Tag Archives: romance

Feb 21 2016
8 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 43

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Like a prisoner waiting for a pardon from the governor, Slade sat in the visitor’s chair across from the Reverend Cavanaugh’s desk, staring at his pocket watch as it ticked closer and closer to six o’clock.

Out in the hallway, the Good Reverend chatted with the bride.

“Reverend,” Sarah said. “Surely there’s some biblical interpretation that would render the bed sheet unnecessary?”

“Oh no,” Reverend Cavanaugh replied. “For as Hezekiah said unto Mordecai who in turn said unto the Edomites, ‘Whoever lies together as husband and wife shall form an eternal bond of the flesh that shall never be torn asunder…”

“Yes, I’ve read Hezekiah’s pronouncements on the subject,” Sarah said. “But my first husband, God rest his soul, departed quite some time ago. Isn’t the promise made during a marriage ceremony restricted to ‘until death do us part?’”

“One would think so,” the Reverend said. “But funny thing about that. The Apostle Paul once gave a testimony which stated…”

Slade’s head hit the desk with a colossal “THUD” as his bride walked away with the preacher. He shut his eyes. He tuned out the world. He rested there for a few minutes, clearing his mind of any thoughts. It felt good to have some peace.

It was short lived. He heard footsteps enter the room and looked up to find a redhead standing over him.

“Bonnie?”

“Hi.”

“You…”

“I shouldn’t be here I know,” Miss Bonnie said as she tucked a roll of bills into Slade’s hand. “I just wanted you to have this.”

“What’s this for?” Slade asked.

“It’s all the money you ever paid me,” Miss Bonnie said.

Slade attempted to hand it back. “I don’t want this.”

“I know,” Miss Bonnie said as she pushed Slade’s hand away. “But I need you to take it. I realized it too late but the time we had together was very special to me. In the future, when I look back on it, I don’t want to think it had anything to do with money.”

Slade looked at the cash in his hand. “That’s not what you said though.”

“I know,” Miss Bonnie said.

“You said I was just a customer,” Slade said.

“I know,” Miss Bonnie replied. “And I was wrong. You weren’t. You were a lot more than that. Take care of yourself, OK?”

Miss Bonnie pecked a quick kiss on Slade’s cheek and then started to walk away. Slade grabbed her arm.

“You can’t just do this,” he said.

“Do what?” Miss Bonnie asked.

As it always did around his favorite redhead, Slade’s rasp disappeared and his tongue untied itself. “You can’t tell me I don’t mean anything to you and then show up and tell me you changed your mind after someone else falls for me without having to think twice about it. We’re not kids and you can’t treat me like I’m some old toy you lost interest in only to like it again once you see some other kid playing with it.”

“I’m sorry,” Miss Bonnie said. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll go.”

“So what is this?” Slade asked. “You make some grand romantic gesture and I’m supposed to leave Sarah at the altar for you and if I don’t then what? It’s MY fault that we aren’t together now?”

“No,” Miss Bonnie said.

“Because it’s not my fault,” Slade said.

Miss Bonnie’s tears started to flow. “I know. I’ll go to my grave knowing it’s my fault. Is that what you want me to say?”

“No,” Slade said.

“Every day I wake up wishing I hadn’t said what I did to you that day,” Miss Bonnie said. “But I did. And I can’t change that.”

Slade felt like crying now. Of course he didn’t. Tough guys don’t cry.

“There is no choice for you here,” Miss Bonnie said. “If I felt like I could be half the wife she could be to you then maybe I’d ask you to run away with me but I know I could never make you as happy as she could.”

Slade sniffled. He was sure it was just a stuffed up nose. It had nothing to do with sadness whatsoever. “You’re wrong about that.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Miss Bonnie said. “If you asked me right here, right now to run away with you I still wouldn’t because I’d never want another woman to suffer the humiliation of being left on her wedding day because of me.”

Slade and Miss Bonnie stared into each other’s eyes for a moment, each wondering who would break first.

“Run away with me,” Slade said.

Miss Bonnie patted Slade on the cheek. “Nope.”

The would be couple that never was gawked at each other for at least another minute, drinking each other in.  Miss Bonnie dried her eyes.

“Goodbye,” Miss Bonnie said and turned around only to bump right into the bride herself.

Sarah was a vision in white. Perfect hair. Perfect makeup. Perfect everything. Mrs. Anderson had outdone herself.

It was an emotional encounter for Slade. First, a terrifying panic washed over him. How much had Sarah heard? She wasn’t saying anything. Was she mad? The panic turned into relief. He’d been caught. He’d feel terrible but now the wedding would be off and he never actually had to stop it himself. Except Sarah didn’t look mad. Why wasn’t she mad?

“Rain,” Sarah said. “Mr. O’Brien is waiting to take our picture.”

The rasp returned. “OK.”

“Who is this?” Sarah asked.

To Slade’s dismay, Miss Bonnie was an exceptional con-artist.

“So anyway, Mr. Slade,” Miss Bonnie said. “I’d be happy to donate some wine for your wedding. What do you think? About a half dozen bottles?”

“Shit” was what Slade thought but “yup” was all he said.

“Oh hello there,” Miss Bonnie said as she shook Sarah’s hand. “Bonnie Lassiter and you must be the lucky lady.”

“Hello,” Sarah said.

“I run the saloon down the road and let me tell you, Mr. Slade was a big help when he was the law in these parts,” Miss Bonnie said. “Yessiree, whenever there was a stick-up or a drunk that needed tossing out why, good old Marshal Slade was right there to do his duty. I just felt I had to do something to show my appreciation when I heard you two were having your nuptials.”

Sarah was clearly buying it. Unfortunately, the performance had the effect of making Slade fall for Miss Bonnie even harder.

“Oh,” Sarah said. “Yes! I have heard of you! Mrs. Hutchins told me you’re the town whore!”

“Ugh,” Miss Bonnie said. “That bitch.”

“Pardon?” Sarah asked.

“Oh that’s rich,” Miss Bonnie said. “That Ophelia Hutchins, she’s a real cut up. I don’t do that anymore.”

“Well good for you,” Sarah said. “It’s never too late to save your soul.”

“Yeah,” Miss Bonnie said as she headed for the door. “I’m all kinds of worried about my soul. So anyway, I’ll have that wine sent right over.”

“Oh no thank you,” Sarah said. “We don’t drink.”

“Of course you don’t,” Bonnie said. “What was I thinking? Everyone knows Rainier Slade is the biggest teetotaler in town. Sarsaparilla it is!”

Miss Bonnie walked away and Slade feared, out of his life forever.

