the map and taken the lead. They had been making good time for about half an hour. It was odd, he figured, that although he and Hester Jackson had zipped up and down the county roads of Turnip Town and Belvedere County lord knows how many times he found that he had made a turn and then another turn and then another turn and for some time had been speeding down a two lane blacktop that he didn't rightly know. He signalled for them to pull over to the side of the road. From his satchel he pulled out a flask of Windex and took a swig. He handed it off to Hester Jackson and pulled out the map again. He walked a piece down the asphalt and came to a number stenciled in the dust. It matched the map. "Yep." He said to himself and pointed for Hester's sake off into the distance down the road: "Crow Wood should just be a piece down that way according to this." He waved the map absently. Ambling back over to the spot where Hestor Jackson stood next to their machines admiring them lovingly, Cletus too took a long caressing look at the two mopeds and then signaled towards the open road. It beckoned to them. They revved up their mopeds and started off again. Neither one thought to ask the other who might have been out there stenciling random numbers on the side of the road that just happened to correspond with the map ole Buttcheeks had sold them. Cletus gave Hester a thumbs up.

They shot along the road following the broken center line as it dipped and curved through the oddly foreign landscape. At times Cletus would slow down and fall in next to the roaring moped that Hestor Jackson was perched atop and offer him a slug from the flask of Windex. In this brotherly fashion the two nimrods came to the entrance into Crow Wood.