Tag Archives: zombie apocalypse

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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Jan 28 2016
3 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was ZOMBED – Chapter 8

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“EVERYBODY HATES ME!!!”

The rasp in his voice disappeared, the scowl lifted, his tongue was no longer tied and the words flowed out of Slade’s mouth like the choppy waters of a roaring river. As if that weren’t bad enough, the lawman’s face was covered with snot and tears.

“Shhh baby,” Miss Bonnie said softly as she stroked her fingers through Slade’s luscious brown hair. “I got you. Hush that fool talk now, no one hates you.”

Yup. Men have needs and sometimes one of them is the shoulder of a good woman to cry on, or in this case, an ample bosom to cry into. Why? What did you readers think Slade needed?

Perverts.

“YEPH DEY DOOTH!” Slade’s voice was muffled by Miss Bonnie’s copious assets. He turned his head to the side for purposes of pronunciation and better air inhalation.

“Who?” Miss Bonnie asked. “Who hates you?”

Somehow in a town filled with nosey gossips, Slade and Miss Bonnie had managed to keep their arrangement secret for six whole months. Once a week, Slade would head up to Miss Bonnie’s room, plunk down her full fee, and then unload all of his burdens.

They never did anything beyond that. Miss Bonnie wasn’t against the idea but Slade didn’t think it proper. So the pair would just lie in bed, Slade taking a break from his tough guy persona while Miss Bonnie played the role of a discount head shrinker.

“Gunther.”

“What?” Miss Bonnie asked. “He does not hate you!”

“He doesn’t believe in me I know that much.”

“And what makes you think that?” Miss Bonnie asked as she took Slade’s hand and interlocked her fingers between his.

Slade sniffed and blew his nose into a hanky. “He wanted to run. He didn’t think I could handle the Buchanan Boys on my own.”

“Well shit, Rain, there was thirty of them and only one of you!” Miss Bonnie said. “Maybe if you’d of told him your plan. Don’t you think you should share these kinds of things with your deputy?”

“He second guesses me on everything,” Slade said. “He always tries to talk me out of whatever I want to do. I’m the boss! He should just do what I say and like it!”

Miss Bonnie rested her cheek on top of Slade’s head. “Oh honey. Bosses and employees bicker all the time. That’s natural.”

Another sniff. “It is?”

“Sure. Whenever I tell Waldo to water down the drinks he always gets all high and mighty with his, ‘I can’t lower my integrity just so you can save a buck’ routine but I always ask him ‘Are you going to pay for the extra liquor then?’ and sure enough, he shuts his trap and waters the hooch down.”

“So what the hell does that mean?” Slade asked.

“It means that the boss/employee relationship is give and take. You want your employees to feel like they’re free to tell you when they think you’re wrong because sometimes you might be wrong. Like that time Eleanor told me the girls didn’t want to entertain the circus folk. She was right. All those freaks had gangrenous peckers and the little money I would have made off them would have paled in comparison to the money I’d of lost if all the girls got sick for weeks after.”

“This…this is getting off topic.”

Slade rolled over on his stomach and Miss Bonnie knew that was her cue to hop up on the Marshal’s back and give him a shoulder massage.

“Honey, if you think you’re right and you put your foot down, then a good employee will still back you up out of loyalty,” Miss Bonnie said. “Gunther stood up for you, didn’t he? You should have heard the way he was talking about you in here, like rainbows were popping out of your backside and all.”

“Really?” Slade asked.

“Really,” Miss Bonnie answered. “Holy…you’ve got a big knot here.”

The Marshall let out a sigh of relief as Miss Bonnie worked her magic.

“Standing Eagle definitely hates me,” Slade said. “No way around that.”

“That is a sad situation,” Miss Bonnie said. “But stop beating yourself up about it. Sure, maybe you could have explained yourself better but everyone makes mistakes.”

Miss Bonnie moved her hands lower and started working on the kinks in Slade’s back.

“Ohhh…yea,” Slade said. “Right there.”

“Here?” Miss Bonnie asked.

“Yessum.”

As far as Slade was concerned, kinky sex was all well and good when it came to relieving a man’s carnal desires, but when it came to his wounded soul, there was no better balm than a woman willing to rub a man’s back and listen to his litany of complaints without thinking less of him afterwards.

“I’ll tell you what,” Miss Bonnie said. “You give the Injuns a few days to cool off then after the judge gives his verdict, I’m going to make the biggest, yummiest cake ever and you’re going to ride on out to the Injun lands, give the cake to the Chief and invite the whole tribe to come watch those Buchanan Boys twist in the wind.”

Miss Bonnie stopped the rubdown when she heard a snicker.

“What?”

“You?” Slade asked. “Bake a cake?”

The madame slapped a light one upside the back of Slade’s head. “Shut your mouth! I can so bake!”

The massage ended and the unlikely couple spooned. Miss Bonnie was the little spoon, though on occasion Slade had been known to take that position. He would have surely committed hare kare had any of his numerous enemies ever found out.

“I can see it now,” Slade said. “The Chief takes one bite then pulls out his tomahawk and scalps me.”

“Rainer Slade! You take that back! I’ll have you know I’m very handy in the kitchen.”

“Uh huh,” Slade said.

“Fine,” Miss Bonnie said. “I’ll get one of the girls to make it. The point is just because people argue doesn’t mean they can’t make up. As soon as Smelly Jack’s six feet under Standing Eagle will talk to you again. You’ll see.”

“You know he said that if Jack doesn’t die I’ll wish I had died?”

“Well, that’s just plain rude,” Miss Bonnie said.

“And that the land will be useless for farming and everyones’ lives will be filled with torment and…oh! Get this…”

“What?” Miss Bonnie asked.

“He said that if Jack doesn’t die, then whenever anyone else dies they’ll…I forget how he put it…they’ll come back to life and start eating everyone for dinner or something.”