“Oh my,” Sarah said as she left the room. “It’s bad luck for us to see each other right now, isn’t it? I’ll see you outside.”

The money in Slade’s hand had become wet with his sweat. He mulled over Miss Bonnie’s words. “There is no choice for you here.”

An empty collection plate sat on the Reverend’s desk. Slade plunked the money on top of it and reported for duty.

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Feb 20 2016
4 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 41

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Back at the Bonnie Lass, the Buchanan Boys carried on with their raucous party late into the afternoon. Highlights included:

  • Homer Buchanan taking shots at customers’ feet, demanding that they dance.
  • Zeke Buchanan relieving himself wherever he pleased.
  • Stephen Buchanan exhibiting a firm belief that pants were optional.
  • And last but not least, Augustus Buchanan singing “Camptown Races” over and over again.

Miss Bonnie and Waldo stood behind the bar, taking it all in.

“Do they just live here now?” Waldo asked.

“I guess,” Miss Bonnie said. “I don’t know.”

“Can’t you do something?” the barkeep inquired.

“I keep trying to talk to Mr. Blythe,” Miss Bonnie said. “But he’s so damn convincing.”

Blake pushed his way through the swinging doors and found a seat next to Townsend.

“Well, you won’t believe the horse shit I just heard,” Blake said as he plunked a few coins on the bar. Waldo poured him his usual scotch and handed it over.

“Bathing’s become socially acceptable?” Miss Bonnie asked.

Townsend saw Miss Bonnie’s dig and raised her a “You’re a bigger drunk than U.S. Grant?”

Everyone looked at Waldo. He had nothing. “Um…you’re stupid?”

“Ha, ha ha,” Blake said. He downed the shot and pounded the glass on the bar. “No, no and you’re one to talk, Waldo. Get this. I’m down at the store…”

“…buying your pecker rash cream…” Miss Bonnie interjected.

“Can I tell a story here?” Blake asked.

Waldo set the barfly up with another shot. “Thank you,” Blake said. “And I hear old Mrs. Anderson talking about fixing up a dress for the Widow Farquhar. Turns out she and that lousy excuse for a marshal are tying the knot.”

Miss Bonnie felt her sense of humor leave her in an instant.

“Slade and the Widow Farquhar?” Townsend said.  “Get out!”

“I will not, thank you very much,” Blake said.

“Eh, who cares?” Townsend asked. “Good for him.”

“‘Good for him?’” Blake repeated. “Shit, the Widow Farquhar’s got all that money and  land. Slade’s making out like a bandit.”

“She’s a real looker that Widow Farquhar,” Waldo said.

“I wouldn’t mind being in Slade’s shoes,” Townsend added.  “Waking up every morning next to the Widow Farquhar.”

“What has that son of a bitch ever done to deserve a woman like the Widow Farquhar?” Blake asked.

Miss Bonnie had heard enough. “Maybe he does more than just sit on his ass and pour booze down his gullet all day, ya’ degenerate!”

The proprietor stormed off upstairs.  When she reached the top, she turned around and yelled, “And stop calling her ‘the Widow Farquhar!'”

“What’s eating her?” Townsend asked.

Waldo shrugged his shoulders.

“Hike up your boots, boys,” Townsend said. “There’s a red flood a-comin!”

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Feb 18 2016
7 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 39

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If you wanted to buy something in Highwater, whether it was an axe or a suit, Anderson’s General Store was the place to be.

Dressing like a refined gentleman was a new experience for Slade. His collar felt tight. He’d never worn a tie before and couldn’t wait to take it off. He couldn’t believe that he’d allowed himself to be talked into wearing a cummerbund. A red one to boot.

Mrs. Anderson was a boney old hag who reeked of peppermint candy, though her face was sweet enough that looked as though she’d been a head turner in her day. After all, she once turned Jim Anderson’s head, though as the bald chubby man studied his accounts ledger, he didn’t look like a particularly great catch.

“So dashing!” Sarah said. “What do you think?”

Grunt.

“Is that good?” Mrs. Anderson asked.

“I have no idea,” Sarah replied.

“Is it proper to wear a hat in church?” Mrs. Anderson asked. “And those guns…you should lose them.”

“True, it is a wedding, dear,” Sarah said.

Slade cleared his throat. “Non-negotiable…on both fronts.”

Mrs. Anderson shook her head. “Men.”

She walked behind the counter, shooed her husband away from the ledger and began jotting down figures.

Slade stared at himself in the mirror, convinced this get up was the first step toward becoming a prissy, dandified girly man. A familiar voice broke his concentration.

“Christ’s sakes, Jim, don’t give me that top shelf shit! Do I look like a Vanderbilt to you?”

Slade turned his head to see his ex-deputy at the counter, purchasing a bottle of whiskey. Gunther forked over his money, took his bottle, and was about to walk off when he spotted his ex-boss.

“WELL HOLE-E-SHIT!”

There was no making a run for it now. Slade was in for it. Gunther walked over, took off his hat and bowed.

“Excuse me, Mr. City Slicker, which way to the op-a-rah house?”

Grunt.

“Did I take a wrong turn and end up in gay Paree?”

Grunt.

“No one told me the King of England was making an appearance.”

“Shut up,” Slade said.

“What’s with the monkey suit?” Gunther asked. “Someone up and croak?”

“What?” Slade asked.

“Whose funeral?” Gunther asked.

Slade felt like it was his but realized that wasn’t what Gunther meant. “It’s for a…” Slade’s voice trailed off unintelligibly.

“A what?” Gunther asked.

Slade mumbled again. Gunther put his hand up to his ear.

“Speak up, sonny. My ears aren’t as good as they used to be.”

“A wedding!” Slade said.

Gunther smiled. “Get outta town! When?”

“Tonight,” Slade said.

“Shit, you youngsters don’t waist any time do you?” Gunther said.

“I guess not,” Slade replied. Gunther was already off to the counter, shaking Sarah’s hand up and down. “Congratulations on your impending nuptials, Widow Farquhar!”

“Why thank you,” Sarah said. “You’ll join us, won’t you?”

Gunther put his arm around Slade’s shoulder. “Why I wouldn’t miss it for the world and Rain, don’t you worry none, the answer is yes.”

“Huh?” Slade asked.

“Yes,” Gunther replied.

“What the hell’s the question?” Slade asked.

“Will I be your best man?” Gunther said. “Of course I will, ya’ jackass, you don’t even have to ask.”

The thought hadn’t crossed Slade’s mind but realizing there was no other candidate for the job, he didn’t question it. Sarah seconded it.

