Soo…I never really intended to give “Annabelle” any more screen time but…
You have to go with what you’ve got and I actually think they make a nice couple.
Hey 3.5 Readers,
Here’s some questions I have for you:
Doc Faraday vs. Doc Holliday
If I get through How the West Was Zombed and the tentative sequel I’m currently referring to as “Calamity Jane vs. Zombies,” I foresee a third – Wyatt Earp vs. Zombies.
Wyatt Earp’s best friend, of course, was Doc Holliday.
This is probably thinking too far into the future but if I get through all three books, will you, the noble reader, be upset that there are two doctors with last names involving “day?”
My gut tells me to leave it. I actually chose Faraday because it kind of felt like a small tribute to Doc Holliday. Future books will take place in a zombified west (i.e. you’re about to learn How the West Was Zombed)…with at least two actual Western folk heroes responding to the zombie crisis (Jane in #2 and Wyatt in #3).
So I’m probably just going to leave Doc Faraday’s name as is. But I’d like your input.
Old vs. Young Points of View
Gunther at the beginning always wants Slade to back down. He’s old. He’s seen the result of not backing down too many times. Slade’s young. Younger people have this sense of “the world should be X and if it isn’t everything must stop until it is fixed!”
Slade adopts Gunther’s “f%&k it” strategy toward the middle of the book where he quits.
But as things start to become more ominous…Gunther begins to snap Slade out of his teachings – i.e. he’s old enough to know when to back down and when to fight.
Make sense?
The Impending Zombie Apocalypse
Pretty soon the book is going to turn into The Walking Dead Meets Gunsmoke. I foresee Slade and Co. fighting their way through town for survival.
Should we put Miss Bonnie in his group to keep things interesting as she and the Widow Farquhar cat fight it out over their man in the midst of zombie mayhem?
Probably worth a laugh or two but…I’m leaning toward things working out for Miss Bonnie to become a bit of a hero in her own right.
By the way, this is actually going to require me to draw a rudimentary map of Highwater just to make sure I keep it straight where everyone’s going so…stay tuned for that.
It’s definitely going to look like a 5 year old drew it with crayon but it will get the job done.
Standing Eagle’s Tribe
I believe I will rewrite the curse in the beginning to be a general curse of “Bad stuff will happen to you Slade” rather than leave it as it is, “The dead will rise from the grave!”
The problem is if you go back and read the beginning, you, the reader, find out there’s a zombie attack making its way across the West on its way to Highwater before Slade and Friends figure it out.
So really, the curse, meant as a red herring until its eventually discovered the Miracle Cure All was the culprit, doesn’t work.
But, in theory, you might wonder if the tribe’s curse of “bad things will happen” (will be worded better than that) might not have invited – all this bad stuff to happen.
It doesn’t. Standing Eagle just wanted to save face with a curse is all. I believe he will return. He was too good of a character not to and there needs to be some zombie scalping.
Back at the Bonnie Lass, the Buchanan Boys carried on with their raucous party late into the afternoon. Highlights included:
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!”
Lackies in tow, Blythe walked away from the station and headed down the main road through town.
“It’s excellent,” Blythe said. “Better than I imagined.”
“Sir,” Hewitt said. “We can’t find the boy.”
“Keep searching,” Blythe said.
“We’ve already gone as far as Iowa and Illinois,” Becker protested.
“We must satisfy the board that everything was done to locate him,” Blythe said. “If he isn’t found today, you’re free to hunt down Freeman this evening.”
“Yes sir,” Becket said.
As the trio passed by an office marked “Herbert O’Brien, Professional Photographer” their heads were turned by a very raspy, “Hold it.”
Slade was taking a smoke break while Sarah was inside, going over the details with O’Brien. The ex-marshal exhaled some cigar smoke in Blythe’s direction.
“Ah,” Blythe said. Good day Marshal…or rather, good day, Mr. Slade. I forgot how you so callously abandoned your noble position, leaving the denizens of Highwater to fend off themselves against all manner of villainy.”
