Back n the saddle (Part IV)

And the throng of masses came upon the hill, and they said amongst themselves “who is this Man who proclaimeth the Word?”. And as I heard the hearts of these unbelievers, I wept. Then immediately a revenant descended upon them like a ghoulish hound and laid upon their hearts the sounds of perdition and there was much weeping and gnashing of teeth. Together they cried out “Hell hath beckoned us! A savior is required!” And when I heard these cries, I walked out among them and blessed them. And when they saw me, all fell and prostrated themselves.

Then I said unto them “bring me your foolish in spirit, for they and their monies shall go separate ways. And bring me thy lame in tongue, so that no man may challenge the word thy god, spoken by me. And bring me thy most voluptuous of women, for they and thine badonkadonks shall help spread the Word”

And when they heard these words there was much rejoicing and jubilation. And then they bowed and brought before me a donkey, saying, “a wild ass for our Lord.” And I sat upon the ass and the multitude carried me to downtown Tempe whereupon I stumbled into the pupils of the University. And when they saw the throng of followers, they spat, saying “more fucking Mormons?”

And lo, I climbed off the ass and stood upon a full beer keg and said unto them “behold, my word. Stories No One Should Read. $12.99. Step forth thee and purchase. For your copies shall be signed by I, Beau Montana.”

And the pupils laughed, saying “before us is another false teacher. For Beau Montana is a myth. A fallacious god. He cannot exist nowhere but on the internet.”

“Wanna bet, asshole?” I said unto him.

The pupil threw down his monies and spat. “Prove it,” he said.

I looked down upon the keg and back to the angry masses. Then I said unto them “In this keg, drink of the piss water that you call beer.” And they did so. And there was much rejoicing, for the pupils cried out “behold! Cheap beer no longer tastes like sweat from an asscrack! For now this tastes like a crisp IPA from a fine local brewery!”

“You’re goddamn welcome, you ungrateful shits.”

And as the revelry trailed away, Joe came unto me and asked, “did you really turn cheap beer into IPA?”

“No,” I said unto him. “I turned cheap beer into actual piss.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Back n the saddle (part iii)

Hell unleashed its wrath onto the Sonoran desert. My legs ached. My tongue dried. A passing Canadian with a Camelback extended his hiking stick at my feet as he sought to make me stumble. “Where’s your water?” he asked of me. “You shouldn’t be in this heat without water.”

“That was foolish of you,” I told him. “What is this heat compared to the fires of Antares? If you have walked among the demons of Tartarus, you shall not fear the scorching deserts of the earth. Now be gone with you, you filthy northerner!”

And with that command, the Canadian withered like a fig leaf. I took his camelback and hiking sticks and then proceeded to the western most regions of the metropolis where I found my friend Footloose Joe toiling away with a caravan of books. I approached cautiously. Guardedly. My shadow cast upon him like a wraith in broad daylight. He drew his weapon. It was a Smith & Wesson 5.7. With no harm intended, I raised my hands in a gesture of peace.

“It is I,” I said.

Joe’s eyes narrowed. He reholstered his weapon and wiped the sweat from his brow. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said.

“Aye. I know.”

“Come. Sit.”

He led me into the air conditioned caravan and handed me a Gatorade. I sat in the spacious booth in the back corner and he laid a stack of books on the table with my name on it. Stories No One Should Read by Beau Montana. My eyes glanced at the cover and then back to Joe. “Will they come?” I ask.

“Aye. They always come.”

The sun drifted behind the mountains and casted a dull orange meridian across the horizon. And as the desert valley cooled, the denizens of this strange land journeyed to this caravan upon a hill and gazed upon its magnificent collection. A few eyes crossed my path. They saw me sitting alone. Arms stretched across the corner booth. When they approached, they lifted my book and studied it.

“What is your book about?” one asked.

I pulled out a Marlboro and a zippo. “Tell me,” I said as I lit the zippo. “What’s the one thing missing in your life?”

“Sir?”

“Do you wake up everyday in a cool puddle of your own piss? Do you wander out to the night sky and beg god for mercy because you jacked off to Rue McClanahan? Not that there’s anything wrong with that by the way. But there’s something missing within you. I see it in your eyes. You feel forsaken. Unloved. Like the world has passed you by and now you’re a 52 year old Reddit moderator and registered sex offender. It’s written all over your face. You’re searching for answers from a black abyss but there’s no response. That is until now. The answer is in your hands. All you have to do is open and read.”

Tears welled up in the man’s eyes and his hands trembled. His voice cracked. “How much is your book?” he asked.