“I think that’s a lovely idea,” she said.

“Widow Farquhar,” Gunther said. “Could I borrow the groom for a spell? Official best man business.”

“Of course,” Sarah said. She turned her attention to Mrs. Anderson. “You’ll deliver the dress tonight then?”

“Yes honey,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

Gunther led Slade outside. From the steps of the general store, they could see the newly arrived train sitting at the station. Legion employees in conductor uniforms puttered about the platform, loading equipment.

“That is some nefarious and suspicious shit right there,” Gunther said. “What do you think?”

“It’s big,” Slade said. “We rode past it on the way in. Has to be at least three miles long. One of those big guns on every fifth car.”

“Rain, I know I schooled you well in the art of saying ‘fuck it,’” Gunther said. “But now might be one of those times where your ill-advised recklessness is required.”

“What do you want me to do?” Slade asked.

“I don’t know,” Gunther said. “You’re the boss. I’m just the help.”

“Not anymore,” Slade said. “And I’m getting hitched.”

Gunther and Slade shared a moment of silence. “You sure that’s what you want?” the old man asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Slade said.

“What else is new?” Gunther asked. He pulled the cork out of his bottle, took a sip, then offered Slade some. He declined.

Sarah walked out of the store and took Slade’s arm. “Mrs. Anderson said you’re free to wear your suit out of the store but darling, please don’t get it dirty.”

“I better go pay,” Slade said.

“Oh sweetheart I took care of that,” Sarah said.

Gunther felt like a third wheel. “This sounds like one hell of a shin dig, folks. I better go and get my own fancy duds out of moth balls.”

“Six o’clock, Mr. Beauregard,” Sarah said.

“Ma’am, wild horses could not drag me away,” Gunther said. The old timer walked away.

“Sarah…”

“What is it?” Sarah asked. “You look cross. More so than usual.”

“You can’t just…pay for me.”

“Why not?” Sarah asked.

“It’s like I’m a…” Slade whispered the next part, “…a damn gigolo.”

Sarah led her man down the street. “Don’t be ridiculous! We’re to be married soon. What’s mine is yours and yours is mine. Come now, we have a long day ahead. I hope we can find a photographer.”

Slade craned his neck once more at that train. He knew Gunther was right.

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Feb 18 2016
5 Comments
Discussions

Do Rom-coms Create Stalkers?

Hey 3.5 Readers.

I read this column, “The Dark Side of Rom-Coms” on the CNN website by Julia Lippman, a post-doctoral fellow in communication studies at the University of Michigan and thought it would make for a good discussion here.

Go read it.  The gist is basically those romantic comedies might not be harmless as you think.  A guy who stands outside a girl’s window holding a boom box in the air a la Say Anything is weird.  A guy who hires a private investigator to track down his prom date thirteen years later a la Something About Mary is even weirder.

Though in the context of movies, we laugh and have fun, men might be taking cues to relentlessly pursue or even stalk women…that they might get it in their heads that their persistent advances on uninterested women aren’t bad behavior but rather, charming displays of romance a la Lloyd Dobler.

Hmmm.  Well, here’s my first observation:

I am a man and I have zero interest in romantic comedies.  Romantic comedies are made for, geared towards, and primarily marketed to women.

There’s Something About Mary isn’t really a good example.  That’s more of a raunchy comedy that just happens to involve romance.  I liked that one, but any other romantic comedy?  No.  No interest.

I’ve never seen a commercial that went like this…

He was a guy down on his luck. She was the girl who had it all.  This summer, Hunky Guy and Hot Girl in Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah.

…and was like “OMG I MUST SEE THIS!”  No.  Never.  I’ve never seen a rom-com on my own.  Any time I’ve seen one involved seeing it because someone else wanted to see it.

Are there all different varieties of men?  Yes.  Are there some men who like romantic comedies?  Sure.

But I don’t like them and while I don’t know if there’s been a study commissioned on this, I’d dare say the lion’s share of men aren’t spending their days thinking “Oh my God I want to see She’s My Gal or Love in the Time of Love or whatever dopey title the latest romantic schlock is called.

So in my opinion, don’t worry.  Men aren’t going to become stalkers because of rom-coms because we’re too busy watching super hero movies.

Why?  That leads us to my next observation:

As a man, I prefer action movies, super hero movies and so on.

Here is the plot of Avengers 2: Age of Ultron:

A billionaire in an iron suit, a Norse God, a scientist who turns into a green rage monster when he gets mad, an invincible WWII veteran, a Russian assassin and an expert arrow shooter join forces to stop an evil robot.

I loved it.  I enjoyed it.  And do you know why?  Though it was sheer, utter fantastic nonsense, it was more believable than any rom com ever written.

Why?  My next observation:

Love rarely works out as perfectly as it does in the movies.

It really, really doesn’t.  Which leads to another observation:

Personally, I believe if there is any “risk” involved in rom-coms, it is that they encourage women to yearn for highly unlikely Hollywood generated scenarios that could never happen in real life, all the while ignoring what’s around them.

I’m just going by personal experience.  Over the  years, women have basically trained me to treat a first date like a job interview.  What are the job interview rules?

  • Don’t sneeze.
  • Don’t burp.
  • Don’t fart.
  • Don’t scratch.
  • Make a little eye contact but not too much.  Don’t talk about anything controversial.
  • Don’t say anything that resembles your thoughts, opinions, hopes and or dreams.
  • Ask questions and provide a general sense of interest.  However, not too much interest.  Don’t inquire about anything deep or meaningful.  Stick to the weather.  “Nice weather we are having” will prove that you are alive and have a pulse but cannot be construed as being too intimate.
  • Don’t be yourself at all.  You are horrible.  Wait to be yourself until you’re hired and then it is too much of a chore to replace you.

I mean that’s pretty much what dating has become now, thanks in large part to Hollywood convincing women through romantic movies that they should expect pure, unadulterated perfection out of men at all times or bust.

Men can follow all those rules and still be rejected when women jump to conclusions based on harmless stimuli:

MAN SCRATCHES HEAD.

WOMAN THINKS: He scratched his head sixty seven minutes into the date.  That’s a deal breaker.  I’ll be damned if I’m going to be saddled with a head scratcher!

MAN DROPS HIS KEYS.

WOMAN THINKS: He dropped his keys.  Clearly has reflex issues.  I’ll be picking up his keys until the end of time.

MAN SHOWS UP EARLY.

WOMAN THINKS: Must be obsessed with me.  Clearly thought about me all day.  Probably slept over in the restaurant parking lot all night and day just to be here five minutes early.