“I think I’m staring at a villain right now,” Slade said.
Blythe clutched his chest as if to say, “Who, me?”
Slade nodded.
“Such hostile paranoia,” Blythe said. “It’s very unbecoming.”
“What is that monstrosity you brought to town this morning?” Slade asked.
Blythe feigned a dumbfounded expression. He looked to Hewitt, then to Becker, then back to Slade. “It’s a train, sir. You put goods you want moved onto it and then it goes ‘choo choo’ and takes them where they need to be.”
“I’ve never seen a train pack that much firepower before,” Slade said.
“It’s very simple,” Blythe said. “Our accountants took a hard look at the losses we’ve suffered over the years, shipments lost to outlaws, bandits, Indians and what have you. They did the math and determined it is cheaper to protect what is ours the first time rather than continue to paying to replace our property ad infinitum. Rest assured, Mr. Slade. If the Federal government will not part with the money necessary to tame the West, the Legion Corporation will.”
“It looks like something that should belong to the Army,” Slade said. “Not you.”
“I assure you all relevant government authorities were consulted and proper permits were obtained,” Blythe said.
“Must have cost you a pretty penny, all that bribery,” Slade said.
Blythe grinned. “Mr. Slade, I do believe we have gotten off on the wrong foot. The Legion Corporation could use a man like you. Your intellect, your talent, it’s all going to waste in your premature retirement. What say we get together and discuss the generous salary I’m prepared to offer you as a rail line security agent?”
Slade chomped on his cigar and gave his answer out of the corner of his mouth. “What say you go fuck yourself?”
Like clockwork, Hewitt and Becker took that as an invitation to move in closer. Blythe raised a hand and backed them off.
“How unfortunate,” Blythe said.
The office door opened and Sarah walked out, accompanied by Mr. O’Brien. He was a short man with a round face.
“Years from now you’ll be glad you did this, ma’am,” O’Brien said. “Memories may fade but a photograph is forever!”
“Oh Rain,” Sarah said. “You really must see some of the wonderful photographs Mr. O’Brien has taken. They’re amazing.”
Sarah noticed Blythe. “Oh. Hello.”
“Good day, ma’am,” Blythe said. “You must be the soon to be Mrs. Slade. I apologize for my boldness, but gossip does have a way of floating through the breeze in this town.”
“Yes,” Sarah said, extending her hand. “Sarah Farquhar.”
The counselor took Sarah’s hand and kissed it, much to Slade’s very visible dismay. “Au chante, mademoiselle,” Blythe said.
O’Brien chimed in. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Blythe. I heard there was a new gentleman in town. I hope you’ll stop by and do me the honor of taking your portrait one of these days.”
“Thank you sir, but, no,” Blythe said. “I’m afraid I do not…photograph well.”
Blythe tipped his hat to Slade. “Good day.”
The trio walked off. Slade followed them into the road. He put a hand on Blythe’s shoulder. Hewitt and Becker immediately reached for their guns, prompting Slade to reach for his. Blythe intervened before weapons were drawn.
“Gentlemen, please. We mustn’t lower ourselves to savagery.”
“We aren’t done yet,” Slade said.
“Aren’t we?” Blythe asked. “Mr. Slade, have you picked up your star since you gave it away?”
“No,” Slade replied.
“And tell me, have you acquired any new credentials to back up this unseemly bravado of yours?”
“No,” Slade repeated.
“I see,” Blythe said. “Well then, to borrow from your prior and rather unceremonious vernacular, I do suggest you go and fuck yourself, Mr. Slade. Good day.”
As the trio walked away, Sarah Joined her impending husband on the street.
“Who was that?” she asked.
“Just some asshole,” Slade said.
Sarah lightly swatted Slade on the arm. “You know I don’t like that language.”
Down the road, the trio schemed.
“Should we take care of him?” Hewitt asked.
“No,” Blythe said. “Leave him to me.”