Miss Bonnie snuggled herself closer to Slade. “Injuns say the darnedest things.”

Briefly, as Slade nuzzled up to the all the red hair in front of his face, he allowed himself to be happy. But like most of the good times in his life, it was abruptly over.

WAM! A fist pounded on the door.

“Shit,” Miss Bonnie said. “Has it been an hour already?”

“Damn it,” Slade said.

More knocks, followed by the unceremonious voice of Roscoe Crandall, who returned for a second go-around.

“SLADE, YOU GONNA BE ALL NIGHT OR WHAT?!”

“Can we just tell him to get lost?” Slade asked. “I’ll pay for another hour.”

Miss Bonnie sat up. “No baby, that wouldn’t be fair.”

“COME ON, SLADE! OTHER PEOPLE ARE WAITIN’ FOR THE WHORE!”

Those words burned like acid in Slade’s ears. He put on his Stetson, then took his gun belt off the night stand, strapped it on, and pulled out his Colt.

“Stop it,” Miss Bonnie said.

“I ought to shoot him where he stands for calling you that,” Slade said.

Miss Bonnie took a seat at her vanity and primped herself in front of her mirror.

“It’s what I am,” she said. “People call you a Marshall because you get paid to catch crooks. People call me a whore because I let men have their way with me for money. There’s no shame in it except for what people attach to it. We all have to make a living somehow.”

Slade holstered his steel. Then, with his back to Miss Bonnie, he reached into his pocket and pulled out an old ring. It was a scratched and scuffed heirloom. Not much to look at. But it once belonged to his mother and he hoped it would do. He gulped, choking back the anxiety that rolled up his throat.

“Bonnie…”

Miss Bonnie was busy inserting a hair pin into her elaborate do when she stopped. The distinct lack of the word “Miss” stood out to her. She knew something was up.

“Yes?”

In his travels throughout the West, Slade had stared down the barrel of many a gun pointed his way and lived to tell the tale but somehow this endeavor proved more difficult than anything he’d ever done before.  For weeks, he practiced what was going to say but now that the moment arrived, it wasn’t any easier.

“What would you say if someone offered to take you away from all this?”

Miss Bonnie turned to her makeup, adding just a touch of rouge to her cheeks. She didn’t need much. They were naturally rosy.

“Away from what?” she asked.

“This place,” Slade said. “What you do. Who you do it with. All of it.”

Still facing the closed door, Slade heard Miss Bonnie scooch out of her chair, then felt her arm on his shoulder. Slade palmed the ring as his paid companion turned him around. She put one hand on each side of Slade’s face, pulled his head down, then kissed him on the lips.

Oh how Slade dreamed of that. He wanted it for so long but never tried for it on his own. Paying for company was ok in his book but paying for anything more intimate was out of the question for him.

“You are adorable,” Miss Bonnie said as she brushed her hand alongside Slade’s cheek. “But you ought to know better than to fall for a…”

“What?” Slade asked.

“WHORE???” Crandall shouted from outside. “WHAT KINDA PLACE YOU RUNNIN’ HERE MAKIN’ A MAN WAIT LIKE THIS?!”

Slade tightened his fist around the ring. The scowl returned. The vein in his forehead popped out again. He turned the knob with his left hand and opened the door to find Roscoe Crandall with his dopey toothless face and stringy hair.

“Finally!” Crandall said.

POW!

Like a cannon at the Battle of Gettysburg, Slade launched a clothesline punch that connected with Crandall’s jaw with a bone shattering crunch, knocking his lights out instantly and sending him down for the count.

The Marshall fished his cigar out of his pocket and returned it to its usual resting place in the right corner of his mouth. The rasp in his voice was back and he was Mr. Tough Guy once more.

He look over his shoulder to Miss Bonnie. “Do I owe you for his hour too?”

Inside Miss Bonnie’s heart brewed a perfect storm of emotion. A little bit of fear, mixed in with some joy, pride and…she thought maybe love? No, it was more than love.

It was butterflies.

Miss Bonnie’s face scrunched up. “No…I’ll just take it out of his pants later.”

Slade grunted his ascent, then tipped the brim of his hat at the lovely lady.

“Miss Bonnie.”

“Marshal.”

Miss Bonnie watched as Slade stepped over Crandall’s oily hide then made his way downstairs. She shut the door, locked it, then returned to her vanity. She couldn’t hold it back any longer. Her face unscrunched and a few tears started to roll.

Why would a madame, the owner of a brothel, sell her own body? That was a question that loomed large on the lips of Highwater’s gossipy gadflies. The general consensus was that Miss Bonnie did it because she was appallingly promiscuous, but then again, no one ever bothered to ask her why.

Had they done so, they would have learned that she was married once, to a man who presented himself as loving and kind only to eventually turn loathsome and cruel. One black eye too many convinced her to grab her husband’s revolver and respond to his challenge of, “You don’t got the guts” to empty every last round in his chest.

Seemed like a good idea in the heat of the moment but when her good sense returned, she snatched what little money her husband had stuffed under the mattress, fled Illinois for good, and earned her keep as a working girl until she managed to save enough to buy a place of her own.

As anyone who’s ever been down on their luck will attest, when good fortune returns, the mind doesn’t set itself at ease. Thoughts are never happy but rather, they become focused on how to never go back to the dark, dirt poor times of the past. She’d given up on men, forgotten all about love, and money was her only friend.

Money meant power. Money meant respect. Money meant never having to cow tow to another man ever again. As far as she was concerned, she was never able to get enough of it and while she was happy to take her cut from her girls’ earnings, she was even happier to take a full fee on her own.

Rainer Slade. No man had ever defended Miss Bonnie’s honor like that before. And while she was’t exactly a damsel in distress in search of a man’s protection, she did appreciate that someone cared enough to rearrange a scumbag’s face in her honor.

Poor Miss Bonnie. She sure had a lot to think about.