MAN SHOWS UP LATE

WOMAN THINKS:  What a self-absorbed psychopath to make me wait five minutes.

You laugh!  You laugh, but this is what men are facing now.  Thanks to handsome, hunky men in romantic comedies who always say and do the right thing, we have to deal with women who aren’t happy unless we’re jacked up and all muscly, picking them up on our white horses with the wind blowing our luxurious hair and we never make a mistake or do anything wrong.

I mean, holy shit, if you’re an average man and you’ve got a wife that Hollywood has trained to think you should look and act like early 1990’s Hugh Grant, then good luck to you if you forget to rinse off your dish before you go to bed one night as she’s going to divorce you, take half your shit and go off in search of Mr. Romantic Comedy Man, who does not exist.

And if you have a pimple, or some minor bodily flaw?  Jesus Christ, forget it.  Just forget it.  Wait for the scientific community to invent robot girlfriends because you’re never getting a human girlfriend when Hollywood is telling women to hold on because Bradley F$%King Cooper is going to swoop in and whisk them away any second.

BQB, this column is getting a little one sided.  Surely there are movies that mess with men’s minds too.

There are.  There are probably dudes who see hot actresses and expect that women who have jobs and commitments should look like they spend 24 hours a day working on their bodies the way actresses do.  There are probably even dudes who like rom coms and expect a woman to be perfect like the rom com leading lady.

Anyway, those are my main observations.  Lippman did end her column by pointing out that she isn’t in favor of banning rom coms or anything.  And she does note, as I would point out too, that only an idiot would take love advice from a movie.

And if you take the rom com part of it out, the more debate worthy topic might be when does pursuit cross the line into stalking?

Everyone probably has a different idea on that.  My general argument would be if you like someone and know your friend is a friend of that someone and said friend is throwing a party and you ask to come so you can chat up the person you’re interested in, that’s just an attempt at kindling amore.

But if you know none of those people and just followed a person you saw walking down the street to a party and you spent the whole night in a dark van waiting to catch a glimpse…yeah, you might be a stalker.

All joking aside, if you like someone, be cool, give it a respectful try, but once rebuffed, realize that there are other fish in the sea, so plant your hook elsewhere.

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Feb 14 2016
7 Comments
Things That Really Frost My Ass

Things That Really Frost My Ass – Valentine’s Day Edition

By: Uncle Hardass, Grumpy Old Man Correspondent 

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Renowned Romance Expert Hardassimo J. Scrambler, BQB’s Grumpy Uncle

Hello degenerate 3.5 readers.  Still wasting your time trying to become writers I see. Despite your old Uncle Hardass’ repeated efforts to put you on the straight and narrow path, you’re all still convinced that you’re going to be the next Hugh Howey.

And you know what?  Maybe you all ought to shut yourselves up in a big grain silo for a decade or two just to get some inspiration for your next writing project.  God knows the world would be a better place without all you damn hippies in it.

The salt mines are still hiring, by the way.  GET A JOB!

Anyway, it’s Valentine’s Day.  The day of love.  Amor, mon cheri.  I know this comes as no surprise, but back in my day, I was quite the ladies’ man.

Why, when Gertie and I started going steady, I used to whisper sweet nothings in her ear like “Where’s my damn sandwich?” and “My dirty pants aren’t going to launder themselves.”

And Gertie was no slouch either.  Why, I remember one day we were taking a romantic walk through the drug store to pick up my hemorrhoid medication, the kind I like in the tube with the applicator tip, and she said to me, “Well, what the shit, I guess if I could do any better than you, Hardassimo, I’d of done it by now.”

Now that’s love.

aunt-gertie

Gertrude “Aunt Gertie” Scrambler – Last seen working her way through every roadie employed by a Grateful Dead tribute band.

Nothing spells love like settling, 3.5 hippy readers.  And for those of you at home stuffing your free Dairy Queen blizzards in your suckholes and reading a blog that only attracts an audience of 3.5 readers, let me ask you this:

Have you considered settling?

Listen, I get it.  You have dreams.  You’re probably young and you’ve been led to believe crazy ideas like “I’m special” and “I deserve good things to happen to me” and “I believe in myself so all my dreams will come true.”

Look, that may all be well and good but lets face it.  Ladies, your Prince Charming is not riding up on his noble steed any time soon and men, a bus load of bikini models is not going to ever hire you to be their towel boy either.

If you’re alone this Valentine’s Day and you’re reading this pathetic excuse for a blog, then there’s a statistically high probability that you are what my nephew Bookshelf Q. Battler might call a C.H.U.D. and he doesn’t mean that in a disrespectful tone.  He’d be the first to tell you that he is one.

Hell, I tell BQB that he looks like a  “Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dweller” all the time and he never thanks me for it.  Don’t blame him for his rudeness.  He’s a blood relative on Gertie’s side of the family, so he never had the chance to inherit his Uncle Hardass’ good manners, looks, hard worth ethic, or his general ability to display kindness and sensitivity.

Look, if you millennials have come to me for advice about your love lives, you’ve come to the wrong place.  Way back when I was a youngster if a man liked a woman he’d ask her out on a date to the malt shoppe and if he had a good job and wasn’t a damn communist, her father would push her out the door like any God fearing American would have done at the time.

Ahh, but you new age young people have it all ass backwards now.  Ask a girl out on a date today and you’ll get accused of intruding on her “safe space” with a “micro aggression.”

Ladies, I’m not saying you have it any better now either.  Women used to be able to bat their eyelashes at a man they liked and that was it.  Now if you do that the guy’s liable to reach into his man purse and offer you a dab of his manscara.

That wasn’t a gay joke.  That was a straight men have become just as bad as women are at primping themselves all the time joke.  My nephew BQB has informed me that one errant gay joke is enough to leave you labeled as being worse than Charles Manson these days and I for one have always been an advocate for the gays.  As long as they work hard, pay their taxes and mow their damn lawns then I could care less what they do behind closed doors. More cooter for me, I say.

But I digress.  Let me return to the topic of settling.

If you’re reading this blog and you are alone on Valentine’s Day….SETTLE!

YOU!  Yes you.  The gal reading this dumb blog while you’re petting a calico cat with one hand and scooping  Ben and Jerry’s into your face hole with the other.

Why aren’t you settling?

You think I’m being mean here but I’m not.  Most of the time I am but not this time.  What was going through your mind when you rejected that geek that you met at your friend’s party last week?  You know.  That loser with the dopey glasses who couldn’t stop talking about the “Settlers of Catan Strategy Club” he’s in.

He called you and left a message.  Why haven’t you called that asshole back yet?