Hello 3.5 Readers,
BQB here. I’d like to take a minute to thank you fine readers for encouraging me to keep hanging in there with How the West Was Zombed.
The year is still new, we’ve yet to hit March, and this is the first year where I’ve stayed true to at least one resolution: write a novel.
As for my other resolutions, I’m still freebasing cookies and Coca-Cola non-stop, so those are out the window, but the “write a novel” resolution is on track.
I’ve achieved a couple of personal first:
It hasn’t been easy. Part of my problem has been I’ll write for awhile, then come to a conclusion that changes must be made, and then I’ll rewrite rather than continuing to write. But often when you do that, you’ll find that even after you revise the first part, you’ll need to go back and rewrite some more.
It is hard to keep going when you know changes must be made. I feel like a marathon runner and every time I see a need for change it is like a new pebble fell in my shoe. I want to stop, take a seat on a bench and shake out all the pebbles but I know if I do I’ll just lie down on the bench, fall asleep and not finish the race.
I must keep running, no matter how many pebbles collect in my smelly running shoes.
I’m further excited for my sequel ideas. I’m trying not to get too far ahead of myself, but if all goes well, I foresee Calamity Jane vs. Zombies in the second novel and Wyatt Earp in the third novel.
All three will be tied in to an ongoing cowboys (and girl) vs. the evil vampires of the Legion Corporation, their lackey werewolves, and most importantly, their dumb zombies.
This is a rough draft. I thank you all for helping me out with your feedback. When I’m done I’d like to write a second draft and post it on here to see what you think.
Finally, I’ll probably seek the advice of some beta readers and a good editor. And then of course, a cover designer.
I would love to get three novels out this year and just be like
“Bam, here’s my series!” That will require life to cooperate and we all know how that works out.
LIFE: Oh my God! He’s enjoying his existence! Quick! Dump some bullshit on his head! No! He’s caring about the world! He’s turning himself into a productive member of society! Hurry! Shovel copious amounts of shit on him so he gives up and sits on the couch with a bag of Doritoes all day!!!
That’s how my life usually goes.
3.5 READERS: Oh BQB. You’re so negative. Think positive thoughts and positive things will happen.
Yes. That’s me. Positivity man. I can control goodness through my mind.
Anyway. Thanks. Keep reading. I’ll keep writing. I feel like I’m actually accomplishing something here and may have a shot at getting a book out.
Cock-a-doodle-doo!
A rooster crowed, waking Sarah and Slade up, whether they wanted to sleep in or not. Sarah was in bed, snug underneath the covers. Slade was face down on a wood floor that might as well have been a granite slab. He felt like he’d be pulling splinters out of his ass for weeks.
“Good morning, dearest,” Sarah said as she yawned. She sat up in bed, happy and refreshed.
Slade provided his usual grunt of a reply. The ex-lawman stood up and strapped on his gun belt.
“Why are you putting those dreadful things on?” Sarah asked.
It was a good question. It was the first day he could remember where he didn’t have any plans that required firearms. It felt odd. Strange. He wasn’t used to the feeling so he kept his belt and guns on anyway.
“Force of habit,” Slade said.
Sarah patted the bed. Slade looked confused. Sarah had been quite vocal the day before that Slade could only stay on the condition that there’d be “absolutely no premarital hanky panky.”
“Come, silly!”
Slade took a seat next to Sarah. She smelled of perfume and wore a wool nightgown that covered literally every part of her body except for her head, which was a change from the black dress that covered literally every part of her body except for her head that she wore during the day.
Sarah took Slade’s hand and rested her head on his shoulder. “I think that you quitting that awful job will turn out to be the best thing you’ve ever done.”
Grunt.
“And I know it may not feel like that now, but one day you’ll agree.”
Grunt.
“We can make a life on this farm, Rain,” Sarah said. “Together, you and I. We’ll wake up early every morning, work the land, live off the fruits of our labor…”
Slade gave up grunting and just listened.