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Jan 28 2016
4 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was ZOMBED -Chapter 7

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Sundown was the busiest time to visit the Bonnie Lass. Men had needs and Miss Bonnie’s gals aimed to please. Like prize peacocks, they strutted their stuff around the saloon floor, adept in the art of separating lonely men from their money.

Most of those men were lonely for a reason. Ugly, mean, miserable, alcoholic slimeballs without a dime to their name and no accomplishments to speak of.

Of course, in any brothel, there’s the occasional man who isn’t so bad but just can’t get out of his own way when it comes to chatting up a member of the fairer sex.

Once in awhile, there’s even a man who, despite all the odds against him, charms the ladies into having a good time.

Doc was one of those men. A scotch in one hand and a cigar in the other, he sat in a comfy chair in a back corner. Martha and Annabelle sat in front of him, listening intently to every word Doc had to say. Jeanette, an import all the way from Paris, claimed Doc’s lap for herself.

“And so I said to the Queen, either you’re terribly ill, or you need to return these mangoes to your grocer immediately!!!”

The ladies lapped it up. “Oh Doctor,” Annabelle said. “You are too much!”

“What a life you’ve lived!” Martha added. “You really met Queen Victoria?”

“But of course, my dear, but of course!” Doc said, swirling his glass around. “A delightful woman I must say. She suffered from ghastly stomach cramps and not a single physician in London was able to properly diagnose her. Naturally, she sent for me, having heard of the yeoman’s work I did as personal physician to the Raj of India.”

Martha’s eyes lit up. “You’ve been to India? Get out!”

“I shall get it, madam!” Doc said. “The Raj.  What a fine fellow.  Oh, how I miss Calcutta.  The cuisine, the people, the festivities…oh! But I’ll tell you as wonderful as my time there was it pales in comparison to the wonders of the world I saw while I traveled throughout Africa with the Bushmen of the Kalahari.”

“My stars,” Annabelle said, clutching her hand over her heart. “What were they like?”

Doc puffed on his cigar. “Splendid gentlemen the lot of them. They had an aversion to trousers but in that heat, who can blame them really? Do you know that one day I spotted a hungry lion who was gazing upon one of the children as if he were a particularly tasty snack?”

“No!” Martha and Annabelle said together. Jeanette wasn’t much of a talker. She preferred to wiggle her hand between two open buttons in Doc’s shirt and play with the fast talker’s chest hair.

Doc closed his eyes. “Oh ladies, please, I’d rather not discuss it…”

“Please!” Martha begged.

“No, no, you’ll think me a blowhard when all I did was what any man in my position would have done.”

“Land sakes alive, Doc!” Annabelle said. “Now we gotta know!”

“Oh, if you insist!” Doc said. “I socked the unruly beast in the nose, strangled it to death with my bare hands and now its gruesome head adorns the wall of my family’s summer cottage in Nantucket. The tribe was so pleased that they made me an honorary Bushman of the Kalahari!”

“They did?” Annabelle asked.

“Indeed, and between you and I, my dear…”

Doc paused for a moment then leaned in to revel in the transfixed look on Annabelle’s eyes. “…I’m well versed in the ways of the bush.”

Annabelle pondered that statement for a second, then covered her mouth and playfully slapped Doc’s arm. “You’re terrible!”

“I know my dear!” Doc said as he took a sip of scotch. “I’m so very, very wicked!!!”

More laughter. Meanwhile, the spirits of the three sad sacks at the bar weren’t as high as the good doctor’s.

“I will never trust a man that breaks bread with Injuns, no way, no how!” Blake said, nursing his beer.

“I don’t like it,” Burt said. “Something’s fishy about the whole thing.’

“Aww hell, we all look like cowards now,” Waldo said. “You know, I bet that’s why Slade recruited them Injuns to help him in the first place! Just to make us look bad.”

Miss Bonnie, all dolled up in red can can dress, bellied up to the bar.

“Jesus H. Christ, the three of you put together don’t have enough brain power to warm up a biscuit. The only reason why the Marshall reached out to those Injuns was because none of you would lift a finger to help him and don’t you forget it.”

Bottle crack. Chair smash. The first rigged card game related fight of the evening.

Ernie Gunderson swore he saw a spare King of Hearts drop out of Mitch O’Connell’s sleeve, but Mitch steadfastly maintained his innocence with an uppercut to Mitch’s jaw. Tim Shea, never one to miss out on a good fight, lifted his bottle high in the air and was about to bring it down on the first head he could find when a perfectly placed shot shattered it into pieces.

The chaos stopped and all eyes were on Miss Bonnie, who was now holding a smoking derringer. In her rebuke to the crowd, she started out slowly, then built her way up to an ear splitting crescendo.

“Do you think…that it would be too much to ask…that you…ASSHOLES…LEARN HOW TO PLAY WITH YOURSELVES…WITHOUT TEARING THE PLACE APART FOR ONE GODDAMN NIGHT?!”

Hats were off and heads hung low. The collective response? “Sorry Miss Bonnie.”

The proprietor tucked her piece back into her garter belt. The degenerates returned to normal, or, as normal as they got.

Doc, upon hearing the shot, had ducked for cover and sent Jeanette crashing to the floor in the process.  He stood up and dusted himself off.

“Pardon me, ladies,” he said. “Reflex action, you see from…from…”

The ladies waited for an answer.

“From my days in the service of President Lincoln! Yes, that was it exactly!”

“You?!” Martha asked. “Worked for Lincoln?”

Doc grabbed his forehead as if he was suffering from an traumatic mental burden.

“Oh, yes…yes, my dear I was the President’s Chief Medical Advisor but please don’t ask me to relive that tragic day. I swear I pummeled John Wilkes Booth within an inch of his life but his six henchmen overpowered me.  Oh, how I pray that one day I shall be able to forgive myself.”