Oh I know.  “Some day things are going to turn around.  I’m going to blossom into a beautiful butterfly and Brad Pitt is going to knock down my door.”

Yeah.  Well.  Look.  One day he might.  One day my dumbass nephew might get a real job too.  Until God starts passing out miracles, call that dufus up and go on a date with him, will you?  What have you got to lose?

Holy shit.  He’s a C.H.U.D.  You’re a C.H.U.D.  Why are you damn C.H.U.D.s at home alone, stroking your ugly pets alone, watching TV alone, when you could be snuggled up nice and tight together as a hideous C.H.U.D. couple, getting a start on your bright C.H.U.D. future together and working on making some C.H.U.D. babies to scare the shit out of the nurses in the maternity ward?

I’ll tell you why.  To quote Marcellus Wallace in that Pulp Fiction movie that my stupid nephew used to watch on a continuous loop when he was growing up, “That’s pride talking.”

Yes.  You’ve convinced yourself that Brad Pitt is just around the corner.  Keep yourself single so you’ll be ready when Brad wakes up one day in his damn mansion, turns to his wife, Angelina Jolie and cries, “Holy shit, Angelina!  I’m sorry but I just realized I’m attracted to she-C.H.U.D.s with a penchant for overweight felines and novelty Vermont based ice cream products!”

Is there anything wrong with you for wanting better?  No.  That’s just human nature.  Shit, the day you stop wanting more is the day they outfit you for a pine box.

Keep wanting better but Jesus, take what you can get in the mean time.  If the bazillion to one shot that Brad leaves Angelina for you ever works out in your favor, then you can let the C.H.U.D. boyfriend you settled for go.  Maybe see if Brad can toss him a few bucks so he can get some plastic surgery to look less hideous so he can find a babe to replace you.

Holy Shit, I’ve dated myself, haven’t I?  None of you dummies know who Brad and Angelina are do you?  Who are the C.H.U.D. millennial girls hoping knocks on their door?  Justin Beiber?  Shit.  I have no idea.

Men, take a knee because your dumb asses aren’t getting off the hook easy either.  All you male C.H.U.D.s at home playing video games in your mother’s basement instead of asking that girl who works at the Arby’s that you visit three times a day to toss big beef and cheddars down your gullet.  Why don’t you ask her out?  What?  Because she has crooked teeth and a hair lip?

Shit.  I’m sure she’s still a nice gal.  Take her out to a few movies then once you get her in the sack you can plant some subliminal messages around the house.  Put a free coupon for lip waxing in the magazine she’s reading.  Tell her you have no idea how it got there.  Put an orthodontia documentary on the TV and blast it on high while she’s sleeping.  Maybe it’ll sink in.

Or just say screw it and learn to love her for her Yeti lip and snaggle teeth because let’s face it, you’re fatter than most planets and you could sell the rights to your face to Halloween mask companies.  Stop holding out for Blake Lively.  Blake Lively would not touch your diseased micro phallus if it was the only option to keep an alien race from exploding a thermonuclear bomb inside the Earth’s core.

Yeah.  Shit.  When I put it like that you want to call that Arby’s cashier up now, don’t you?

And just as the dopey gal with the cat can drop her C.H.U.D. boyfriend if Brad shows up, you too can show the Arby’s girl the door if Blake Lively falls out of love with her handsome movie star husband Ryan Reynolds and decides she’s been missing out when it comes to the micro genitalia of men that play video games in their mothers’ basements all day.

Yes, I know you young folk have been raised with perpetual pats on your back for doing nothing and participation ribbons for just showing up and you were taught to expect that every one of your wildest dreams will come true, so you may hate my guts for dousing you with this cold water but I’m really doing you a favor here.

I worry about you C.H.U.D.s.  I really, really do.  I’m not just saying that either.  Right now there’s a lonely she-C.H.U.D. and a lonely he-C.H.U.D. reading this and those C.H.U.D.s could be out having a swell time together on Valentine’s Day instead of wasting their time alone, apart, with nothing better to do than read my incompetent nephew’s bullshit blog.

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You ugly people should be together, having a good time, talking, laughing, getting to know each other and should the mood strike, exploring each others’ hideous, disgusting bodies, the types of bodies that Brad and Blake wouldn’t touch with rubber gloves covered in disinfectant.

Look, I wanted Rita Hayworth but I settled for Gertie.  And Gertie wanted Frank Sinatra but she got stuck with me.  We each wanted better but we weren’t dummies.  Like a lousy strip mall insurance lawyer, or a new house on a rickety foundation, we settled and you should too.

But Uncle Hardass, why are you telling me to settle for someone who treats me like shit and is mean to me and steals all my money and hits me and so on?

Jesus.  You 3.5 readers have reading comprehension problems.  I didn’t say settle for someone who’s a total asshole or doesn’t treat you with the dignity you deserve and shit, you don’t even have to settle for someone you don’t like or aren’t interested in.  If, for whatever reason, they just aren’t greasing your spark plugs, you don’t have to seem them again.  Don’t settle for someone if you don’t foresee any possible way of being in love with them.

All I’m saying is, at the risk of sounding hokey,  we’re all God’s children, made as he made us, aren’t we?

Ladies, go on a date with that geek.  Fellas, go on a date with that she-nerd.  Worst that happens is you don’t have a good time, it doesn’t feel right, and you don’t go out again.  Best that happens is you gave it a shot and you end up having a great time with someone you’d like to get to know better and you aren’t waiting around for something to happen.  Something is actually happening instead.

All I’m saying is you might be missing out on the love of your life for some dumb superficial reason, you dumbass.

Eh, but what do I know?  The more I watch the news, the more it seems like everyone’s an asshole these days so maybe all you single people are better off alone.  The world’s falling apart, so no need to procreate just to hand a shitty world to a new generation of losers who will cock it all up even worse than it is now, if that’s even possible.

Happy Valentine’s Day, lonely 3.5 readers.  Buck up, keep a stiff upper lip, and better luck next year.

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Feb 14 2016
3 Comments
Tomfoolery

Happy Valentine’s Day 3.5 Readers

If you have someone, enjoy the day.

If you’re single, you can go to Dairy Queen and ask for a Free Singles Blizzard.  (Article in Fortune Magazine.)

I mean, if you’re not so prideful that you feel like going up to a teenage minimum wage slave and asking for a free ice cream treat to help dull the crippling pain of your seemingly endless loneliness isn’t beneath you and all.

I’m sure this promotion wasn’t created by a beautiful person or anything.

ATTRACTIVE AD EXEC 1 – Let’s give free ice cream to the lonely people on Valentine’s Day!