“…church every Sunday. Bible studies every evening. You know, we should get a cow. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
Slade felt a burning desire to pull out his Colt, stick it in his mouth and blow his brains out. He felt bad for thinking that way. Sarah was lovely and loving. Any man would have been lucky to have her.
But he couldn’t help but wish that Sarah would somehow magically turn into Miss Bonnie. And the idea of “Farmer Slade” instead of “Marshal Slade” made him physically sick. He’d been chasing down desperadoes for so long that no other work appealed to him. Where was the danger in milking a cow? Where was the adventure in plowing a field?
“We could make strawberry jam!” Sarah declared. “We’ll fill up mason jars with jam and sell it at market.”
“Strawberry jam,” Slade thought. “Shit.”
Rainier Slade. The marshal who shot notorious bank robber Quincy Reaves before he could get away with a sack full of loot…the marshal who lead the posse that brought murderous psychopath Mortimer Barnes to justice…the marshal who got shot by Fiddler Pete Fillmore and not only lived to tell the tale, but shot Pete dead along with eleven of his men without having to reload once.
The ex-marshall who now…makes strawberry jam.
Slade began to mull over his options. “Just tell her you’ve changed your mind. Tell her you love someone else and she deserves to have a man that isn’t thinking about another woman. Shit. Don’t tell her anything. Just stand up and walk out. She’ll figure it out.”
Sarah was on a roll. “And why stop at strawberry? There’s raspberry jam. Huckleberry jam. Ooo! Marmalade! Rain?”
“Huh?” Slade asked.
Without warning, Sarah attacked him…but in a good way. Kisses all up and down his face, his neck, she really worked that neck. Slade was shocked, given Sarah had been the one against intercourse all along, but he wasn’t about to complain. He kissed back. Their tongues wrestled as the swapped copious amounts of spit.
Suddenly, Slade was feeling better. Nothing cheers a man up like nookie. Sarah pushed him away.
“I’m sorry,” Sarah said.
“It’s ok,” Slade said, going in for another smooch, only to be face palmed.
“Not you,” Sarah said, looking up to the ceiling and closing her eyes. “Oh Lord, how sorry I am that I failed you but my flesh is so weak.”
Slade rolled his eyes. Sarah sprang to her feet.
“I want to show you something.”
Sarah opened up her bureau drawer and produced a white sheet. Slade waited for Sarah to explain. She didn’t say a word. Instead, she unfolded it and there it was.
A single hole. And not a very big one. Slade wondered if he should feel insulted.
Sarah’s cheeks flushed and she bounced up and down like a giddy school girl. “I made it with a pair of shears! Do you like it?”
Slade’s mouth opened but his brain was elsewhere. “The marshal who stepped out of the path of Dirk Braddock’s legendary buck knife just in time for Gunner Ross to take it in the gut instead shouldn’t be relegated to sex through a bed sheet for the rest of his life” was the only response he came up with.
But he knew he needed to be more delicate than that. Sarah was all a-twitter and Slade felt bad again.
“It’s for our wedding night,” Sarah said. She folded up the sheet, put it away, then returned to snuggle up next to Slade again.
“Very nice,” Slade said.
“When do you think that will be?” Sarah asked.
“What?” Slade asked in return.
“Our wedding,” Sarah said. “We haven’t set a date yet.”
“Oh,” Slade said. He wondered if he might not be able to postpone it indefinitely.
“Rain?”
“What?”
Sarah rubbed her hand up and down Slade’s arm. “I was thinking…why not tonight?”
Now Slade really did want to blow his brains out. “What?!”
“Oh you needn’t worry,” Sarah said. “Father passed years ago so you don’t need to ask for his blessing. And mother’s mind is so far gone I doubt she’d know what was happening if she attended the ceremony anyway. I don’t have any family who’d be offended if we don’t wait for them, do you?”
“No,” Slade said. He instantly regretted saying that. Surely had he taken a minute he could have come up with some distant cousin’s uncle’s brother that needed an invite and time to make travel arrangements, thus buying him some time.
