Back n the saddle (part vi)

My fingers trailed through the red dirt of Sedona. And the Earth spoke. It said do not piss unto the wind. The time is now. Shit in thine chamber or remove thyself from thine toilet. And after hearing the wisdom of the earth, I spake unto my followers, saying I am drunk and as high as the moon. Bring unto me Takis and Red Bull for my tongue is dry and my stomach empty. Mescaline and booze make an unusual combo. Then I laid back in the dirt for sleep had come over me. And as I watched the stars dance against the night sky, a boot struck my side. In those days, a certain apostle Julian approached and ordered me unto my feet. For the sun had come up and all the gathering had to wake.

I rose unto mine feet and struck the apostle on the face. Then I admonished him. How dare thee said I. But the apostle pleaded, saying that we had overslept and hikers were calling the police. Goddamn I yelled. This is the last time I’m doing that peyote shit.

Julian continued. Moreover my lord, said he, Asmodeus has been sent to kill you.

Fuck him, said I. I ain’t afraid of him.

But the Mormons are deploying him, sir.

So the Mormons want me dead? Is it a day that ends in y?

But we must move southwards. To continue spreading your word and out of their sight.

I hate to tell you buddy but they got Mormons in Tucson too.

Then we shall move forth to Prescott.

You mean Prescit?

But it’s spelled Prescott.

You don’t go to Kentucky and pronounce Louisville Louisville do you?

How the hell else is it supposed to be pronounced?

Lou-ah-vull.

That’s fuckin stupid.

Yeah well, they got Mormons everywhere pal. So what other plan do you have?

Julian shut his trap and I gazed along earthly towers of Sedona. Then a gust of rain swept through and cast a brilliant rainbow across the valley. The answer was apparent.

We bring them here, said I.

Sir?

We bring the readers to Sedona.

But gas is like $9 a gallon up here.

I smiled gaily and rested my hand upon his shoulder. Oh my dumbass Julian, said I, if it’s $9 for them, it’s $9 for us too.

TO BE CONTINUED…

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…

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 66)

Dirk appeared over the shoulder of the conquistador and Fornier flanked him on his right. Both stepped forward and cocked their shotguns. The priest saw this and chuckled. “You’re a goddamn cosplaying fool,” he told Castor.

“Silence!” the old conquistador yelled. “It appears that we have reached the end. Hundreds of years. Hundreds of bodies. Time is a ceaseless hostility. But we can draw blood for so long. Give up the fight, old friend.”

The priest stepped forth and spat. “Fuck you old buddy. What do you think about that?”

Castor nodded. “You know how much it pains me to kill one of my own.”

“Yeah well, it pains me to wipe my ass with the bathroom rug. But you gotta do what you gotta do.”

“A court jester till the very end.”

The priest waved him off. DuPont spoke up. “I suppose you want us to surrender our weapons?”

“If you wish,” the judge said. “But your weapons have no power here.”

DuPont smiled. Hutch shouted out from the back. “Since we’re gonna die anyway, I just want to tell Fornier to eat my ass!”

Fornier lowered his shotgun and waved his finger in his direction. “Hey fuck you pal! It was the Moorhouse Parish Jail! I ain’t runnin no Hilton!”

“More like the Hanoi Hilton! Amirite?” offered Moses.

No one laughed.

“Enough with this nonsense!” the judge ordered. “I must inform you all that you will be summarily executed in a baptism of fire…”

Interrupting him were faint echoes of gunshots from a distance. There was some shouting and men crying out in agony and then total silence. Castor looked to his men. Fornier and Dirk looked at each other. Moments later, the silence was shattered by a .50 cal ripping through the walls. Each hole pierced through the dark. Everyone fell to the floor. The storm of bullets and splintered wood prevented anyone from moving. Then the hellish roar of gunfire stopped. DuPont looked up to see the entire garage ripped apart. Before anyone could move, a foot kicked in the battered door and a pair of leather boots stepped in. All eyes saw the last standing brother of the Nine. He was holding the .50 cal in one hand and a shogun in the other.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 65)

Everyone jumped to their feet. All except for Moses. He was still recovering from a bullet to the shoulder and an axe wound to the chest. “C’mon Mo!” the Priest shouted.

“Can you guys give me a goddamn minute?! Jesus fucking Christ!”