ATTRACTIVE AD EXEC 2 – Great idea! Ugly people love ice cream and they love deals that require them to admit that they’re single on the most romantic day of the year in order to stuff free food in their face holes!

If you’re in love, celebrate right.

If not, better luck next year and remember, you’re always loved as a member of BQB’s 3.5 readers club.  Why do you need a soulmate when you’ve got free ice cream and an independently published blog to read?  Seriously.  Stop being selfish.

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Feb 04 2016
9 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 18

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After lunch, Slade and Sarah took a constitutional along the banks of the Mississippi River, which flowed just outside Highwater, hence the town’s name.

They arrived just in time to catch “The Belle of the Ball,” a massive red and white steamboat, make its way down river. Happy passengers toured the deck, men in suits, ladies in full length dresses carrying parasols.

“I would love to take a journey on one of those one day,” Sarah said.

Most quick witted men would have seen that statement as an “in” to slip in an offer to take Sarah on a boat ride. Slade, on the other hand, just grunted.

Sarah took Slade’s arm and rested her head on her shoulder. “At the risk of sounding like a ninny I must say I’ve enjoyed the past few days with you, Rain.”

“Mmm hmm,” Slade replied.

“Have you as well?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“I love your quiet confidence,” Sarah said. “Jebediah, oh how awful for me to speak ill of the dead, but he was different…”

Slade just kept watching the steamboat go by, its enormous paddle wheel turning around and around.

“…all he ever wanted to do was talk about his feelings, his worries, his burdens. I did my best as is the place of any good wife but it became so tiresome for me.”

Slade wasn’t sure he liked what he was hearing.

“Men really should be the rock that women lean on, shouldn’t they?” Sarah asked. “All that emotion, so unmanly, don’t you think?”

“Uh huh.”

Slade didn’t mean that “uh huh.” He found himself missing Miss Bonnie more than ever. Deep within his heart, a battle began, between his love for the only woman he was able to drop the macho man act around, and the woman who wanted that macho man. Miss Bonnie took him as he actually was, Sarah was enchanted by the brave face he put on.

But Sarah was there and as the old saying goes, a bird in the hand…

“What are your intentions?” Sarah asked.

“Huh?”

“Rain I know we’ve only just met but time passes by so quickly,” Sarah said. “My child birthing years will soon be behind me, and it is rather unseemly for us to be seen carrying on around town without…”

Slade raised a quizzical brow. Sarah took her arm back.

“Perhaps I’m pushing too hard,” Sarah said. “It’s just that…I’m not a hussy, Rain. Handholding, picnicking…”

Sarah looked around to check if there was anyone listening in. Seeing no one, she whispered, “I’ve seen you shirtless!”

“All these things should mean something,” she continued. “I wouldn’t do them with just any man.”

“Uh huh.”

Sometimes a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Whether its gunslinging or romance, there’s no room for hesitation.

Slade got down on one knee, took Sarah’s hand into his and what came next wasn’t exactly the most theilling proposal ever made, but it got the job done.

“Will ya’?”

Sarah’s eyes welled up. “Yes!”

Overcome with joy, she wrapped herself around Slade, smothering him with kisses, an act she quickly recoiled from.

“We shouldn’t be kissing outside of marriage,” she said. Then after a pause, she pressed her lips against Slade’s for more. “Lord, forgive me just this once.”

They found a rock and sat down. They kissed awhile longer then Sarah began laying out all her plans for the future. The wedding, the children, everything.

“We’ll need a ring to make this official,” she said.

“I got one,” Slade replied, thinking about the ring he once intended for Miss Bonnie. Now it was just gathering dust in his desk drawer back at the Marshal’s office.

Slade ran his off the cuff decision through his head. Was he an idiot? Had he just ruined any chance of ever being with Miss Bonnie or was he smart to shore up a sure thing rather than hold out for a long shot? He did feel affection toward Sarah, but he wasn’t sure if it was love or just appreciation for a woman making it clear she loved him.

The Marshal’s concentration was shot by the blaring of a train whistle. From his vantage point, he could see a locomotive chugging in over the Sturtevant Bridge, pulling a long line of cars behind it.

Emblazoned on the side of each car in bold black letters was one word. “LEGION.”

The door of one of the cars rolled open. Three men cracked open one barrel after another, dumping a steady stream of red liquid straight into the Mississippi.

Sarah was too busy dreaming to pay attention. She missed the whole spectacle.

“If it’s a boy, I’ve always been partial to ‘William.’ What do you think?”

“Huh?”

Sarah kissed Rain again. “You’re overwhelmed, aren’t you?”

“Something like that,” Rain said.

The train headed to Highwater Station. Sarah carried on for awhile longer until Slade interrupted.

“You need to leave your spread for awhile,” he said. “It’s not safe.”

“Not safe?”

“Something’s going on,” Slade explained. “I’m not sure what but I’ve got a bad feeling.”

Sarah grinned and patted Slade’s hand. “You’re incorrigible.”

“What?”

“You’re a man,” Sarah said. “You…desire…what all men desire but we aren’t married yet, Mr. Slade. Unmarried men and women living together under the same roof would be an abomination in the Lord’s eyes.”

“It’s not that,” Slade said. “There really is…”

Sarah put a finger up against Slade’s lips. “Shhh. I won’t have it. Not another word. Our special day will arrive soon enough and we will get together between the bedsheet and…”

Sarah’s face turned red. “It’s very inappropriate to talk about this.”

Slade felt the situation called for more words than he usually spared. “I’m not talking about that at all. Something sinister is in the works and…wait. Bedsheet?”

“Marriage is until death but there is an interpretation of the good book that indicates that…this is so embarrassing.”

Now Slade wanted to know more than ever.

“That my sinful parts still belong to Jebediah, but the Lord will always approve of a married couple engaging in sexual congress for the purpose of procreation…”

There was a momentary lapse in Slade’s cool demeanor. “Will you spit it out already?!”

Sarah bit her upper lip. “Hence, a hole in a bedsheet.”

Slade felt the bottom fall out of his stomach. A little voice in his head told him to back out of the proposal. Did he really want to limit himself to sex through a hole in a bedsheet for the rest of his life?

But then again, another voice in his head reminded him that sex through a hole in a bedsheet, bland as it sounded, would still be a lot more interesting than the zero activity happening in his boudoir at present.

He went with that voice.

“You’re displeased?” Sarah asked.

“No,” Slade replied.

Sarah’s head was back on Slade’s shoulder. “Such a wonderful man.”