“Wonderful!” Sarah said. “I’m going to get dressed, cook you the best breakfast you’ve ever had, and then we can go to town straight away to make arrangements with Reverend Cavanaugh!”
“But…but…”
Rainier Slade. Thorn in the side of stone cold murderers across the West, done in by a skinny widow.
“I don’t know…” Slade said.
Sarah kissed Slade. “Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll take care of every detail.”
“But…”
“It doesn’t need to be a grand affair, Rain,” Sarah said, oblivious to her fiance’s doubt. “I’m not one of those fancy women who needs a band and flowers and an exquisite dinner. Don’t worry about me.”
He wasn’t. He was worried about Miss Bonnie, who he feared he’d never see again unless he opened his yap.
Kiss, kiss, and another kiss. Three in a row. Sarah was really pushing her luck with the Lord. She cupped Slade’s hand in her cheek and looked her man in the eyes.
“I am going to make you so happy, Rainier Slade.”
Slade didn’t believe that for a second. But his heart swelled from the fact that she clearly wanted to. No other woman had ever expressed a desire to make him happy. Hell, no woman had ever expressed a desire to cook him breakfast. Miss Bonnie would probably tell him where to stick his breakfast if he ever asked her. The she’d tell him to make her some.
He felt it. He was in love with two women. But what he felt for Miss Bonnie was a passionate love, where what he had with Sarah was a safe kind of love.
Sarah giggled. “‘Sarah Slade.’ So alliterative! I like it.”
Slade nodded. Another kiss and Sarah was off, puttering around the kitchen.
The ex-marshal laid down in Sarah’s soft, cozy bed. His back thanked him. He closed his eyes and pondered his dilemma.
He made a promise and he was a man of his word. But he also loved another woman and only had one life to live. It was too short not to be with the woman who drove him wild with desire…and not to mention, the only woman he felt like he could be himself around. Sarah’s happiness would no doubt rely on him keeping up the tough guy routine forever.
Sarah cracked an egg into a bowl and hummed a happy tune. Slade watched. He knew right then that he would never, ever be able to tell her the proposal was off. Shooting criminals in the face was easy. Breaking a woman’s heart was hard. He knew he was stuck.
And at that moment he knew he could wait a day, a month, or a year and still would never be able to muster up the courage needed to come clean with Sarah, so he figured he might as well get it over with.
But at some point, he thought, he would really need to put his foot down about losing that sheet.
Henry Alan Blythe is a bloodsucking lawyer and that’s not just redundant. He serves an evil corporation and that’s not redundant either. As a vampire/chief advisor to the Legion Corporation’s board of vampire directors, he’s concocted a plan to overtake the United States with an army of zombies that obey his will.
But his bureaucratic bosses love to tangle everything up with blood red tape, demanding that he toy with werewolf Joe Freeman and Marshal Slade rather than kill them outright and remove the threat they pose.
Meanwhile, Lady Blackwood is open for a future “restructuring” of the board if Blythe’s zombie invasion plan pays off.
As for Freeman, a dark history has repeated itself twice and he’s not about to sit back as it unfolds for a third time.
Oh, and learn about the Hierarchy of Evil – #1 Vampire (Brains=Yes, Soul=No) #2 Werewolf (Brains = Yes, Soul=Yes) #3 Zombie (Brains=Technically but not really; Soul=no).
Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31
Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34
Joe had let himself into Burt Townsend’s shop. Luckily, Highwater’s premiere blacksmith didn’t have much of a work ethic, preferring to while away his time on a bar stool at the Bonnie Lass instead of doing anything productive.
The fire had been stoked and above it sat an iron pot, filled with a piping hot, shiny syrupy gloop. What had once been two candlesticks was now liquified silver. Joe felt bad about taking them from the church without asking, but he did leave his seven dollars in their place and though he was sure that didn’t cover their cost, he was figured the higher cause they were being used for would balance everything out.