Hutch knelt down and carried him up. He threw his arm over his shoulder and the pair followed the others down the corridor. The mansion was far more complicated than DuPont anticipated. He halted and grabbed Hutch’s shirt. “Where’s the staircase?” he asked him.

“Past the kitchen,” Hutch said. “There’s a huge parlor on the other side. At the other end is the staircase with the doorway to the spring right behind it.”

The sheriff waved his hand. “Let’s go!”

They entered the rear of the kitchen. DuPont walked in first with his reloaded .44 leading the way. It was abandoned. On the other side was another corridor leading to the right. If they were to be ambushed, it would be there. The sheriff whispered to Oren. “Give me a stick of dynamite,” he said.

Oren reluctantly agreed and handed him a stick. DuPont put a cigarette to his lips and took out a zippo. He lit the cigarette and used it to light the explosive. He waited for the long wick to burn down to just centimeters before tossing it down the hallway. When he did, the gang collapsed to the ground. A second later, a mighty wave of ether swept over them followed by calamitous sounds and clouds of debris. Silence followed. As the dust cleared, DuPont leapt up.

“On your feet!” he ordered.

And like a unified regiment, all the men jumped to their feet and rushed the entry to the hallway. They unloaded one shotgun shell after another but as the smoke settled, they again found no resistance. “We need to get the fuck out of here now,” Oren said.

“Yeah,” agreed the sheriff. “Yeah. I think you’re right.”

They turned around and bolted toward the garage entryway. As the last man crossed through the threshold, a hidden metal slide from the doorframe slammed the entrance shut. They were trapped in near total darkness.

“Shit,” Moses said aloud.

And no one spoke. There was a clanking against the concrete. Everyone turned towards it. The clanking continued as if it were taunting them. Moments later, a single light pierced the dark and before them stood an old conquistador with a sword in hand.

TO BE CONTINUED….

Mer Rouge (Part 64)

The tracer rounds momentarily stopped. The priest launched up from behind the burning squad car and unloaded several shotgun shells in their direction. DuPont stood up and fired the .44 up at the overhead window. As shards of glass rained down from the roof, Moses lurched toward the boxes of dynamite.

“Ahhhahahhhahaaa!!!!!” he screamed.

Oren and Hutch sprinted behind him and they kicked over the wooden boxes and grabbed as many sashes as they could. In a span of seconds, they collected eight sashes and then made a beeline towards the left end of the house. Moses was about to make a sharp right into the building when an axe launched itself into his chest. “For fuck’s sake!” he yelled.

Oren and Hutch stopped dead in their tracks. Holding the axe stem was none other than the butler. A quiver of arrows wrapped around his chest. Oren lifted his shotgun to parry the blow of the axe as he swung it toward him. The blade lodged itself into the metal. And as the butler raised the axe again, Oren swung his fist onto his attacker’s face and his head bent backwards. In this brief moment of victory, Oren attempted to overtake the butler but the butler grabbed ahold of Oren’s lapels and crashed the crown of his head onto his opponent’s nose.

Oren stepped back in a daze and collapsed into the grass.

Seconds later, DuPont and the priest rounded the corner to find Hutch swiftly and gracefully dodging the edged weapon. It was almost as if he had done something like that before. With two shots left in the cylinder, DuPont fired at the butler’s shoulder and blew it clean off its socket. The axe fell to the ground but without flinching or recoiling, the butler reached down to take it in his left hand while his right arm was dangling by his side. His lethality didn’t diminish an iota. He resumed his charge at Hutch.

DuPont fired again. The bullet lodged itself into the head of the axe and blew it clean off its handle. The butler dropped the piece of wood and reached into his dinner jacket. With his left hand, he launched shuriken after shuriken at Hutch and DuPont. But the priest drove the butler backwards with his few remaining shotgun shells before the men manning the .50 cals repositioned themselves. When DuPont noticed them, he rallied Hutch and the priest into the house and helped Moses and Oren to their feet.

Without a second to spare, the .50 cals opened fire. DuPont and his men laid flat on the floor while shattered glass crashed down onto them. The firepower was relentless.

Then it stopped.

They laid silent for fifteen seconds. DuPont, with glass cracking below his feet, lifted his head. The gunmen, along with the butler, were gone. “Let’s go,” the sheriff ordered.

“This has got to be a trap,” Oren said.