“Booth had henchmen with him?” Annabelle asked. “I never knew that!”

“Oh my dear,” Doc said as he wrapped an arm around Annabelle. “There are so many things about this world that the powers that be keep from you that if I were to tell you half of them your faith in humanity would be shaken to its very core.”

“Gosh,” Annabelle said. Martha, not to be outdone, took Doc’s other arm.

Jeanette finally woke up. “Sacre bleu!”

“Ladies,” Doc said.  “I don’t mean to intrude, but have you ever been properly examined by a Harvard trained professional?”

“I can’t say that I have,” Martha said.

“Me neither,” Annabelle added.

“Come then,” Doc said as he led the trio upstairs. “Let us retire to more comfortable quarters for I’ll have you know I am a master of the gynecological arts and when it comes to your health and well being I will leave nothing to chance!”

“Oh my,” Martha said. “This sounds serious.”

“Medical matters are always serious,” Doc said. “But don’t worry, my dear, I’ll give the three of you a discount rate for my services.”

“That’s mighty generous of you doctor,” Annabelle said.

“I know,” Doc replied. “I truly am devoted to my patients.”

Martha pulled a roll of bills out of her brasserie and handed it over to the physician.

“Will this be enough?”

“Hmm,” Doc said. “It’s a good start and you have an honest face. I’ll just bill you for the rest my dear.”

“Oh thank goodness,” Martha said.

“Trou du cul,” Jeanette said, rubbing the sore spot on the back of her head from when Doc dropped her on the floor.

Back at the bar, Miss Bonnie was pouring over a wad of cash, counting up the evening’s haul. It was a good one, as per usual.

The double doors parted ways and in walked Slade.

Yup. The joint was filled with men with needs and even the fine, upstanding Marshall wasn’t any different. As our hero and Miss Bonnie traded glances, it became clear that one thing and one thing only was on the Marshall’s mind.

Miss Bonnie had something that Slade desperately needed and he wasn’t going to leave without it.

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Jan 24 2016
2 Comments
Zombie Western

Zombie Western Crossroads

Howdy 3.5 buckaroos.

Bookshelf Q. Battler here.  So, the 3.5 readers with me from the beginning have known that I have a problem.  I start stories, then I hit a wall, then I spend a lot of time trying to figure out how to climb over that wall.

In that regard, I think that’s a problem every author faces.  Maybe its not so much a wall as a crossroads.  A fork in the road, rather.  You have to pick a direction and you worry the road you take will offend your 3.5 readers into running off and finding some other blog to read.

Anyway, yup, I foresee a fork in the road ahead.

You may have noticed that Part 1 has no zombies in it, just a brief mention by some Native Americans that “the undead” might be coming.  Hate to break it to you, but I don’t believe that Part 2 will have any zombies in it either.

I know.  Right now you’re channeling Dr. Malcolm from Jurassic Park.  “Uh…you do plan on having zombies in your uh zombie book, don’t you?”

Yes.  And how to handle the zombies was also a decision.  There was the option to just let them roam around uncontrollably with no one having any idea where they came from and watch as Slade and Co. fight for survival.

Hell, the Walking Dead has been on forever without informing their 3.5 billion viewers as to how the zombademic occurred.

But, I decided to go with a villain.  Henry Alan Blythe, yet to be introduced will, well I won’t spoil it, but he’ll have the ability to control the zombies.  On their own, they’ll just be dumb zombies running around eating everyone but then Blythe has the ability to take control and focus them on something…an army of the undead at his disposal.

OK, so I just gave a big spoiler.  But you’re not just my 3.5 readers.  You’re my 3.5 writing advisors too.

So the fork in the road.  How will Slade find out about Blythe’s powers?

I’m torn between two options:

OPTION 1

Blythe pulls the classic Bond villain move, capturing Slade, fully explaining himself, his motives, his powers, what he’s up to, perhaps the reason would be Slade gets an offer to join him in his evil mission or perish…oh and of course than Slade, ala Austin Powers, is “left in an easily escapable situation with one inept guard while the villain walks away without confirming his enemy’s death.”  Cheesy, but most of my stuff is a parody over something else so, I think I can get away with it.

Option 2

A new character, I’m thinking a former slave with his own supernatural powers, moseys into town.  He’s crossed paths with Blythe before so he explains everything.  PRO – avoids the Bond style villain confession.  CON – every time you add a hero, it does steal some of Slade i.e. the main hero’s thunder…though I’m thinking eventually it becomes a Scooby Gang situation (remember Buffy the Vampire Slayer?  She did all the work and her Scooby Gang, i.e. Xander, Willow et all were the support team?)

I don’t know.  What say you, 3.5 cowpokes?

 

 

 

 

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Jan 23 2016
7 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 5

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Jack Buchannan earned the nickname “Smelly Jack” due to the fact that he and soap weren’t exactly good acquaintances. His hat and duster were covered in stains. That’s because he never bothered to wash either of them. Ever.

His beard was filled with little chunks of food. Amongst the populace, there was a difference of opinion as to whether Jack was saving his lunch for later of if he was just a sloppy eater. The answer was likely a little from Column A and a little from Column B.

Worst of all, he was bat shit crazy, a murderous psychopath who should have been thrown in an insane asylum the day he was born. And that’s just what his mother had to say about him.

BLAM! Jack blasted his Remington straight in the air. His boys were rowdy. Anxious. Itching for a fight. They shared their leader’s grooming habits. Most of them were Jack’s brothers. Some were his cousins. Some were even his brother-cousins. The Buchanan family tree was more of a flat, branchless log.

“WELL, WELL, WELL, WHAT HAVE WE GOT HERE?!”

Jack hopped down off his horse and got right up in Slade’s face. The outlaw’s rancid breath wafted into Gunther and Doc’s nostrils, giving each man an upset stomach. Slade took the brunt of the odor but didn’t budge. He moved for no man.

