CHAPTER 4
In the town tavern, Grizzard the Rip was serving whiskeys to the cowhands and the whores. There were card games and bar fights and lots and lots of smoke. Some came from cigars, some from cigarettes, and some from warm guns that had just been used in a killing here or there. This was a classic Western tavern if ever there was one, and there was one, and this was it.
The piano man was Snidely. Nobody knew his last name, but it didn't much matter. He'd soon be replaced, as all the piano players of the past had been; with a bullet. The casket maker, Sinister Grim, hid in the shadows drinking his coffee. He didn't take the alcohol because of the one time he dropped a casket and the body rolled out. It weren't pretty. Especially since it was the body of Edna May, weighing in at over three-hundred pounds. And as he went to collect her, he threw up on her tits. Twern't pretty, I said. And when they finally cleaned her off, he shit his pants trying to lift her back in the box. Twern't.
Yeah, Sinister Grim was a spooky man who had been in town for what seemed like forever. He never drops a casket now, and he don't throw up and he don't shit, neither.
But then, Biggs got up. He put his hand on his gun and the room fell hushed. The piano man shut the piano and calmly took cover. Grizzard the Rip ducked down behind the bar. And Biggs strolled over to the frail looking gentleman wearing the glasses who had been writing all day at a table in the back of the saloon. He walked right up and took a seat next to him and gave him a dirty look. The gentlemen shook with fear and put down his paper and pen to give Biggs his full attention. Biggs was a man not to be trifled with.
"What the hell are you supposed to be, with yore painted up fancy suit and your spectacles, just-uh writin' away like a lawyer?"
"I uh..." the man was scared like a sinner at the pearly gates. "I'm a poet."
"Poet, huh." Biggs cleared his throat and then his voice became even deeper and more loathsome. "I'm a poet too," he growled. "I write all the time." He pointed to his head. "I write here, in the mind."
"I see," said the poet.
"And you're gonna' hear my poem and tell me if you like it."
"Sure," said the poet. He didn't want to die. And then Biggs cleared his throat again and blew a wad of spit on one of the whores. "Goes like this. My horse... of course... I ride her well... into the black of night... and when I kick my spurs in her... she gets a little fright." The room was dead silent. "What do you think so far, Mr. Poet man?"
He looked at the gun and Biggs' hand on the grip. "Oh, that's good," he said.
Biggs continued. "But if'n she throws me off her back and makes me break my leg... I'll shoot the horse instead of myself... and then I'll let my leg heal." The room was still dead silent. "What do you think of that?"
"It's really good," the poet said. "I, uh... like the, uh... meter, and umm... it works. It really works well and uh..."
Biggs leaned in and the poet could smell the onion and cigar on his hot breath. "Now, you tell me one."
"Sh...sh...sure."
Biggs leaned in until he was almost kissing the gaunt pale man. "But if'n I don't like it... yore dead." He pulled out his gun and held it to the poet's temple as he recoiled slowly back into his chair.
"The uh... birds alight softly... in the fresh... dew... of uh, morning... and as the sun..."
BLAM!
In the town tavern, Grizzard the Rip was serving whiskeys to the cowhands and the whores. There were card games and bar fights and lots and lots of smoke. Some came from cigars, some from cigarettes, and some from warm guns that had just been used in a killing here or there. This was a classic Western tavern if ever there was one, and there was one, and this was it.
The piano man was Snidely. Nobody knew his last name, but it didn't much matter. He'd soon be replaced, as all the piano players of the past had been; with a bullet. The casket maker, Sinister Grim, hid in the shadows drinking his coffee. He didn't take the alcohol because of the one time he dropped a casket and the body rolled out. It weren't pretty. Especially since it was the body of Edna May, weighing in at over three-hundred pounds. And as he went to collect her, he threw up on her tits. Twern't pretty, I said. And when they finally cleaned her off, he shit his pants trying to lift her back in the box. Twern't.
Yeah, Sinister Grim was a spooky man who had been in town for what seemed like forever. He never drops a casket now, and he don't throw up and he don't shit, neither.
But then, Biggs got up. He put his hand on his gun and the room fell hushed. The piano man shut the piano and calmly took cover. Grizzard the Rip ducked down behind the bar. And Biggs strolled over to the frail looking gentleman wearing the glasses who had been writing all day at a table in the back of the saloon. He walked right up and took a seat next to him and gave him a dirty look. The gentlemen shook with fear and put down his paper and pen to give Biggs his full attention. Biggs was a man not to be trifled with.
"What the hell are you supposed to be, with yore painted up fancy suit and your spectacles, just-uh writin' away like a lawyer?"
"I uh..." the man was scared like a sinner at the pearly gates. "I'm a poet."
"Poet, huh." Biggs cleared his throat and then his voice became even deeper and more loathsome. "I'm a poet too," he growled. "I write all the time." He pointed to his head. "I write here, in the mind."
"I see," said the poet.
"And you're gonna' hear my poem and tell me if you like it."
"Sure," said the poet. He didn't want to die. And then Biggs cleared his throat again and blew a wad of spit on one of the whores. "Goes like this. My horse... of course... I ride her well... into the black of night... and when I kick my spurs in her... she gets a little fright." The room was dead silent. "What do you think so far, Mr. Poet man?"
He looked at the gun and Biggs' hand on the grip. "Oh, that's good," he said.
Biggs continued. "But if'n she throws me off her back and makes me break my leg... I'll shoot the horse instead of myself... and then I'll let my leg heal." The room was still dead silent. "What do you think of that?"
"It's really good," the poet said. "I, uh... like the, uh... meter, and umm... it works. It really works well and uh..."
Biggs leaned in and the poet could smell the onion and cigar on his hot breath. "Now, you tell me one."
"Sh...sh...sure."
Biggs leaned in until he was almost kissing the gaunt pale man. "But if'n I don't like it... yore dead." He pulled out his gun and held it to the poet's temple as he recoiled slowly back into his chair.
"The uh... birds alight softly... in the fresh... dew... of uh, morning... and as the sun..."
BLAM!