CHAPTER 14
Sheriff Useless P. Clodstopper walked in to the Smoke shop to get himself a cigar. Hard men always smoke after a killin’. Old Iglit Murlyman sat in his rocker by the wooden Indian. Next to him was Old Yukard Jibby. Both men had long white beards and for all anyone knew, they had been rocking outside the smoke shop ever since it had been built back in days. They rocked in their chairs and smoked their hand rolled cigarettes. During the winter, they smoked pipes. The chairs creaked and moaned, the sign of good rocking chairs. They wore jeans held up by suspenders and never washed them. There was a smell. That good old familiar smell all hard men sniff as they go into the smoke shop for a cigar. If anyone had taken the time to stop and listen to the old fellers converse, they might have figured out they was gay.
"You sure do look pretty today," said Yukard to Iglit. "And you smell good. Fresh. Fresh like a baby’s bottom."
"Shitty, eh. Well you look shitty too, you dumb old fool," replied Iglit.
"I said pretty, you stupid coot. Pretty."
"I’ll show you some shit," replied Iglit. He was hard of hearing.
"If you had tits, I sure would have known about it," said Yukard.
"Pits? What kind of pits. Arm pits?"
"Corn bits?" said Yukard. "What the hell you talkin’ about. Corn bit! What the hell is a corn bit?"
"I don’t know," said Iglit, as he turned and looked carefully at the wooden Indian. "But I think that Indian is moving."
They both looked at the Indian and stopped rocking for the first time in twenty-four years. The last time they stopped rocking was when they kissed for the first time. Each man got hair in his mouth. But this time was different. The wooden Indian that had been in front of the store was making a noise. His arm was lowering slowly, and he had an axe.
"It ain’t movin’," said Yukard. "That’s yore mind playin’ tricks on ya’."
"Blind you say?" replied Iglit, "Well I can see it plain as day. That Injun’s arm is uh-movin’."
The indian’s leg began to bend at the knee, and he began to twist.
"See there?" Iglit. "He’s movin’ his head now. Ain’t that some born-again shit!"
"Corn bits? Corn bits?" asked Yukard.
The Indian turned, and the wood in his legs creaked as he did so. He lifted his foot from the hand carved pedestal and it broke away. Then he did the same with the other foot. He walked inside the smoke shop, past the sheriff, and over to the curator, Tate.
"Jesus Christ!" exclaimed Tate. And then, the wooden Indian reached back with his axe and plowed it into Tate’s forehead with a sound similar to what a native on a tropical island might do to a coconut to retrieve the delicious milk. The axe cut into a certain part of the brain that causes the arms to stretch out to either side and one leg to go up in the air, and Tate froze that way. The wooden Indian hoisted Tate up over his shoulder, walked back outside, and put him on the pedestal. Then the Indian went back inside and provided the sheriff with a good cigar. The sheriff left the smoke shop for the tavern and the two old men in their rocking chairs began to rock again.
"Well," said Iglit, "There’s something you don’t see too often."
"I should say so," replied Yukard. "Kind of romantic. Don’t you think?"
"Nope," replied Iglit.
"So, whadda’ ya’ say we kiss on it, and throw a wooden nickel for the good mother earth?"
"Why not," Iglit said. "We ain’t kissed in twenty ot years. Let’s get our tongues in on this one."
"I’ll say." said Yukard. They leaned over, put their mouths together, worked their tongues around each other’s, and a tooth came out.
The horrific site of Tate, his head oozing blood, an axe in his face, on one leg with his arms outstretched like wings, attracted a crow who started pecking the open dead eyes. And the cigars were never again the cheap ones.
Sheriff Useless P. Clodstopper lit up his cigar and walked into the tavern. He sat down next to a table next to Whore Betty who hugged him with all her might.
"So brave," she said. "My good man, the Sheriff." And then she shouted, "Everybody… DRINKS ON THE HOUSE!"
"Yee haw!" The crowd shouted out in unison, and the piano man started a lively tune. A few seconds later, a shot rang out, and Snidely, the piano man who had lasted the longest of any of them, fell to the ground on some broken glass.
"Sonovabitch!" Shouted the sheriff. The room fell silent. "Who’s the sonovabitch who shot the piano man?" The crowd moved aside leaving one person in the middle of the room to account for the murder.
"I did," came the decisive response. Standing there was a man with a gun in his mouth, no arms, and no legs.
"Alright, you torso of a man, why’d you kill that piano man. He weren’t that bad," said the sheriff.
"I’m better," said the stranger.