“Rainier Slade!” Jack said. “‘Aint you the no good rotten louse who lead the posse that put my brother Dave on the end of a noose?”

Slade and Jack locked eyes. It was on.

“Yup,” Slade said.

“Why in the hell did you go and do that for?” Jack asked.

Slade studied Jack’s face. It was barely visible behind all the unruly whiskers. “He broke the law.”

Jack laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed some more. His boys joined in. Then abruptly, the killer shouted ever so maniacally, “I AM THE LAW!!!”

Spittle sprayed all over Slade’s face which, as you might expect by now, did nothing to dissuade our hero’s steadfast resolve.

Jack spotted the bottle in Doc’s hand. “What’s that?”

Doc’s favorite question. He handed the bottle over. “Why it’s my Miracle Cure-All, sir! Please, do help yourself, its been known to calm even the most unruly of dispositions.”

Down the hatch. Glug…glug…glug. “Not bad,” Jack said as he passed the bottle to his boys, who each took a taste. “Could be stronger.”

“Oh, as a man of science I assure you any stronger and you wouldn’t be alive,” Doc said.

Jack pressed a finger into Slade’s chest, pushing it hard, as if in an attempt to push it straight through.

“‘Aint no law out here ‘cept what the strongest man says is the law,” Jack said. “Might makes right, if you got the steel you make the deals and if you take the lead then you’re dead. Simple as that.”

Gunther cleared his throat. “I wonder if there might not be some kind of peaceful resolution to be had here.”

“SHUT UP OLD MAN!” Jack shouted. “I ‘AINT TALKIN TO YOU!”

“All right then,” Gunther replied.

“Tell you what, Marshall,” Jack said. “I’ll give you till the count of three to walk your sorry ass away before I blow your head clean off. And I’ll enjoy it too because I miss my brother somethin’ awful.”

Slade chomped on his cigar. He was moved enough to come out with a full sentence. “Looks like you got plenty of brothers to spare.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “But Dave was my brother AND my uncle, so he was doubly special to me.”

Gunther and Slade traded glances. Neither one of them wanted to bother trying to figure out the scenario that made that possible.

Jack reached his hand downward, curling his fingers over his sidearm. Slade did the same, as did the rest of the Buchanan Boys. Gunther held his Winchester tight. Doc prepared to flick his wrists.

At this point, you, the noble reader should imagine yourself viewing this scene on a big screen television. The camera whips around quickly to each character and zooms in on their eyes, leaving you, the viewer, to wonder what is on their minds. Is this for real? Is everyone about to kill each other?

Throw in an emotional song filled with trumpets, whip cracks, and men grunting in a guttural manner and you’ve got the quintessential Western movie showdown scene.

“Rain,” Gunther whispered. “If you got an ace up that sleeve of yours, now would be the time to play it.”

Slade had nothing to say.

Jack started the count. “ONE…”

“Aw shit,” Gunther said. “Well, I had a good run.” He looked up to the sky. “I’m a-comin’ Mavis.”

“…TWO…”

Doc looked around. “I say, gentlemen, I just recalled that I have a very important appointment tomorrow morning and it would be quite rude of me if I were to die and miss it so I think I shall just excuse myself and…”

Slade took out his cigar and inserted two fingers into his mouth, one on each side. He blew a loud, sharp whistle.

Rustling sounds. War whoops. On the rooftops on the stores lining each side of the street, over a hundred Native American braves appeared, bow and arrows and rifles at the ready.

Behind our trio, a dusty cloud barreled down the road. Galloping sounds. More battle cries. A hundred more warriors on horseback.

“Rain, you magnificent son of a bitch!” a wide eyed Gunther said.

Jack didn’t share that assessment. “Goddamn pussy!” he said to Slade. “Lettin’ Injuns do your dirty work!”

Insults like that didn’t bother Slade. He was the type of man who had to respect a man before his insults could bother him.

“Boys,” Gunther said. “I reckon y’all will want to let your steel hit the ground and put your hands up now.”

The Buchanan Boys may not have been known for their brain power, but they knew when they were outfoxed and outnumbered, so they did as instructed.

Chief Standing Eagle. He stood over 6’5″ and had a bare, broad chest with muscles upon his muscles’ muscles. He wore a full feathered headdress. It was colorful. White. Red. Black. It shook gracefully as he dismounted his horse.

The look in the warrior’s eyes when he saw Jack. It was definitely personal. Even Jack knew it.

“Aww shit, Slade!” Jack cried. “You can’t do this!”

Standing Eagle and Slade traded nods. The Chief walked forward, darted out his right hand, clasped it around Jack’s throat and lifted him off the ground, high into the air.

“Slade…SLADE!!!” Jack’s whining was interrupted by coughs and sputters as the Chief tightened his hand. “You can’t turn me over to this…to this…SAVAGE!!!”

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Jan 23 2016
3 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was ZOMBED – Chapter 3

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“Step right up! Step right up!”

While Gunther was pleading Slade’s case to deaf ears, a flashy salesman set up a cart just outside the Bonnie Lass’ double doors.

The only thing slimier than this lowlife’s pitch was his appearance. He had a devilish black beard, the kind that came down his face to a point just like the letter, “V.” His mustache curled upwards at each end. He wore a red velvet suit, wrapped his neck up with an ascot, and carried a cane topped with a golden ball. Sitting on his head was a top hat that extended an extra two feet above his cranium.

“Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, step right up for a taste of Doc Faraday’s Miracle Cure-All!”

A large group gathered to listen to the huckster’s silver tongue wag away as it made all manner of suspicious promises.

“Step right up and purchase a bottle of the last medicine you will ever need!” the man said. “Lead an insurrection against indigestion, a revolution against devolution and decertify your decrepitude!”

Men. Women. Young and old. Several suckers were already holding the bottles they bought.