“$12.99. But for you, I’ll sell it for $17.”

TO BE CONTINUED….

Back n the saddle (part II)

I dinged the bell. Then I dinged the bell again. Some Cracker Jack with droopy eyes and soiled hair stepped behind the counter and I spat. “Who runs this shithole?” I ask.

“Sir?”

“I said who runs this shithole?”

The Man Behind the Desk leaned his head back and glared at me from down his nose. “Better watch who you’re speaking to in these parts, mister.”

I spat again. “I’m the one you should watch, pal.”

The Man lowered his glance and swallowed hard. “You mean you’re…”

“Say my name.”

He froze in place then blinked. “You’re Beau Montana,” he said.

“You’re goddamn right.”

His hands trembled. He ran his fingers through his matted hair and reached for a keycard. “My apologies sir. I wasn’t expecting you this early.” I took the keycard and spat on the desk. I said nothing more to him.

I strolled down the shitstank corridor and found the elevator broken. After climbing the steps to the second floor, I used the keycard to unlock my room and stepped inside. The toilet was clogged. Bed unmade. Injection needles littered the floor. The room was exactly as I expected it to be. I took a quarter and unscrewed the air vent and stuffed the fifteen grand of hard US currency into it. Then I looked myself once over through the shattered mirror and sauntered back into the Arizona sun.

Under the wretched heat, I found a Preacher man yelling obscenities into traffic. He seemed approachable enough. So I tapped him on the shoulder. “Cigarillo?” I ask the Preacher.

“American. I speak American,” he said.

“Then could you spare a poor fellow like me a cigarette?”

“Of course,” said the Preacher. “But in exchange, I must profess the word of god. For the saving of your very soul. This world is temporary but the word is for eternity.”

I placed the cigarette between my lips and lit the zippo. “Uh huh. And which god is that Preacher man?”

“The one true god. The god of our savior. The god of the word.”

“And where did you find him?”

“He’s been with me since the beginning. I’ve never known no other god.”

“What about Da Nang. 68?”

“Sir?”

“Was god at Da Nang? In 1968?”

“God is everywhere.”

I dropped the half smoked cigarette to the undusted ground and exhaled on the Preacher’s face. “I was there,” I told him. “I saw it with my own eyes. The napalm. The fire. The wretched screams of burning children. Even I, the devil, could never forget. And through those flames I saw all around me. I saw no god. No goodness. No sign of a heavenly reprieve. There was only the cry of the many followed by silence. Death was their only salvation. Is that your god? If so, then your god is no better than me.”

I punched the Preacher on the stomach. As he writhed on the ground and grasped for air, I reached into his smock and lifted his wallet. Inside was sixty bucks in three $20s. I took one twenty dollar bill and dropped the rest onto his chest. “I left you forty bucks,” I told him. “That’s more than what your god left those children in Da Nang. Thanks for the cigarette.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Back n the saddle (part I)

I know what you’re thinkin. Where’s Beau Montana? you ask yourself.

Well I’ll tell ya.

I was where the cactus thrive. Where the horses roam free. Where the Earth exposes her billion year old history. For generations, it was the land of the Hopi and Navajo. Yet when the white devil came, it was home to outlaw and lawmen alike. Only the specter of a Colt .45 brought justice to this godless country. The Tohono O’odham people of the Sonoran Desert and their term for “small spring” is ali sonak. Hundreds of years and many translations later, the barren realm of the high and low desert was named Arizona.

And I saw it. I saw it with my own two eyes.

It was in the oasis of Phoenix when I first caught a glimpse. At Sky Harbor to be precise. Roughly three million people call this sprawling metropolis home and I had a gas bubble the size of Milwaukee running through my intestines. I exited the terminal. The only quiet spot in a 50 mile radius was a section of the Phoenix Airport Museum. I walked in and cut it loose. The fart was adequate enough to continue my journey yet the cramp persisted. Then I stepped into the Arizona inferno and hailed an Uber.

It was high noon. I peeked down the road through the illusionary sea of heat and I saw him. He rode like the devil in a white Toyota Prius. Shades drawn. Right arm rested around the empty passenger’s seat. Then the vehicle slowed to a complete stop. He rolled down the window and whistled.

“Are you Beau?” he asked me.

“I am.”

The Driver popped the trunk and I lowered my duffel bag into it. I climbed into the empty and spotless backseat. The windows were tinted like a barrier between us and the wicked conditions of the desert. The Driver lowered his shades and turned his head toward me. “Where to, partner?”

“Econo Lodge,” I tell him.

He spits on the floorboards. “Que Dios te acompañe,” he says.