"How can you be better than him?" asked the sheriff. "You ain’t got no arms or legs. I bet you don’t even play piano."
"I sure do," the stranger replied. "And ifn you give me a minute to prove it to you, you’ll see I was justified in killin’ that man. The law says, if the piano player ain’t no good, he’s to be shot. You’d agree with that, right sheriff?"
"He’s got you there, sheriff," shouted Drunk Barney Gritchen who was dead.
"Alright," Useless replied. "But you’d better play that piano like the devil himself, or the next piano player eatin’ lead’s gonna’ be you."
The stranger hopped on his waist over to the piano stool, and somehow used his mouth to pull himself up.
"Would one of you whores mind undoing my zipper?" He asked. Whore Balinda, a three hundred pound whore known for her exceptional Bozillicutties, pulled down the man’s fly, and what emerged caused a gasp throughout the assembled. From his pants came a strange double penis which grew out to exactly the height of the keys. One of the penis heads played an F-sharp as the introduction. The suspense was building. The sheriff was ready with his pistol, just to keep the law, if necessary. And then he began to play.
He slammed his head forward and hit several of the keys with his jaw and nose. There was a crack and some blood, but goddamn if the notes didn’t ring out the most fanciest song anyone had ever heard before. As he slammed his face repeatedly against the keys, his double penis performed some of the more intricate manipulations, jumping from one end of the keyboard to the other. Sometimes, he would drag his face across the keys for the dramatic parts, and the people started to dance. Bottles went flying and shouts erupted among the men folk. The sheriff let loose of his pistol and began to smile as he smoked his fine cigar. By God, the short fella’ was as good as they come. And as a rousing finale’ the stranger smashed his face and ears into the high notes, and there was thunderous applause. Whore Betty hugged her man.
The sheriff walked over and patted the stranger on the back. "What’s your name, piano man?" he asked.
"They call me Bloody Stump O’ Bones!" The short man replied, and he smiled as best he could through his broken teeth, tattered lips, and bloody nose. The sheriff bought the man a drink and everybody in the tavern got drunk, threw up, and had sex with each other.
For the first time in the wild West, there was love. Dirty stinkin’ love.
But it would not last long.
Ed Cracky would hear the news about Lippy Smacks, and hell on earth would soon arrive to set things straight. Another killer was coming to town.
Sheriff Useless P. Clodstopper walked in to the Smoke shop to get himself a cigar. Hard men always smoke after a killin’. Old Iglit Murlyman sat in his rocker by the wooden Indian. Next to him was Old Yukard Jibby. Both men had long white beards and for all anyone knew, they had been rocking outside the smoke shop ever since it had been built back in days. They rocked in their chairs and smoked their hand rolled cigarettes. During the winter, they smoked pipes. The chairs creaked and moaned, the sign of good rocking chairs. They wore jeans held up by suspenders and never washed them. There was a smell. That good old familiar smell all hard men sniff as they go into the smoke shop for a cigar. If anyone had taken the time to stop and listen to the old fellers converse, they might have figured out they was gay.
"You sure do look pretty today," said Yukard to Iglit. "And you smell good. Fresh. Fresh like a baby’s bottom."
"Shitty, eh. Well you look shitty too, you dumb old fool," replied Iglit.
"I said pretty, you stupid coot. Pretty."
"I’ll show you some shit," replied Iglit. He was hard of hearing.
"If you had tits, I sure would have known about it," said Yukard.
"Pits? What kind of pits. Arm pits?"
"Corn bits?" said Yukard. "What the hell you talkin’ about. Corn bit! What the hell is a corn bit?"
"I don’t know," said Iglit, as he turned and looked carefully at the wooden Indian. "But I think that Indian is moving."
They both looked at the Indian and stopped rocking for the first time in twenty-four years. The last time they stopped rocking was when they kissed for the first time. Each man got hair in his mouth. But this time was different. The wooden Indian that had been in front of the store was making a noise. His arm was lowering slowly, and he had an axe.
"It ain’t movin’," said Yukard. "That’s yore mind playin’ tricks on ya’."
"Blind you say?" replied Iglit, "Well I can see it plain as day. That Injun’s arm is uh-movin’."
The indian’s leg began to bend at the knee, and he began to twist.
"See there?" Iglit. "He’s movin’ his head now. Ain’t that some born-again shit!"
"Corn bits? Corn bits?" asked Yukard.
The Indian turned, and the wood in his legs creaked as he did so. He lifted his foot from the hand carved pedestal and it broke away. Then he did the same with the other foot. He walked inside the smoke shop, past the sheriff, and over to the curator, Tate.