Call it a failure to prioritize, but Slade became so focused on the bedsheet issue to insist any further that Sarah stay in town.

He sucked it up. Maybe in a few years he’d be able to talk her down to a hole in a pillowcase.

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Feb 03 2016
4 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 17

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No makeup. No fancy hairdo. Not even a garter or lingerie or a frilly dress. Miss Bonnie strolled out of the Bonnie Lass wearing a simple white blouse and a blue prairie dress, her hair tied back in a pony tail with the help of a pink ribbon.

She carried a tin of blueberry muffins, purchased from Anderson’s General Store, of course. It was the thought that counted.

“Rain,” she mumbled to herself under her breath. “I’m sorry. I’m very sorry? No. I’m sorry’s good enough. Hell, what do I have to be ‘very’ sorry for?”

As one might expect, the local brothel keeper turned a few heads as she walked by. No one had ever seen her dressed in a respectable manner before.

For the first time since her divorce courtesy of Smith and Wesson, Miss Bonnie felt ready to give her heart to another man. Well, to allow him to take up space in it at least. She wasn’t about to roll over easy and she still wanted Slade to work for it but she figured a tin of muffins was a good investment to get things started.

Alas, her hopes were dashed when she spotted Slade eating a piece of fried chicken whilst being chatted up by his new love interest.

Miss Bonnie spoke to herself much louder this time.

“Who in the HELL is that cu…”

An old man who managed to sneak up on her cut her off mid-sentence, er…insult.

“Bonnie Lassiter, as I live and breathe, is that you?” Gunther asked. He was fresh from the telegraph office with an envelope in his hand.

“Who is that?” Bonnie asked.

Bonnie and Gunther watched as Slade quietly ate lunch and Sarah beamed at her new beau.

“Who?” Gunther asked. “The Widow Farquhar?”

“The Widow Who-quar?”

“Farquhar,” Gunther said. “The new proprietress of the Olmsted property. Taken a real shine to our fearless leader.”

“What in the…” Miss Bonnie was livid. “Has HE taken a shine to her?”

“Hard to say,” Gunther said. “I’ve seen more talkative cacti than the Marshal but I suppose he wouldn’t have spent so much time fixing up her place if he wasn’t sweet on her.”

“Sweet on her?” Miss Bonnie protested. “She looks like a damn broom stick with tits!”

“Miss Bonnie,” Gunther began but was cut off by Miss Bonnie, who felt it necessary to opine whether or not the Widow Farquhar was “lousy with syphilis.” She leaned toward the affirmative but she may have been biased.

“Miss Bonnie,” Gunther tried again. “Seeing you without your can can girl outfit on… without all the fancy straps and bells and whistles and so on…”

“Shut up, Gunther.”

“…dressed like a school marm with a handful of muffins. I’m liable to deduce you’re on your way to court our illustrious Marshal.”

That deduction was met with a spontaneous raspberry. “Pbbbhhht!”

“Like I’d ever give a hoot about that worthless jackass,” Miss Bonnie said.

She looked over just in time to catch Sarah laughing as she brushed some crumbs off of Slade’s cheek.

Ophelia Hutchins, the corpulent, elderly wife of local banker Ed Hutchins walked by.

“Afternoon, Deputy,” Ophelia said, ignoring Miss Bonnie, as most who disapproved of her profession tended to do. “I say, did you happen to peak at the Marshal and the Widow Farquhar?”

“Yessum.”

“They make a handsome couple, don’t they?” Ophelia asked.

Gunther opened his mouth to answer then closed it when he saw Miss Bonnie’s scrunched up face. That was her signature move whenever she was doing her best to hold back tears, or rage, or whatever emotion was on the way, rage being more likely in this case.

“I’ll have to uh…study that topic and back to you Mrs. Hutchins,” Gunther said. “Good day.”

“Good day, Deputy,” Ophelia said and then as she waddled away, “Whore.”

“Why does everyone call that bitch ‘The Widow Farquhar?’” Miss Bonnie asked.

“I don’t rightly know,” Gunther said. “It’s a title I suppose. Like ‘President Hayes’ or ‘Governor Montgomery’ or ‘The Widow Farquhar.’”

“So that’s all you have to do to get a title?” Miss Bonnie asked. “Just marry some asshole who up and croaks on you and then everyone considers that the best achievement a woman can ever have so you’re ‘The Widow Whatever-Your-Dead-Husband’s-Name-Was for the rest of your days?’”

“Her first name’s Sarah,” Gunther said. “I don’t think most folks call her ‘The Widow Farquhar.’”

The white haired, good natured, ever smiling Reverend Cavanagh happened by.

“What a glorious afternoon,” he said. “Hello Gunther. Hello Whore.”

“Reverend,” Gunther and Miss Bonnie replied in unison. She wasn’t lying to Slade earlier when she told him she was used to being called a whore.

“Ahh!” the Reverend said as headed to the church. “Excuse me but I must introduce myself to the Widow Farquhar and welcome her to our humble community. Take care, Gunther and Miss Bonnie, I’ll continue to pray for your blackened soul.”

“Yeah,” Miss Bonnie said. “Thanks for that.” Then to Gunther she added, “See?”

“I don’t what to say,” Gunther said. “I’m sorry you’re miffed, Miss Bonnie, but I’m not sure it’s my place to get in the middle of something.”

The muffin tin was spiked on the ground and its former handler stormed off back to her house of ill repute. Gunther picked it up.

“You want me to give your muffins to Rain?” the old man asked.

“He can have that slut’s muffins!” Miss Bonnie cried back.

Gunther helped himself to a muffin, chomping down on it like it was the tastiest thing he’d ever eaten.

“He won’t miss one.”

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Feb 02 2016
4 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was ZOMBED – Chapter 14

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To say that the Olmsted property was a dump would be an insult to dumps. Without old Frederick looking after it, the log cabin had gone into disrepair and the few acres became overrun with weeds and tall grass.

“Oh my,” Sarah said. “I knew enough to be skeptical when the advertisement described it as ‘luxurious’ but this isn’t how I pictured it at all.”

Sarah and Slade walked into the cabin where they found cobwebs, dirty dishes, and dust, dust, and more dust.

“I have my work cut out for me,” Sarah said. “So be it. As the good book says, ‘idle hands are the devil’s handiwork.’”

Slade nodded.

“Thank you, Marshal.  I don’t want to keep you from your duties any longer.”

Slade tipped his hat then headed for his horse, only to stop abruptly. He had something to say, and without Gunther around, it was going to be difficult for him, especially since Sarah was new to him.

“Is everything all right, Marshal?” Sarah asked.