He gripped a bullet with a pair of tongs and dipped it into the silver, making sure to coat it all over. He then laid it on a cloth next to the others. Every piece of ammunition he had was ready. He loaded up his pistol and rifle, then slipped the remaining silver coated bullets into a bandolier.
Joe doused the fire, packed everything up and walked out of town, all the way to the countryside. There he found a tree, disrobed, and wolfed out under the moonlight.
“You never left did you?”
A minute passed before Joe heard his son’s reply, “No.”
“You’re a man now,” Joe said. “I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. But if you won’t take my advice, then you’re responsible for the consequences of your choices.”
“I know,” Miles said.
“No you don’t,” Joe said. “One way or another, this ends tomorrow night. Preferably without you here, but even if you are. You won’t like what happens. You won’t like what you’ll see. You won’t like what you’ll have to do. I can guarantee you’ll wish you’d walked away.”
Pause.
“Are you going to talk forever?” Miles asked. “I’m trying to sleep.”
“Stubborn little prick,” Joe replied.
Hello. I’m noted awesome person Bookshelf Q. Battler and for the 3.5 readers paying attention to How the West Was Zombed, here are a few notes:
As always, thanks for reading. I know. This all still kinda stinks but I’m working on it. I’m trying. I’m continuing to press forward and have yet to give up, which I have a tendency to do but am pushing myself not to this time.
Let me know what you think, both good and bad.
Thanks,
BQB
The Bonnie Lass was a madhouse. More so than usual. The Buchanan Boys were out of control – laughing, singing, drinking, shouting, shooting, fighting, helping themselves to the hooch, breaking and/or stealing everything that wasn’t nailed down and chasing Miss Bonnie’s girls around with nary an interest in their right to refuse service.
Miss Bonnie walked over to the back corner where Blythe sat, holding his aching forehead in the palm of his hand, oblivious to all of it.
“Mr. Blythe,” Miss Bonnie said.
Blythe didn’t respond.
“Mr. Blythe!”
He looked up. “What is it?”
“Mr. Blythe,” Miss Bonnie said. “I’ve had all I can stand of this. These men need to go before I start using their asses as target practice.”
That ticked Blythe’s funny bone, but the laughter made his head throb harder. “I apologize, Madame. I’m a bit under the weather.”
“Well, I don’t give a good golly what you…”
Blythe looked at the businesswoman, ready to hit her with his red eyes again, but a migraine split his skull. He grabbed his forehead once more then after a moment, stood up and buttoned his jacket.
“Pardon me.”
Blythe stepped out onto the main floor.
“Who’s going to pay for all this?!” Miss Bonnie shouted.
“Keep a running tab, my dear,” Blythe said. “The Legion Corporation shall reimburse all damages promptly.”
“Corporate reimbursement?” Miss Bonnie mumbled to herself. “Hell, I’m gonna invent some shit these asshole broke then. HEY!”
Miss Bonnie was none too pleased to see Roscoe Crandall getting roughed up by Jasper and Kirk Buchanan. Jasper punched Roscoe in the gut while Kirk rummaged through Roscoe’s wallet. Miss Bonnie felt strongly in the fact that only she was allowed to do the latter.
“Knock it off! That’s a paying customer!”
Jasper and Kirk divied up Roscoe’s cash then split. Miss Bonnie helped Roscoe to his feet.
“You all right?” Miss Bonnie asked.
“Yeah,” Roscoe replied. “I’d be a lot better if we could get some alone time.”
Miss Bonnie slapped him across the face. “I told you I don’t do that anymore, dummy!”
By the bar, Doc peddled his elixir to a bevy of bewildered Buchanans, who were taking bottles and handing Doc money as fast as he could grab it.
“It cures rabies, scabies, and every variety of pox, chicken on down the line,” Doc said. “Genital fungus, every abnormality among us and you can even spread it on toast.”
Jeremiah Buchanan released a foghorn grade belch then tossed back another beer.
“Does it cure alcoholism?”
Doc slapped the drunk on the shoulder. “My good man, as a medical professional I can tell you that the quickest way to beat one addiction is to trade it for another and this product is filled with the most splendid drug to be hooked upon – cocaine!”
