Tag Archives: the alamo

Remember the Zombamo – Chapter 10

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“What in the hell are you on about, Wright?”

Wright slid off a pair of black leather gloves as he stepped forward.

“It has been brought to my attention that you have disgraced yourself sir,” Wright said with an air of sophistication.

“Is that so?” Bowie asked.

“It is, sir,” Wright said as he pounded the floor with the end of his cane. “You have been spreading a most scandalous fabrication that has proven to be quite injurious to my character.”

“You’ll have to dumb it down for me, sheriff,” Bowie said. “I don’t speak fop.”

“Did you or did you not state a claim to a collaboration of ruffians that I stole the election?” Wright asked.

“I did,” Bowie replied.

Wright raised his cane in the air. “Aha! So you do not deny that you have slandered me, do you sir?”

“I do deny it,” Bowie said.

“Speak plainly, man,” Wright said. “How can you admit and deny the same offense?”

“I admit that I told a few of my drinking buddies that you stole the election,” Bowie said. “I deny that I slandered you because the truth is not slander.”

Wright gasped. “How dare you sir? You slander me again!”

“Well,” Bowie said. “If the shoe fits…”

The knifeman walked to the bar and ordered a whisky. Wright followed him.

“And now you turn your back on me!”

“What?” Bowie asked as he accepted a full shot glass from Brent. “I thought we were done.”

“Not by a long shot,” Wright said. “Until you publicly retract your villainous lie, this matter will not be put to rest.”

Bowie gulped his shot. “Wright, I personally witnessed those Blanchard boys you got in your back pocket stuffing those ballot boxes with more paper than Tavish’s sister shoves in her brassiere.”

Tavish shook his head up and down, then burped. “It’s true. Old Maude is flatter than a carving board.”

“Look, Wright,” Bowie said. “Everyone knows that the political game is like a hyena’s dick. They’re both crooked and they’re both ugly. I didn’t tell anyone anything they didn’t already know so untwist your knickers, quit your bellyaching, and get out of my face.”

Bowie turned his back on Wright once more, but Wright refused to be ignored. He tapped on Bowie’s shoulder.

The knifeman turned only to be slapped in the face by a pair of gloves.

“I challenge you to a duel, sir!”

Bowie was quiet. Everyone in the bar was quiet.

When Bowie laughed, everyone took it as a cue to join in.

“I never figured you for a comedian, Wright,” Bowie said as he pointed a finger at the sheriff. “That’s a good one.”

Wap! Wright slapped Bowie in the face with his gloves a second time and in so doing, knocked the smile right off of Bowie’s face.

“That’s a good way to get yourself gutted from stem to stern, Wright,” Bowie said.

“Satisfaction will be mine!” Wright shouted.

“You’d be so easy to kill it wouldn’t be a fair fight,” Bowie said.

“And you are making excuses for your cowardice, sir!”

Bowie’s nostrils flared. He took a deep breath, then turned his back on Wright again.

“Well then,” Wright said as he drew his pistol. “If you are not man enough to face me then you leave me no choice.”

Bang!

Wright was known throughout Rapides Parish for being a horrendous shot. The bullet grazed Bowie’s shoulder, cutting a slight rut through the skin of the knifeman’s arm before it landed dead center in Tavish’s chest.

The drunk shouted several choice obscene phrases before falling off his stool. On the floor, he convulsed, then died.

Bowie wasted no time. He grabbed Wright’s arm and shoved him up against a wall. Wright closed his eyes as he felt the cold edge of a knife being held up against his throat.

“You think that does a damn thing for your honor?” Bowie asked. “You try to shoot a man in the back only to murder a useless old lecher instead?”

“This is all your doing, Bowie!” Wright said. “You are the one who refused to face me. That man’s death is on your hands!”

“Shit,” Bowie said. “And I was just starting to like that old coot.”

Brent interrupted. “You just held a knife on him a moment ago.”

“He was starting to grow on me,” Bowie said.

Bang!

Bowie looked to his left. Brent had walked over from the bar and was holding a rifle.

“Jim,” Brent said. “I don’t mean to tell you how to do your business but one dead body in my bar is too many.”

Bowie and Wright stared into each others’ eyes. Wright saw Bowie’s rage. Bowie saw Wright’s fear.

“And I’m no lawyer but you slitting the throat of a lawman who just fired the only shot in his pistol seems like it will end with you swinging at the end of a noose if you ask me.”

“No one asked you, Brent.”

Bowie leered at his hostage a bit longer, then released him.

“Wright, I accept your challenge.”

Wright coughed and clutched at his throat just to make sure it was still there. He then straightened up, dusted himself off, gripped the lapels of his jacket and turned up his nose at the knifeman.

“Pistols at dawn, sir.” Wright said. “Acquire your second and we shall meet at the sandbar.”

“Yes we will,” Bowie said.

Wright stormed off for the door.

“And Wright?”

The sheriff stopped but didn’t turn around.

“Do not miss,” Bowie said. “Because if you do, I assure you, my knife will not.”

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Remember the Zombamo – Chapter 9

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1827 – Louisiana

The knife was, like its owner, one of a kind.

The blade was nine and a half inches long, thick and heavy yet sharp enough to split a cat’s whisker. The metal came to a point, then curved for a spell before it ran down to the handle.

The handle was polished oakwood and that curve at the end had been used to hook onto many a man’s gut as if it were a fish.

It wasn’t so much of a knife as it was a mini-machete.

On one evening in particular, Jim Bowie (rhymes with Louie), the knife’s illustrious inventor, sat at a bar inside a dimly lit tavern and peeled an apple with his infamous sticker. He might as well have been juggling gold nuggets with the way the barfly sitting next to him carried on.

