Back n the saddle (part x)

The thick of day by the Rio Verde had Asmodeus’ ballsack dripping and reeking of shit and raw sewage. And as he bathed himself in the cool river waters, a postal worker on a saddle horse rode upon him and called out.

You there! the postman said.

And Asmodeus covered himself for he had a little ass dick and was ashamed of it. Then he stepped out from the flowing water with one hand over his cock and shouted. How did you find me, he asked the postman.

I’m with the United States government dumbass, the postman told him. I have mail for you.

Asmodeus nodded and nakedly approached the horse wearing only a black Stetson. He took of the mail. And while covering his weiner, he tore open the parcel and read its contents. And when his eyes swept through the pages, his mind raced and his brow furrowed for he had previously thought this to be impossible. Afterwards, with his jaw agape and his black eyes dumbstruck, he released the parcel from his fingertips and the papers swayed into the dirt. I’ve won tickets to see the Spin Doctors in Gilbert, he said. I’ve waited my whole life for this very day.

Well lucky you.

But I didn’t enter my name in any contest.

Never look a gift horse in the mouth, said the postman. Rolling Stone called the Spin Doctors the most revolutionary band of the 90s. They were nominated for a Grammy for Christ sake. Only a fool would pass this opportunity up.

But the concert is tonight.

But but but, mocked the postman. I swear I’ve never met a man with so many excuses. You should cover that little dick of yours and ride on into Gilbert.

He returned his glance to the fallen papers and the postman swung his horse around and galloped north. Asmodeus stood motionless. He scratched his bare ass, spat, and then saddled up his mule.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Back n the saddle (part ix)

And thereupon the old Italian eatery of Tempe, disciples from all four corners of the Phoenix metropolitan area descended and all drank and ate of lasagna and were merry. And I stood upon a chair and lifted a glass and said unto them that one of you sons of bitches will betray me.

Surely not I, cried Chris.

Shut up Chris, said I.

And immediately, Julien stood and said unto the crowd that his bowels rumbleth, for the rigatoni ran through him and he must empty his asshole into the toilet. And he excused himself and departed for the bathroom and I followed him therein. And when I saw him cowering in the stall like a chickenshit, I kicked open the door and lifted him by the lapels and slapped the hell out of him. Then I dragged him out and attempted to drown him in the sink a la Casino Royale but pity fell upon me like a dove and I relinquished him unto the floor. And as he cried and spat blood, I shook my head and choked back my rage.

Why Julien? Why? I pleaded.

Because you’re a walking curse! He called out.

And I said unto him, sure I might lose my temper a lot. And I’ve been belligerently drunk behind a steering wheel one too many times. I also love cocaine and raw dogging prostitutes. And had I of known that the last masseuse who jerked me off was sex trafficked in, I might’ve have turned it down. But this is no time to be rehashing the past Julien. We’re trying to sell some books and scam people out of their money fair and square.

Julien spat. Go back to hell, he said.

I waved him off. How much is he paying you? I asked.

Who?

You know who.

Five thousand gold sovereigns.

Shit. Everyone knows gold is worthless in this economy. What you need is hard US currency. The dollar is stronger than ever under Trump, and I’ve got $15,000 stashed away in an air duct at my hotel. I can have it here in ten minutes.

In exchange for what?

We’ll set a trap for Asmodeus. I’ll even let you keep that piddly satchel of sovereigns he gave you as a down payment.

What are you gonna do to him?

I’m aimin kill him.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Back n the saddle (part viii)

He rode up on him like a fleet footed leopard. It was there at banks of the Verde River where Asmodeus had a bivouac of buffalo skin and mesquite and the air grew cold under a presage and sullen moon. And when Julian came and disembarked his sand colored quarter horse, Asmodeus seized upon him.

Were you trailed?

No said Julien.

Then sit.

And when he sat upon the brownstone, he reached for the sterling silver flask from inside his smock and drank. Asmodeus tended to the waning flame with a coyote roasting on a spit above. He sat his ass on the pebbles of the cove and stared daggers onto Julien with the revived fire flashing in his eyes.