Miles later down the heathened and unruly lanes of I-10, the Driver glanced at me through the rear view mirror. Though his eyes were covered, I could feel his torrential judgement pouring down upon me. I drop a half dozen peanut butter M&Ms into my mouth and glare back.

“Where are you from, stranger?” he asked.

“What business is that of yours, friendo?”

Small beads of sweat appear on his forehead. He grasps the wheel even tighter. “If you can’t accept friendly conversation, I don’t know what to tell ya,” he said.

The boiling of my intestines resurface. I place another M&M in my mouth and pull out a lucky Chuck E Cheese coin. I finish the pack of M&Ms and throw the wrapper onto the pristinly clean backseats. I sit back and stare at him. “What’s the most you’ve ever lost on a coin toss?” I ask him.

He clears his throat. “Well, I lost a pog collection in college. Then when I was 43, I had to jack off my best friend because…”

I cut him off by flipping the coin. “Call it,” I tell him.

“But I need to know what I’m calling it for.”

“Everything,” I say. “Everything this car stands for. Your whole life has been building to this moment and you just didn’t know it. Now the coin is here. So call it.”

He swallows hard. “Alright then. Heads.”

I slowly lifted my hand to reveal the coin rested on my knee. To the Driver’s chagrin, it was tails. There was total silence. For the duration of our journey, I glared at him from the backseat with my cold, dead eyes.

He pulled up under the Econo Lodge awning and I opened the back door. The trunk opened and I grabbed my duffel bag. Before I shut the door, I saw him still clutching the steering wheel and refusing to make eye contact. “Normally I’d give you a tip,” I said to him. “But I got no cash. The only tip I got is to take Beano before air travel.”

I put my asscheeks back into the vehicle and unloaded a wretched stench from the depth of my bowels and then closed the door shut.

TO BE CONTINUED…

(We’ll see if we get a part II 🤷‍♂️)

Airports ROCK

I never understood the hate that airports get. They’re like a social black hole. All known laws of civility break down once you enter one. Personally, I think they should inspire the same awe in us as the cosmos do to astronomers. And if you don’t feel that way, you’re probably a sociopath, unlike me. I always shows up at least six hours before takeoff to cast judgement upon complete strangers.

But there must be something about air travel that makes people insane. It makes sense. Airplanes go against the laws of god. Yet sometimes i wonder if people are conscious of their actions. Take TSA for example. No one likes to go through it. But you’ll have a much better chance of making your flight if you simply comply. What won’t work is getting pulled aside, which isn’t uncommon, and rock back and forth like a drug fiend and forcefully argue your case. But that’s just my two cents.

Now, personal space. Being an early bird, I like to show up early, find a nice little eatery at my gate and sit in a quiet corner before my day invariably goes off the rails. But what I REALLY love is when a group of loud, hungover women sit next to me in an empty restaurant and bitch about their hotel room and then resume their night’s revelries over dozens of Bloody Mary’s at 4:30 in the morning. That’s some pro level shit. I can’t even be annoyed at that.

Sometimes I try to catch a nap before I board. “Why not sleep on the plane?” you might ask. Cuz fuck you. That’s why. But it’s hard to sleep when you’re sitting next to some Charles Napier-lookin jackass who reads his texts out loud. You see, ever since hearing that story about that dude who got decapitated on Greyhound, I’ve had a fairly rational fear of sleeping next to strangers.

So for the life of me, I can’t understand why people loathe air travel. It’s always been a rewarding and insightful experience into the human condition. Don’t piss and moan. Throw on your best Werner Herzog internal monologue and have fun.

Anywho, I’ll be in Phoenix soon. I’ll be waiting in the Derby Dames bout parking lot. 4:30. Don’t wuss out.

Warning Phoenix AZ

For the first time in 25 years, I’ll be stepping out from under my rock and into the shit-reeked air that you commoners whiff to sign books and promote the release of Stories No One Should Read.

Want a shot at me?

Well the third of October will be your lucky day. I’ll be at 2517 W. McDowell Street, Phoenix, AZ 85009 from 4:30pm to 8pm waiting on you. So you think you can take me? We’ll see what you got big dog!

While you’re there you can purchase my book and I’ll sign it. Or are you too much of a puss to show up? Lucky for you, you can purchase Stories No One Should Read at Amazon or at Dead Star Press.

So to all my enemies living in the Phoenix area talkin SHIT, here’s your chance. Come out to the Derby Dames bout on Saturday!

Don’t be a 🐓

Mer Rouge (Part 69)

“C’mon. Give me a stick of dynamite,” DuPont urged Oren.