“Heart palpitations will listen to your stipulations, constipation will no longer be a source of consternation and you’ll never fight another bout with the gout!”

The show drew Gunther’s interest. He immediately sized up the charlatan for the fraud that he was, but he wanted to see where the doc was going with his routine.

“Ulcers will be ousted, your pain will be drained and tumors will become mere rumors!”

“Doctor,” an old woman said.

“Yes, my dear!” the salesman said.

“I got the worst pain in my bones. Will this help?”

The salesman didn’t flinch an inch.

“But of course, madam, but of course!” he said. “Bid me a moment as I tell you a tale of an elderly gentleman I met not more than fifty miles away who suffered from the most abominable, most abysmal case of rheumatism I’ve ever seen in my entire medical career. Let me tell you this man could barely move without crying out in debilitating pain. One sip of my Miracle Cure-All and…do you know what he did?”

The crowd waited for an answer with baited breath.

The so-called doctor was quite a showman. He jumped up and clicked his heels in the air. “Why, that gent started dancing about like a wild man, thanking me, thanking Jesus, thanking Mary, thanking Joseph, thanking God Almighty himself for bringing me to him so that I was able to introduce him to Doc Farraday’s Miracle Cure-All!”

Doc raised a bottle in the air. “Now remember, dear, dear patients, one spoonful will bring a fever down, two spoonfuls will cure a seizure of the heart and return it to its regular beating rhythm and as a trained physician, I can recommend half a spoonful a day every morning as an excellent regimen to ward off diseases, disorders, and other various and sundry maladies of the body, mind and spirit.”

“Does it cure flatulence?” a cowboy asked. That question drew dirty looks from the crowd. “I’m asking for a friend. He uh…he farts a lot.”

“Indubitably, sir, indubitably,” Doc replied. “Patients have reported to me that one swig of Doc Farraday’s Miracle Cure-All has given their bodily odors a robust, flowery scent with just a hint of lavender.”

Everyone reached into their pockets and pulled out their money. Gunther had enough and walked on.

“Excuse me, sir!”

Not realizing that he was the sir in question, Gunther kept walking.

“You there! Constable!”

Gunther stopped in his tracks and turned around. The good doctor abandoned the crowd, clutching a roll of dollars in his fist.

“Good day, sir!” the doctor said with an extended hand. Gunther hesitated. The doc was dirty for sure and the old timer didn’t want any of that existential muck to rub off on him. But, not wanting to be impolite, Gunther took it and shook it anyway.

“Faraday’s the name,” the salesman said. “Doctor Elias T. Faraday by way of Boston, Massachusetts.”

“Uh huh,” Gunther said, doing his best impression of an interested person.

“Oh,” Doc said. “But I’m no relation to the Chestnut Hill Faradays, I assure you. A band of beggars I’ll have you know. I wouldn’t trust my billfold around any of them if I were you.”

“I’ll remember that,” Gunther said.

“And you are?” Doc asked.

“Gunther,” the old man said. “Beauregard of the Kansas Beauregards. They’re all assholes but I love ’em just the same.”

“Yes, yes,” Doc said. “A man of good humor. I like it!”

The doctor handed Gunther a black bottle. Printed in cursive lettering on the bottle’s label were the words, “Doc Faraday’s Miracle Cure-All.”

“A gift for you, sir,” Doc said. “The very last medicine you’ll ever need. My way of thanking you for your efforts to protect this burgeoning metropolis.”

Gunther looked the bottle over. “What’s in it?”

Doc stroked his beard. “Ah, an astute question, my good man! Let me see. It’s a vast array of only the finest narcotics I assure you. Laudunum. Opium. Baking soda. Tree bark shavings. Dogwood tree leaves. Beaver mucous. Spider eggs, but only for texture. I’ll tell you as to date the scientific community is in a state of flux as to the alleged curative properties of spider eggs…tonic water, raspberry juice, cocaine…”

Gunther’s one eye lit up. “Did you say, ‘cocaine?'”

“Indeed, sir, indeed, plucked from the leaves of the finest coca plants I’ll have you know.”

Gunther pulled the cork out of the bottle and smelled it. “Ugh! That’s worse than an outhouse after a backyard barbecue.”

“No one ever said that the path toward vim and vigor was an easy one, sir. Tell me, do you suffer from any infirmities?”

“Infirma-what-ities?” Gunther asked.

“Infirmities,” Doc said. “Aches. Pains and the like.”

“Now that you mention it, my back always feels like a bull ran over it.”

“Then please,” Doc said. “Take a sip and feel like a young man again.”

Gunther looked at Doc. “Horse shit,” Gunther said. “What kind of flim flam scam are you runnin’?”

“This is all on the level, good sir, I assure you,” Doc said. “My reputation as a Harvard trained doctor of medicine is on the line with every bottle I purvey to the public and I tell you I would never commit an act of indiscretion that would put my good name into disrepute, sir.”

“Here goes nothin,'” Gunther pressed the bottle to his lips, took a pull, instantly sprayed it out of his mouth in a fine mist, then offered a trail of obscenities not repeatable in mixed company.

“Son of a bitch, Doc! Did you stick a horse’s pecker in a bottle and collect the piss?!”

Doc slapped his knee. “That’s a good one, sir but no, no my good man, Doc Faraday’s Miracle Cure-All may be an acquired taste, but it is one you shall have to acquire just the same in order to extend your life many, many years past your natural expiration date!”

“Shit,” Gunther said. He handed the bottle back. Doc took it and tucked it into his coat pocket.

“I’ll just keep my date with the grave if its all the same,” the old man said.

Gunther walked off again.

“Good sir!”

“What now?”

“I could not help but catch some of your impassioned plea as I peddled my wares outside the local house of ill repute…”

“Do you just love listening to yourself talk all day?” Gunther asked.

“Indeed I do for oration is one of the many gifts our beloved creator has bestowed upon me but to get to the point at hand, am I to understand our Marshall intends to stave off a band of miscreants on his own?”