“Cocaine?” Jeremiah asked.
“Indeed sir!” Doc said. “Good for what ails you. It is an undeniable scientific fact that when you are under the effects of cocaine, it is virtually impossible to worry about any of the other things going wrong with your body, thus rendering all of your problems cured!”
Jeremiah took a bottle and gulped it.
“That’ll be two dollars sir,” Doc said.
“Two dollars?!” Jeremiah balked. “Up yours!”
Doc flipped his wrist and out popped his revolver, which he pointed straight at Jeremiah’s nose.
“I don’t control the free market, my good man,” Doc said. “It’s all about the law of supply and demand.”
Jeremiah begrudgingly slapped two bucks down on the bar for Doc to collect. Doc flicked his wrist again and his revolver retracted back up his sleeve.
“A pleasure doing business with you sir!” Doc said. “Remember, you can’t put a price on good health!”
Out on the floor, Blythe’s attempt to walk off his headache wasn’t working. He winced in pain as he walked past the bar. Doc noticed the counselor and abandoned his customers to follow Blythe upstairs.
“Mr. Blythe!” Doc said.
Blythe rubbed his temples and ignored the fast talker.
“Mr. Blythe! So wonderful to see you again! Doctor Elias T. Faraday by way of Boston, Massachusetts…”
Blythe interrupted and concluded Doc’s patented self-introduction, having suffered through it in the past. “But no relation to those infernal Chestnut Hill Faradays who will pick my pocket and so on. Good day, Doctor.”
“Good day, Mr. Blythe!” Doc slapped the counselor on the back. That didn’t help Blythe’s condition at all.
“Mr. Blythe,” Doc said. “I surely would like to thank you. I have been able to help so many people improve their health thanks to your company’s ingenious formula.”
“So glad to hear it,” Blythe said as he continued up the steps.
“And I can’t complain about how wealthy it’s made me either,” Doc said. “But mostly for me it’s about seeing the smiling faces of my patients when they are restored to full vitality.”
“Lovely,” Blythe said. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Doc pressed on. “Mr. Blythe, if I may be so bold, shouldn’t Legion Corporation’s name be on the bottle? I do appreciate that you allowed me lend my good name to the concoction your scientists invented, but I feel a bit guilty that your fine company isn’t receiving the credit it so richly deserves.”
“Think nothing of it,” Blythe said.
“Such modesty,” Doc said. “Especially in light of how you’ve allowed me to keep a hundred percent of the profits.”
“The Legion Corporation could care less about money when it comes to this matter, Doctor,” Blythe said. “All we wanted was for a renowned medical expert to make the case for this revolutionary formula to ensure this great nation is healthy, strong, and able to take full advantage of all the products and services that Legion has to offer.”
“What a visionary bunch you must work for,” Doc said. “And to think, when you were searching for a spokesman to extol the virtues of this miracle elixir, every other doctor you met with turned you down. How fortunate I was to have been passing through Colorado when you were interviewing candidates.”
Blythe put a hand on Doc’s shoulder. “You were the forward thinker we needed, Doctor. Only a man of your brilliance and oratory acumen can pitch the curative properties of a drink consisting of cocaine, laudanum, and spider eggs mixed in for texture. Now I must insist that we part, for I am feeling quite ill and must lay down.”
“Heavens!” Doc said. “Would you care for a sip of some Miracle Cure-All?”
Blythe turned the knob to his room. “No thank you. I had cocaine for breakfast.”
The counselor entered the room and slammed the door in Doc’s face, then locked it behind him.
“What an asshole,” Blythe said.
Blythe found a quiet place just in time, for once he was inside the room, the pain in his head knocked him down to his knees. Blythe’s eyes turned red.
“Oh how I despise board meetings,” Blythe said.
The vampire’s entire body froze like a statute, with his face staring at the ceiling and his mouth gaping wide open.
Bookshelf Battle 