“I don’t…”

Sarah removed her bonnet as she waited for the words to come out of Slade’s mouth. All that long pretty hair didn’t help the Marshal connect his brain to his voice box any faster.

“I reckon I don’t feel it’s right to…”

Big brown eyes. Staring. Blinking. That’s all Slade saw.

“…to leave you all alone out here…because you’re a woman and all.”

Sarah smiled. “Oh, I know,” she said. “This certainly is unorthodox. Ever since he passed, I’ve come to realize how much I relied on Jedediah for everything.”

“I’m sorry,” Slade said.

“It’s all right,” Sarah said. “He slipped away peacefully in his sleep. Such a kind, gentle man. It would have been nice to have known him a bit longer but seventy-four years is more than anyone can ask for.”

Slade felt a burning need to check to see if he heard that correctly.

“Seventy-four?” he asked.

“Unusual, I know,” Sarah said. “But father needed a loan and Jedediah had the money. Can’t say anyone ever asked my opinion.”

Fortunately, Slade’s stoicism prevented him from sharing his opinion.

“But you need not worry about me, Marshal,” Sarah said. “I’ve come to accept that no man will ever want a once married old maid of twenty-six so I shall persevere and learn how to survive on my own.”

Slade was only two years older. And he was alive. He was beating old Jedediah on two fronts.

“I’ll lend a hand,” Slade said.

A rusty axe was buried in a tree stump, surrounded by logs Olmsted never got around to. The Marshal went to work splitting them.

“You’re too kind, Marshal,” Sarah said.

“Rain.”

“Pardon?”

“Call me Rain.”

“Very well,” Sarah said. “Rain.”

Sarah retreated to the cabin and went to work on tidying up. An hour later she poked her head outside to check on her helper only to find him shirtless, his sweaty muscles gleaming in the sun.

“Oh my Lord,” she said. Good church goer that she was, she averted her eyes and walked back inside.

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Feb 01 2016
3 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was ZOMBED – Chapter 11

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Dawn came and Slade sat on the steps of the church’s front porch, staring at his mother’s ring and torturing himself with that age old question everyone in love faces whenever romance doesn’t go their way.

“What could I have done differently?”

Gunther interrupted the pontification session by loudly chomping on an apple and dropping a telegram on the Marshal’s lap.

“Straight off the telegraph,” the Deputy said. “What do you make of it?”

Slade took a look:

United Exchange Telegraph Service

FROM: Josiah Uxley, U.S. Marshall

Denver, Colorado

TO: All U.S. Marshals in Good Standing
Warning <STOP> Infestation of monsters in Colorado <STOP> All is lost <STOP> Monsters are being hauled East <STOP> Abandon posts and save yourselves <STOP>

Slade crumpled up the telegram and made a pantomime gesture as if he were taking a big drink.

“Them Colorado boys dipped into the moonshine and had themselves a good time?” Gunther asked.

The boss nodded.

Gunther winced under the rising sun. “That’s what I thought too. Then again, I wonder if it’s some kind of test. Trick us into leaving and then we get the axe. Either way, I sent a message back asking what the hell this is all about.”

Slade grunted his assent.

The old timer parked himself next to Slade and produced from a sheath he wore on his belt a foot long knife. Crossbar handle. Curved end. Anyone introduced to it would not have walked away.

Gunther went to work, whittling a block of wood.

“Is it me or is your face longer than usual?” Gunther asked.

Grunt.

Slade realized he was still holding the ring. It was too late to avoid detection by putting  it away.

“What’s that?” Gunther asked.

Grunt.

“Oh slap me in the ass and call me Sally!” Gunther said. “You proposed to that redheaded spitfire!”

Cigar chomp.

Gunther nudged Slade with his elbow. “Didn’t you? Come on now…”

Silence.

“Huh,” Gunther said as his wood shavings hit the ground. “And since you’re here with a puss on your face and the ring’s in your hand instead of on Miss Bonnie’s finger…”

“Yup,” Slade said.

“Oh boy.”

A minute or two passed. Gunther kept whittling. Slade kept sulking.

“You want to tell me the details?” the old man asked.

Exasperated, Slade tucked the ring into his pocket.

“Well how am I supposed to help you if you won’t tell me what happened?” Gunther asked.

Slade just stared blankly at his boots.

“What exactly did you say to her?” Gunther asked.

Slade didn’t respond to that inquiry, nor did he respond to:

Did you get down on one knee?

Were you all fancy about it or did you just throw the ring at her?

Did she look happy?

Did she laugh at you?

Was she at least nice about it?

Did she let you down easy?

The Marshal held up under interrogation for a half-hour until finally his Deputy cracked the case.

“You didn’t really ask her did you?”

Slade shifted and looked the other way.

“Ah,” Gunther said. “That’s it. You were chicken.”

Few things got the Marshal talking like an accusation of cowardice, but even then, the response was sparse.

“Was not.”

“So,” Gunther said, “Since you’re being stubborn I’ll have to deduce that you didn’t ask her outright but some state of affairs transpired that led you to believe that Miss Bonnie wouldn’t be interested in being locked in the bonds of holy matrimony with you forever and ever.”

The two just sat there.

“Why I don’t know because you’re such a gifted conversationalist,” Gunther said. “It’s Miss Bonnie’s loss for sure.”

Slade shook his head. Gunther rolled his eyes.

“Goddamnit, son. Out with it! Did you ask her or not?”

Through gritted teeth, the Marshal’s reply was as raspy as ever. “I asked enough…and she answered enough.”

“Oh,” Gunther said as he turned back to his whittling. “Well why didn’t you say so?”

Slade felt relief, believing the interrogation was over until the old man started up again.

“You know, Rain,” Gunther said. “Women say a lot of things. They hem and they haw and they say they’ll never do this or they’ll never do that but give ‘em an actual honest to God decision to make and they might just surprise you.”

A confused look took over Slade’s face.

“Get your ass back there, get down on one knee and ask her proper,” Gunther said. “She says yes, good. She says no, well, at least you know.”

Slade struck a match, held it to his cigar until it was lit, then puffed.

“No.”

Gunther nodded. “Well, you were there. I wasn’t. If you think she’s a lost cause then so be it. No use grousing over it though. There’s plenty of fish in the sea.”

A stage coach rolled up the road and came to a stop at Anderson’s General Store. The coach man got down, opened the door and a delicate hand took his. Out stepped a raven haired beauty, dressed all in black.

Dumbstruck, Slade’s mouth gaped open just wide enough for his cigar to fall out.

Gunther sheathed his blade.

“Speaking of…”

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