"Jesus Christ!" exclaimed Tate. And then, the wooden Indian reached back with his axe and plowed it into Tate’s forehead with a sound similar to what a native on a tropical island might do to a coconut to retrieve the delicious milk. The axe cut into a certain part of the brain that causes the arms to stretch out to either side and one leg to go up in the air, and Tate froze that way. The wooden Indian hoisted Tate up over his shoulder, walked back outside, and put him on the pedestal. Then the Indian went back inside and provided the sheriff with a good cigar. The sheriff left the smoke shop for the tavern and the two old men in their rocking chairs began to rock again.
"Well," said Iglit, "There’s something you don’t see too often."
"I should say so," replied Yukard. "Kind of romantic. Don’t you think?"
"Nope," replied Iglit.
"So, whadda’ ya’ say we kiss on it, and throw a wooden nickel for the good mother earth?"
"Why not," Iglit said. "We ain’t kissed in twenty ot years. Let’s get our tongues in on this one."
"I’ll say." said Yukard. They leaned over, put their mouths together, worked their tongues around each other’s, and a tooth came out.
The horrific site of Tate, his head oozing blood, an axe in his face, on one leg with his arms outstretched like wings, attracted a crow who started pecking the open dead eyes. And the cigars were never again the cheap ones.
Sheriff Useless P. Clodstopper lit up his cigar and walked into the tavern. He sat down next to a table next to Whore Betty who hugged him with all her might.
"So brave," she said. "My good man, the Sheriff." And then she shouted, "Everybody… DRINKS ON THE HOUSE!"
"Yee haw!" The crowd shouted out in unison, and the piano man started a lively tune. A few seconds later, a shot rang out, and Snidely, the piano man who had lasted the longest of any of them, fell to the ground on some broken glass.
"Sonovabitch!" Shouted the sheriff. The room fell silent. "Who’s the sonovabitch who shot the piano man?" The crowd moved aside leaving one person in the middle of the room to account for the murder.
"I did," came the decisive response. Standing there was a man with a gun in his mouth, no arms, and no legs.
"Alright, you torso of a man, why’d you kill that piano man. He weren’t that bad," said the sheriff.
"I’m better," said the stranger.
"How can you be better than him?" asked the sheriff. "You ain’t got no arms or legs. I bet you don’t even play piano."
"I sure do," the stranger replied. "And ifn you give me a minute to prove it to you, you’ll see I was justified in killin’ that man. The law says, if the piano player ain’t no good, he’s to be shot. You’d agree with that, right sheriff?"
"He’s got you there, sheriff," shouted Drunk Barney Gritchen who was dead.
"Alright," Useless replied. "But you’d better play that piano like the devil himself, or the next piano player eatin’ lead’s gonna’ be you."
The stranger hopped on his waist over to the piano stool, and somehow used his mouth to pull himself up.
"Would one of you whores mind undoing my zipper?" He asked. Whore Balinda, a three hundred pound whore known for her exceptional Bozillicutties, pulled down the man’s fly, and what emerged caused a gasp throughout the assembled. From his pants came a strange double penis which grew out to exactly the height of the keys. One of the penis heads played an F-sharp as the introduction. The suspense was building. The sheriff was ready with his pistol, just to keep the law, if necessary. And then he began to play.
He slammed his head forward and hit several of the keys with his jaw and nose. There was a crack and some blood, but goddamn if the notes didn’t ring out the most fanciest song anyone had ever heard before. As he slammed his face repeatedly against the keys, his double penis performed some of the more intricate manipulations, jumping from one end of the keyboard to the other. Sometimes, he would drag his face across the keys for the dramatic parts, and the people started to dance. Bottles went flying and shouts erupted among the men folk. The sheriff let loose of his pistol and began to smile as he smoked his fine cigar. By God, the short fella’ was as good as they come. And as a rousing finale’ the stranger smashed his face and ears into the high notes, and there was thunderous applause. Whore Betty hugged her man.
The sheriff walked over and patted the stranger on the back. "What’s your name, piano man?" he asked.
"They call me Bloody Stump O’ Bones!" The short man replied, and he smiled as best he could through his broken teeth, tattered lips, and bloody nose. The sheriff bought the man a drink and everybody in the tavern got drunk, threw up, and had sex with each other.
For the first time in the wild West, there was love. Dirty stinkin’ love.
But it would not last long.
Ed Cracky would hear the news about Lippy Smacks, and hell on earth would soon arrive to set things straight. Another killer was coming to town.