Speak, he said.

They warned me about you, Julien said.

Aye. And who do they say I am.

They say you’re the devil.

And who do you say I am.

If you’re the devil, then Beau Montana must be the ultimate cataclysm.

Asmodeus flashed his yellowed teeth. Then you choose to get in bed with the devil you know? he said.

I reckon so. Montana has lost all touch with reality. He’ll literally piss down your back and tell you it’s raining. He shove his soft penis into the bottom of a candy bowl and tell you to find the gummy worm. He’ll cry at all hours of the night wondering why he didn’t invest earlier in Ethereum. He must be stopped.

Then you will deliver him unto me and end this walking curse?

I suppose. But I gotta know what’s in it for me.

Asmodeus nodded. He stood and wandered unto his tent and brought forth a worn leather satchel. This is one hundred gold sovereigns, he told Julien. Consider it a down payment. You’ll receive the rest upon delivery of Beau Montana.

Julien extended his hand to take of the satchel and Asmodeus seized his arm. He placed upon it a desert scorpion whereupon Julien’s skin turned a pallid white.

Relax, Asmodeus told him. The creature can sense your fear. The fear of what one hides in their heart that which will be brought to light. What do you, dear Julien, have to hide?

He collapsed to his knees and wept. Nothing, he begged.

The creature creeped up his arm and wandered over the side and fell upon the dirt. Asmodeus relinquished his grip and helped the beset man to his feet. Then deliver him unto Tempe, he told Julien. And from there we will rid the earth of this wretched force.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Back n the saddle (part vii)

And they came. And they kept coming until they could come no more. It was a glorious afternoon of nonstop coming. And I stood upon the rock of Sedona and I lit my cigarette and I exhaled clouds of smoke as I gazed upon the soaring eagle above. The masses sat below me, awaiting my word. But more importantly, they waited in line to purchase my book Stories No One Should Read. And after all books were purchased and every copy signed, I said unto the crowd that some seed falls on dry land. Other seed falls upon fertile soil. And some seed is just bad because you’re firing blanks.

And the crowd was astonished. Some scratched their heads. Then I said unto them, use contraceptives cuz you don’t know what seed might fall into what soil. Know what I mean?

And as they mulled these words, they shook their heads and wandered off. Then Julian took me aside and said unto me that the people don’t understand what the hell I’m saying. I shrugged and puffed more smoke, for it was apparent I had been strung out for four days minus one. And immediately, a crack rang out from the ridge above. The bullet kicked up red dirt at my feet and all ran for cover. I raised my hands and shouted. Foolish one, I cried out. I am on PCP goddamnit! I’m unstoppable, you hear me! Unstoppable!

Then the laugh echoed down the mountain as Asmodeusu taunted me. I revealed my .357. Show yourself pussy, I ordered unto him. And he rode down the mountainside upon a white horse. His black cloak swayed unto the wind. I placed another cigarette to my lips and my eyes glared bolts of lightning upon him. Then his horse trotted before me. He climbed off his mustang and flashed his grimy teeth.

Beau Montana, he softly spoke with his serpent tongue.

You don’t have the guts to shoot me, I said to him.

Perhaps not, he said. But I ain’t aimin to kill ya. Then he spat upon the red rock and the brown spittle steamed under the noon sun.

I inhaled from the cigarette. Then I blew the spent carcinogens unto his face. Fuck you, I said. You’ll need an army to take me back to the netherworld.

His sudden guffaw could have cracked open heaven and earth. Birds of the sky trembled and all the creeping things of the desert burrowed into their caves. Yet I was steadfast. For I knew his wrath and evil. And it wasn’t shit.

Have it your way Beau Montana, said he. But know this. These mountains have eyes.

Yeah? Well I have eyes for your mom. Tell her I said hi.

And with his tail between his legs, Asmodeus climbed back upon the white horse and slowly trodded away into the canyon. And as I watched him, I couldn’t stop yellin shit. I hope you don’t have to piss, I called out. These mountains might see that tiny pecker of yours!

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 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…

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…