“No time to worry about that.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 63)

The half a dozen or so wooden boxes of dynamite sat atop the flame retardant grass. Chaz sat them a safe distance away from the Honcho before his horrid death. But the bullets whizzed overhead. The squad car could only provide so much protection. DuPont considered his options under the mounting heat and gunfire.

“I think we’re dead, folks,” he announced to the others.

“You son of a bitch!” Oren said.

“Chill!” called the priest. “C’mon Mo. We gotta do something here.”

Moses remained flattened to the ground next to Hutch. He briefly lifted his head. “Respectfully father, you can go fuck yourself,” he said.

Another flaming arrow whizzed from the sky and blew the priest’s cossack right off his head. “My cossack!” he screamed.

“It’s a hundred fucking degrees out here! Why are you even wearing that?” DuPont asked him.

“The arrows are coming from the second floor window!” Hutch cried out.

Arrows and shurikens were quickly hurled towards Hutch and Moses and the two climbed to their feet and rushed toward the crowded back end of the squad car. Everyone was trapped. “We at least got to try to get to the dynamite,” the priest said.

“Fuck that!” Moses yelled.

“Mo! What other option do we got?”

“Surrender!”

“Are you stupid? They’ll kill us no matter what and you know that!”

“We need to get to the boxes before they start shooting at them!” DuPont said. “If we’re all gonna die, let’s at least die together!”

“What’s the plan then?”

“There’s not much of one. When the tracers stop, I’ll unload the shotgun in their direction. You, father, direct your fire toward the second story window. The rest of you grab as many dynamite sashes as you can before things get too hot and then bolt it towards the other end of the house. We’ll give you fire cover the entire time. At least until we run out of bullets and shells. Goddamn, I wish I had some lemon frags!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 62)

The ancient mansion was eerily silent. Only thunderheads in the faraway distance could be heard. The honcho rolled up first. Chaz slowly pulled up to the gaudy entrance and parked. The squad car was far behind. Oren parked it by the honcho and stepped out. DuPont climbed off of the bed, flame thrower still strapped on, and approached the building. Oren scratched his head. “It appears to be deserted,” he told the sheriff.

“No,” DuPont said. “There’s no way they’d desert this place.”

Chaz climbed out of the driver’s seat and nodded to Oren. He put his hands on his hips and looked the old home up and down. “I’m inclined to agree with Mr. Waites,” he said. “You reckon we ought to turn this over to state police?”

DuPont spat. “And tell them what, Chaz? That we slaughtered an entire sheriff’s department because they’re hiding the fountain of youth? Use your head, son.”

“I dunno,” Chaz said. “It might be useful for scientific research.”

“Fuck that noise!” the Priest butted in. He climbed out of the squad car’s backseat and waved his finger. “Let’s get in there and blow it all to hell!” he shouted.

“It’s a trap,” said the Sheriff.

Oren nodded. “You’re right. It was too easy.”

“So what now?” asked Chaz.

DuPont thought. “I’m gonna smoke em out.”

Everyone backed away from the structure and the sheriff readied the flamethrower. “Everyone ready?” he asked. They looked at one another and nodded. “Alright,” he said, “here goes nothin.”

Before he could squeeze the trigger, a flaming arrow rained down and lodged itself into Chaz’s neck. “Jesus Christ!” DuPont yelled. The others took cover behind their vehicles and Chaz’s head erupted into a gigantic fireball and his body collapsed into the grass. The sheriff ducked behind the rear of the honcho. The priest and Oren behind the squad car. “What the FUCK was that?” DuPont yelled.

Tracer rounds began pelting into the squad car. One smashed into the engine and ignited a fire. “Hutch! Mo! Get the hell outta there!” Oren screamed. Realizing the calamity, they climbed out of the passenger’s side and laid flat in the grass.

“Tracer ammunition!?” yelled DuPont. “Where the hell is it coming from?”

The priest peeked his head from behind the car. A round whistled past his head and he jumped back. “From the treeline behind the house!” he called out.

“But what about that fuckin arrow?!”

“It seems like we fell into a coordinated ambush, sheriff!” the priest called back.

Another arrow rained down and struck into a gas cylinder on DuPont’s back. He quickly stripped it off and bolted towards the squad car. The cylinder exploded, briefly launching the sheriff into the air and the honcho erupted into a raging flame. DuPont recovered and finished crawling toward the others. “Sorry about your truck. Again,” he said to Oren.