Norman Tavish tossed back a brew and brought his stein down on the bar with a good, hard bang.

“Goddamn it, Jim,” the ugly mush mouthed drunk said. “That blade is a thing of beauty.”

Bowie had a lush lion’s mane of brown hair that came down the sides of his face in the form of two mutton chop side burns. Ever prideful, the perpetually angry looking Bowie didn’t find Tavish to be the type of man that was worth much of his time.

“Uh huh,” Bowie replied.

Tavish belched and scratched himself in assorted areas. “How much you want for it?”

Bowie rolled his knife around and around that apple until the peel was gone. “She’s not for sale.”

“Aw come on,” Flint said. “Everything’s got a price.”

Bowie tossed the naked apple up into the air as if it were a ball, then caught it in his hand. “Not everything.”

“I’ll give you anything you want,” Tavish said. “Shit, I’ll let you poke my sister.”

Every drunk in the joint laughed. Caleb Brent, the old bald barkeep, polished a glass and snickered.

“Fuck, Tavish. I’ve seen alligators more appetizing than your sister. You’ll have to do better than that.”

Tavish opened up his coat and tapped his finger on the side of a flint lock pistol hanging from his belt.

“I’ll trade you for it. Fair and square, like.”

Bowie snickered. “A pistol is a woman’s weapon. I rue the day they were ever invented.”

Tavish drank some courage. “Do my ears deceive me or did you just call me a woman?”

“I didn’t call you a woman,” Bowie replied. “I said you’ve got a woman’s weapon. Draw whatever inference you like.”

Brent laughed. Soon, everyone else in the bar was laughing.

Tavish looked around the bar. “Oh, you all think that’s funny, huh?”

The drunk drew his pistol and cocked the hammer. “You think I’m funny, Bowie?”

The calm and cool knifeman carefully calibrated his response. “You are whatever you think you are, friend.”

Tavish pointed his pistol at Bowie. “Well I think I’m the man that’s going to blow your damn head off, friend.”

Bowie set his apple down on the bar and stared deeply, intently into Tavish’s eyes.

Clang! The knifeman’s blade bashed Tavish’s pistol to the right, towards the collection of liquor bottles behind the bar. Reflexively, the drunk pulled the trigger and a nice big bottle of bourbon exploded, sending shards of glass and drops of brown liquid everywhere.

Bowie grabbed Tavish by the scalp and bashed the drunk’s’ face into the bar. When Tavish was allowed to lift his head up, he found himself staring at the point of Bowie’s knife, which was being held less than a quarter of an inch away from his eyeball.

“A pistol is a woman’s weapon because it isn’t that difficult for a drunken fool to take a shot at one of his betters,” Bowie explained. “Many a man has fired a pistol in a fit of rage only to live to regret pulling the trigger at a later date. Pistols make killing far too easy but a knife? I don’t care what anyone says. I don’t care how hot the fire in a man’s belly burns. I don’t care how many times he claims after the fact that he lost his mind in the heat of the moment. To kill a man with a knife, you have to use every muscle you have. You have to break through bone and sinew and dig through guts. Sometimes you’ve got to rip that knife out and stab him again and again, three, four, five times. You got to look that man right in the eye and not give a fuck that you are extinguishing all his hopes and dreams as you plunge that knife right into his still beating heart. Make no mistake about it. If a man dies at the edge of a blade it is because the man holding the knife wanted that death to happen.”

Bowie pulled his knife back. Tavish sat up.

“And so my point was, before you so rudely interrupted me, is that women use pistols. Men use knives.”

Brent, who had hunkered down behind the bar, rose to his feet and breathed a sigh of relief upon realizing the coast was clear.

“I’m sorry, Jim,” Tavish said. “It was just the drink talking. I didn’t mean to insult your knife.”

“I know you didn’t.”

Bowie tossed his apple three feet above the bar, then stood up, and threw his knife toward the fruit.

The knife struck right into the center of the apple and blade and fruit become one until they struck the wall. Two perfectly cut slices fell to the bar.

After walking to the end of the bar and pulling his knife out of the wall, Bowie returned, handed Tavish a slice, and took a bite out of the other piece.

“Just remember,” Bowie said as he slapped Tavish on the back. “It’s not for sale.”

Tavish nodded.

“And if I find out you didn’t reimburse Caleb for his bourbon…”

The drunk threw up his hands. “I will.”

“I know you will,” Bowie said.

With the spectacle over, all patrons in the bar returned to their usual doings. Brent went to work on cleanup. Tavish persisted in drowning his sorrows.

All was quiet until the double doors at the front of the bar swung open.

In stepped Sheriff Norris Wright, a former army major turned sheriff. He had a thick, bushy mustache and slicked back hair.

“Bowie!”

The knifeman craned his neck just enough to acknowledge the lawman.

“You have offended my honor, sir, and I demand satisfaction!”

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Remember the Zombamo – Part 1 – Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna

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General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna charges into a battle against an army of marauding Spaniards hell bent on retaking Mexico for King Ferdinand.

A cannon blows off the general’s leg.  With death appearing to be a near certainty, the mysterious vampire Isadora makes her way to Santa Anna’s bedside and turns him into a vampire.

Quickly, we learn that Isadora represents, “The Legion,” an organization of vampires who have done the devil’s bidding for ages.

A bargain is struck.  Santa Anna may rule Mexico, but he must unleash Satan onto the world.

Under Isadora’s counsel, Santa Anna takes advantage of the chaos created by a coup to execute the president and vice-president to declare himself Mexico’s chief executive.

The loyal but chagrined Colonel Arroyo gets promoted to General, but is dismayed that the people go along with Santa Anna’s chicanery.

Also…werewolves.

Chapter 1          Chapter 2         Chapter 3         Chapter 4

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