“That’s the long and short of it,” Gunther replied.

Doc grabbed his lapels and puffed out his chest. “Then sir, I should very much like to lend a hand in this, Highwater’s darkest hour.”

“You?” Gunther laughed at the thought.

“Indeed, sir.”

“Are you handy with the steel?”

The good doctor let his cane drop to the ground. He shot his arms straight out to the left and right. Out from under his cuffs popped two sterling silver revolvers. Gunther was impressed.

“That’ll do.”

“An invention of my own design,” Doc said. “Spring loaded contraptions that respond with the mere flick of a wrist.”

“I really don’t give a musty ox shit, Doc,” Gunther said. “Are you comin’ or not?”

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Jan 23 2016
10 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was ZOMBED – Chapter 2

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The Bonnie Lass. It was named for its owner and proprietor, one Miss Bonnie Lassiter, declared by the populace to be the most beautiful woman in all of Highwater. A wood carved outline of her sultry shape adorned the sign hanging above the swinging set of double doors to her saloon.

Gunther strolled on in.

Drinking. Gambling. Wine, women, and song. Women especially. Ladies of the evening, even though it was daytime.

A fight over a fixed card game was in full swing. Grown men punched one another and slammed their opponents in the back with wooden chairs that conveniently splintered and cracked into pieces upon impact. There was even a fair amount of glass bottles being cracked over heads with reckless abandon.

The ladies were quite bored with it all. They milled about the bar, clad in fancy, frilly lace dresses, their hair done up perfectly, faces painted like works of art.

“Hey,” Gunther said.

No one paid the old man any mind.

“HEY!”

Still nothing. Gunther pulled out his sidearm and fired a round into the air. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at the codger.

“That’s more like it,” Gunther said.

“GODDAMN IT, GUNTHER!” came Miss Bonnie’s sweet though presently angry voice from upstairs. “WAS THAT YOU?”

Embarrassed, Gunther removed his hat and held it over his heart. “Yes, Miss Bonnie.”

“WHAT KIND OF A HORSE’S ASS SHOOTS A GUN INSIDE A PLACE OF BUSINESS?!”

Gunther hadn’t really thought about it. “I’m sorry, Miss Bonnie.”

“ARE YOU GOING TO FIX THE HOLE?!”

Gunther hadn’t thought about that either. “Yes, Miss Bonnie,” he said. “First chance I get.”

“YOUR CEILING IS MY FLOOR YOU KNOW! ARE YOU TRYING TO GET ME KILLED?!”

“Point taken, Ms. Bonnie.”

The cowboys let go of the various headlocks and holds they had on one another and gathered around the deputy.

“Gents,” Gunther said. “As you’re all well aware, the Buchanan Boys are on the way and old Smelly Jack Buchanan himself has put out the word that any man who stands in the way of his lootin’ and robbin’ and rapin’ and what have you is a dead man.”

Gunther stretched his boney arm toward the swinging doors.

“Out there on our main thoroughfare stands our man of the hour, Marshall Slade.” There was a tinge of pride in Gunther’s voice. “Who among you is man enough to stand with him?”

The room grew quiet. All the men looked at the walls, their boots, anywhere to avoid looking directly at the man who was about to lecture them.

“Well golllll….eee,” Gunther said. “Don’t y’all go and volunteer at once now, I’ll never be able to count everyone up.”

The general feeling in the room grew grim. The men were ashamed of themselves. They knew it. Gunther knew it. He did his best to play on it.

“This is our town, ‘aint it?” Gunther asked. “We built it, didn’t we? Who in tarnation does Smelly Jack think he is, that he can just waltz in here like he owns the place and take everything that ‘aint nailed down?”

Waldo Fleming, who in addition to his employment as the Bonnie Lass’ bartender served as the town’s illustrious mayor, was a goofy looking sourpuss. Hair parted straight down the middle, buck teeth and he always looked like he was sucking on a lemon.

“Ahh, hell, Gunther,” Waldo said. “Who are you to bullshit us about standing up for what’s right? Why, I’ve seen you and every other Marshall before Slade hightail it out of town like cats with their tails stuck between their legs whenever shit got bad. You’re just as yellow as the rest of us!”

Shock. A look of total shock took over Gunther’s face. “Them’s fightin’ words, ya’ ornery son of a motherless goat!”

“It’s the truth!” Waldo fired back.

Gunther put his hat back on. “Mayyyybe it’s the truth,” he said. “Or….” The old man raised a finger in the air to make a point. “Maybe, just maybe, I never had faith in any other Marshall we had before like I do with the one we got now.”

The group of degenerate barflies mulled that one over for a spell.

“Do you really?” Waldo asked.

The old man never could bluff. “No,” he said. “But he’s the first Marshall crazy enough to stand up for us and we can’t very well let him do it on his lonesome now can we?”

Martin Blake was a ranch hand who worked on a spread on the outskirts of town. He never failed to spend his pay at the Bonnie Lass, or to offer his two cents in any discussion.

“Slade’s an asshole,” the burly brute said as he slammed his beer mug down on his table.

Gunther spun around so quickly his fake eye almost popped out of its socket.

“Did you just say what I think you said you lousy, good for nothin’ sack of…”

Blake stood up and rested his hands on his big brass belt buckle. “Yeah, I did,” he interrupted. “Slade’s a fool. He’s gonna get everyone in town killed. He oughta stand down. That’s all a man can do when he’s up against a crew of roughnecks. Let Buchanan have his way with the town. Anyone who tries to stop him is just going to piss him off and egg him on to kill more innocent people.”

Claps. Foot stomps. Shouts of “Here, here!” and “‘Atta boy!'” and so on. The crowd was with the ranch hand.

“Stand down,” Gunther said. “That’s what y’all think the Marshall, our duly designated officer of the law, ought to do, is that right?!”