Hutch lifted his head from the grass and gazed upon the burning honcho. “It looks like that piece of shit finally bit the dust!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 61)

Dirk stood shirtless in front of the old baroque mirror. His many tattoos faded. The mirror itself was gifted to him by John Pemberton in 63. It was just before their defeat in Vicksburg. The sheriff closed his eyes and considered the old General. Nothing came to mind. All their adventures and campaigns faded into abstraction and the general’s face was nothing more than a scrawl on white canvas. This was also true of Pizarro. And Cortez. And…

He threw on a fresh sheriff’s button up and slicked back his hair. He turned around and noticed the Eunuch standing in his doorway. His arms were crossed and his face sullen. “They broke through the perimeter,” he said.

“I figured they would.”

“The Judge demands a plan of action.”

“Don’t worry,” Dirk said. “I have the butler on standby.”

“The butler,” the eunuch smirked. “Ah yes, the butler”. With arms still folded, he turned around and his guffaws echoed down the hallway. Dirk finished up and proceeded down the stairs. He found the butler standing motionless underneath the front awning in formal attire. Not a bead of sweat present on his brow. “Are you ready for this?” the sheriff asked him.

The butler looked across the barren field and squinted. He took a deep breath and soliloquied with his thick British draw. “I found the Norsemen on the edge of River Ouse,” he began. “First came the arrows. Then came the charge. As they advanced across the shallow waters, their screams were as the howling winds of hell. It wreaked havoc in our ranks. Men were trampled underfoot and the ground thickened into a sea of mud, shit, and blood. Those who weren’t killed in the retreat were mercifully slaughtered by the spears and swords. But they saved the damned for the axes. They hacked at the men and the bones and limbs of the dead were strewn across the field and protruded from the mud. The land I once recognized became a holocaust wrought by some forsaken god. So you see sherriff, I’ve already witnessed hell. And I’ve carried those harrowing screams with me everyday since.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 60)

Hutch and Moses jumped out of the bed and scrambled towards the squad car. Oren was slow to follow. He pulled the sheriff aside and lowered his voice. “Do you think you might be overdoing it?”

“What do you mean?” DuPont asked.

“I mean you just lit two deputies on fire. That’s a bit much.”

“No no no,” the sheriff chuckled. “You see, those guys were castoffs from hell. Cursed to roam the earth forever. I was doing them a favor.”

“A favor?”

The priest overheard the conversation and butted in. “The sheriff is right,” he told Oren. “If they drank from the cursed spring then their souls were already damned.”

“How do we know they did?”

“Well,” the sheriff backtracked, “they worked for Judge Castor. It should go without saying.”

“Agreed,” said the priest. “Don’t worry. Our conscious is totally clear.”

“But you drank from the spring, priest,” Oren retorted. “Do we need to do you a favor by lighting you on fire?”

“B-b-b-b-b-but that’s different.”

“No it isn’t.”

“I’m a man of the cloth, ya see.”

Oren rolled his eyes. DuPont shut the conversation down. “There’s no time for a discussion on ethics,” he said. “We gotta destroy that spring no matter the cost. I reckon we’re only a mile or so away.” He looked toward Moses and Hutch who were digging through the inventory of shotguns and revolvers left in the vehicle. “Do you boys think we’ll run into heavy resistance at Castor’s place?” he asked them.

“Hell, we’ve eliminated every deputy in the parish Sheriff!” shouted Moses from the passenger’s seat. “Except for that shitheel Fornier. It’s probably just him and Dirk left.”

“Well, them and a butler and a big hairless dude,” chimed in Hutch. “But they ain’t shit.”

DuPont nodded. “Good. They seem to be outnumbered then.”

The sheriff climbed into the bed of the Honcho. Chaz remained in the driver’s seat while Oren and the priest joined the others in the squad car. “Chaz and I will lead the assault,” announced DuPont. “Once we secure the house, we’ll blow up that spring and send the others back to hell.”

The rest of the gang nodded. The sheriff slapped the top of the cab and the truck moved forward. The police car, driven by Hutch, closely followed. And as the wind swept through the trees, the vehicles passed by the smouldering pile of ash that was once the deputies and the waning flame clutching for survival was huffed out forever.

TO BE CONTINUED…