Without taking his eyes off the flesh colored blob, Oren reached for the sash across his chest and ripped off a single piece of dynamite. De Soto and his men watched on. DuPont cut the fuse. As soon as it was lit, Dirk and Fornier opened fire on the men and escaped back through the side entrance of the house. DuPont and Hutch were struck from the back and the dynamite fell on the ground. 

“Hutch!” screamed Oren.

“I ain’t gonna make it,” his brother said. 

The priest shouted at them. “We have five seconds to get the fuck outta here!”

Oren threw his brother’s arm around his shoulder and they scrambled behind the blob towards the outside entrance. The garage exploded. Everyone made it out just in time. As light debris rained down on the yard, Oren and Hutch limped towards the grass. Hutch was ready to throw in the towel. “You’ve been a good brother to me,” he told Oren. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

“Shut your fuckin mouth!” his brother shouted.

Noticing what happened, the priest ran over to their side. Oren lifted his brother’s shirt and saw that the bullet went clean through his abdomen. Blood was pooling around them. “It don’t look good,” the priest said.

“We gotta stop the bleeding,” pleaded Oren.

“No time for that. Dont know how to do that no how.”

“We can’t leave him here!”

“Oh I gotta solution son. But you ain’t gonna like what I have to say.”

“I know what you’re gonna say. How long do you think we have?”

“Bout 20 minutes I reckon.”

Storm clouds were forming above. A slight mist drifted down and lightly covered the smouldering garage. DuPont was checking his wounds. The priest looked him over and saw the exit wound went out his upper chest. “Want me to take a look at it?” he asked the sheriff. 

“No!” barked DuPont. 

“But sheriff, you’re—“

“I’m fine goddamn it!”

The priest arched his eyebrow but he backed down. He turned his gaze over to the pile of rubble. “Think we got him?” he asked. 

“Don’t know how we couldn’t have.”

“Well get yourself fixed up sheriff. Hutch is mortally wounded. We gotta move fast.”

“What does it matter? He’s dead already.”

The priest spat. “Come now sheriff. We at least got to save the kid.”

“Kid? He’s 38 years old. Unless you’re thinking—“

“Yes I’m thinking that.”

“Now you know for a goddamn fact that you would be cursing him to a fate worse than death! You’ve said so yourself!”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“How is eternity complicated?!!”

A roar came from the direction of the rubble. There was some movement underneath the fire and ash then a heavier dash of rain swept down. Everyone clutched to their weapons. “There’s no way,” the sheriff said from underneath his breath. Then the rubble split open and rising like a phoenix was Flaminio, fully nude like he was born anew.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 68)

The last Roman was stone faced. De Soto and his deputies glared unflinchingly at him as they stared down his .50 cal. No attention was paid to DuPont and his men. As tension mounted, the conquistador smirked. “Well. We’re waiting,” he taunted. 

Flaminio was milliseconds from the trigger. From behind him the Butler, with his arm still detached, swung a rifle at his head. The Roman was momentarily discombobulated and he fell forward. The butler overtook him but was at limited capability. The two tussled. Maintaining a firm grasp on the incendiary loaded .50 cal, none of the others intervened. With the shotgun torn from his right hand, Flaminio threw the butler over his shoulder and he landed near De Soto. The Roman immediately aimed and pulled the trigger on the .50 cal and the butler exploded into flames. 

“My god!” exclaimed De Soto.

Flaminio instantly recovered and returned to his original position by the nitro cylinders. With both hands on the machine gun, he aimed it at De Soto for the last time. “See you in hell,” he said.

Noticing an opportunity, DuPont reached for the .44 and emptied the cylinder into each of the six canisters. A burst of cold smoke hurried into the bullet riddled garage. Everyone turned and shielded their eyes. De Soto fell to the ground and when he regained his sight, through the fog he saw that the last Roman stood as a frozen statue. When they saw what he saw, there was a moment of silence. But with little hesitation, the priest picked up the discarded shotgun and aimed it at Flaminio.

“Vale in aeturnum, mea dulcis,” he said.

He pulled the trigger and the former Roman soldier, along with the incendiary loaded 50. Cal, exploded into a million pieces and collapsed to the ground like a house of cards. Satisfied, he blew the smoke away from the barrel and pointed it back at De Soto. “Now. Back to business,” he said.

“Wait a minute!” yelled Dirk. His eyes were fixed on the shattered remains of Flaminio. 

When everyone turned, they saw that the pieces were quickly melting. Between the small fire of the exploded butler and high noon, the garage was sweltering. Small chucks of blood and flesh colored ooze were all drifting towards each other to form a singular mass. Witnessing this, Oren raised his eyebrow. 

“You didn’t use fire,” he said to the Priest. “Are you sure you killed him?”

“I don’t know,” he said, slightly stupefied. 

But the mass grew and all were speechless. It continued to grow until it slowly morphed into something resembling a kneeling nude man. “Hmm,” the priest wondered aloud. “This answers a lot of questions.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 67)

“Knock knock mother fucks,” the Brother said.

The intruder had his eyes fixed on the conquistador and his lieutenants. Fornier reached for a sidearm and was met with a shotgun blast from the brother. The deputy narrowly missed the shrapnel and he rolled to his right. The intruder stepped forward a few more feet. “Everyone up,” he said.

They all stood. DuPont and the gang on one side. De Soto and the deputies on the other.  With the garage lit up, DuPont noticed about a half a dozen nitrogen gas cylinders to the right of where the brother entered. It was a miracle that none of them were hit in the barrage. The sheriff kept his hands raised. The Brother focused all of his attention on the conquistador. “So,” he said to the armored man, “as I live and breathe, Hernando De Soto. The Butcher of Mabila.”

“Junius,” De Soto said. “Praefectus Castrorum.”

“I’m afraid he’s dead. Killed by your deputy here.”

“I’d give my condolences under different circumstances.”

“Spare me your pity.”

De Soto nodded. “Aye. So Flaminio. Primus pilus. Last of his legion.”

Flaminio said nothing. He was stone faced and motionless with both weapons in hand. De Soto continued. “And what does the last Roman legionnaire have in store for us?” he asked.

“I’m aiming to kill ya.”

De Soto spat. “Then let’s get it over with.”

The legionnaire held his finger on the trigger. The .50 cal loaded with incendiary tracers. The Priest noticed something he didn’t think possible. A faint trace of perspiration forming on his brow. The Priest returned his gaze to De Soto and the old conquistador laughed. 

“What seems to be the problem?” he asked. “If you kill us all, the charade is over. Your life’s mission. The chase. 500 years we’ve been doing this. What will you do with yourself now that it’s over?”

Flaminio was silent. 

“So that’s it then?” De Soto asked. “What does a soldier do when the fighting is done? I too have asked myself this for half a millennium.”

The Roman squeezed the trigger ever so tighter. DuPont slowly shifted his right hand over the holstered .44. Then the old conquistador got in one last parting shot. 

“Since I’ll be dead soon, I don’t envy you Flaminio. It’s lonely to be the last of your kind.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

My cousin Dani

From a toilet outside of Bismarck, my cousin Dani was running her mouth on Threads. This time she was saying that the Klingon scene at the beginning of Star Trek: The Motion Picture was the “best” Klingon scene of all time. Unfortunately this post was seen “41,000” times and had just under “800” likes. This means that whatever bullshit falls out of her brain gets more views and likes than any of my THOUGHTFUL and WELL RESEARCHED blog posts. If this isn’t a sign of the impending apocalypse, I don’t know what is. But despite her being a dumb bitch, I think she’s right.

So I’ve been listening to Jerry Goldsmith’s soundtrack nonstop for seven days straight. It’s great. Mahler’s 9th Symphony is a piece of shit compared to it. And what makes this soundtrack so haunting is that badass blaster beam. Just watch the scene for yourself:

There’s a lot of gravity to that sound. It makes you wonder why more soundtracks don’t use it. It’s a top five for sure.

But what’s also great is that opening shot. After showing a giant ominous space cloud, it cuts to three approaching D7 Klingon cruisers. The camera lingers on the center cruiser as it passes underneath and drift toward the opening of V’ger. Imagine seeing that on the big screen. Picture yourself in 1979 and being a fan of some decade-old cheap ass sci-fi show and seeing this. It gives me goosebumps just to think about it.

Unfortunately, this is the most terrifying that Klingons will ever appear. No shade at all to subsequent Klingons though. It just highlights how incredible this scene is. Mark Lenard, as the captain, appears as if he’s Satan himself. The bridge glows like the fires of hell. When the captain speaks, his orders crack the air like a lashing from a cat o nine tails. This is the full wrath of god confronting the cool indifferent force of interstellar space. And god doesn’t stand a chance.

This was the introduction to modern Star Trek. And they sure don’t make em like they used to.

But because of Dani’s newfound influence on Threads, I have delegated her to be my representative. So don’t message me. Don’t contact me whatsoever. Send all your unsolicited dick pics to her. She told me to say so.