“YEAH!!!!” said literally everyone.

Gunther stopped by the bar, picked up an abandoned beer, and swilled it down. He didn’t care who it belonged to. “So that’s the path this country is on now, is it?”

He stepped back to the center of the room. “Well, is it?”

Burt Townsend, the local blacksmith, stood in the corner with his back against a support beam, an apron full of soot and a face weathered by too much time near a hot fire. “Blake’s right, Gunther. Slade’s playing a dangerous game here.”

“I can’t believe my own ears,” Gunther said. “What a sorry sack of so and so’s y’all have become…that y’all are such a bunch of weak kneed, lily livered spineless swine that you’ve tricked your soft, sad little mush brains into believing the bad guy isn’t Smelly Jack. That Marshall Slade is the bad guy here.”

The old timer paced back and forth as he continued. “That our town being sacked is just part of life in the West, something we should just become accustomed to, like tornados and coyotes and the like? Is that it?”

“Yes,” Townsend said. “Sorry, Gunther, but that’s exactly it.”

Waldo and Blake had always been degenerates, but Townsend had always been a reputable individual. His words hurt Gunter a little more. What really hurt though was that the old man secretly agreed with the crowd, but he wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction of letting them know that.

From upstairs came the sound of footsteps moving around, followed by a door opening. Miss Bonnie herself, in all her fiery red haired, big blue eyed, attractive and sensual glory, burst out of her bedroom wearing scandalous black lingerie that left little to the imagination.

She leaned over the bannister and looked down toward Gunther. “Is Rain in trouble?” she asked.

Gunther nodded then quickly averted his eyes, scanning about the room to find anything, anything at all to look at other than the scantily clad beauty. It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested but rather, he still considered himself a married man, even though his darling Mavis had passed on a decade prior.

“Yessum,” he said. “A bit of a spot.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Miss Bonnie asked.

That question elicited an endless supply of laughs from the lecherous losers.

“Why no, Ma’am,” Gunther said. “On account of you being…well…a…”

“What?” Miss Bonnie asked.

Just then, Roscoe Crandall, a tall, gangly looking doofus who loaded crates at the mercantile, ran out of Miss Bonnie’s bedroom with his pants around his angles, his pink polka dotted drawers on full display.

“Dammit, woman!” Roscoe yelled. “I ‘aint finished yet!”

Roscoe made a move to grab the little lady but ended up being grabbed himself. He was then thrown over the railing and down to the saloon’s main floor, where luckily for him, a table broke his fall.

“You’re finished when I say you’re finished, pervert!” Miss Bonnie shouted.

“I…I want…my money back,” Roscoe managed to say before he passed out.

“NO REFUNDS!” Miss Bonnie hollered. She turned back to Gunther. “You were saying?”

“Well,” Gunther said. “No doubt you can handle yourself, Miss Bonnie, but I just don’t think I’d be able to sleep at night if I went and put a woman into harm’s way is all.”

The redhead turned around. “I figured as much. Tell Rain I’m rooting for him just the same.”

And with that, the wealthiest woman in Highwater returned to her room and shut the door.

Gunther used his one good eye to give the contingent of cowards the evil eye.

“May it never be forgotten that the only one of you with the decency to offer a helping hand was a female,” the old man said.

Gunther knew it. The whole room knew it. Every man in the joint put his head down in shame, except for Roscoe. He was fast asleep.

“Pathetic,” Gunther said as he headed through the double doors. “PA-THET-IC!!!”

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Jan 23 2016
8 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was ZOMBED – Chapter 1

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In the dusty, horse dropping infested main street of a two-bit town, a young man stood and waited patiently. He was a quiet fellow who cast a stoic figure. He didn’t care much for most people. They irritated him to no end and it was impossible for him to pretend as though they didn’t. From the pained expression on his stubbly face to the bulging vein in his forehead, the townsfolk knew it was best to just steer entirely clear from this man’s general vicinity whenever possible.

Beads of sweat formed on the stoic’s forehead as the sun grew higher. He checked his pocket watch. A half-hour to go.

He adjusted his Stetson. It was black but that didn’t mean he was the bad guy. After all, he didn’t live in a black or white world. He knew all about the various shades of grey.

His shirt was black too. Pinned to it was a shiny star, emblazoned with the words, “U.S. Marshall.”

Rainier Slade. The Marshall Service had sent him all over the West and he’d been on his latest assignment for a little over a year.

Highwater, Kansas. Drunkeness. Debauchery. Lewd behavior. Non-stop criminal activity. And that was just the town fathers. Slade had truly waded waist deep into a putrid swamp of depravity, but he was determined to clean it all up and instill a sense of a law and order.

Or at the very least, he’d die trying. In fact, there was a good chance that he was about to do just that when an old man with a Winchester rifle slung over his shoulder strolled up the street determined to talk the young man out of it.

Gunther Beauregard. He wore a feather in his hat. He felt it added some character. And he certainly was one. Farther past sixty than he would have preferred to have been, his hair was long and gray, and just as unkempt as the bushy beard on his face.

His left eye was a glass one, the result of losing a fight he picked in his youth over an insult levied at him. As an older, wiser man he’d of just walked away. Youth is wasted on the young, he thought. The plight of the elderly is to possess a vast well of experience to rely on in any given situation, only to be too exhausted to do a damn thing with all that knowledge.

He had a star too. His was pinned to his vest. It wasn’t as shiny, but that wasn’t because he was only a Deputy U.S. Marshall. It was because he’d had his star longer than his latest boss. Much longer, in fact.

The old man reached the young man and they exchanged pleasantries. That wasn’t an easy feat, as neither man was particularly pleasant.

“Howdy, Rain,” the old man said.

Slade spat a tobacco laden loogie on the ground and gave a bare minimum acknowledgement.

“Gunther.”

Gunther had a gap between his two front teeth big enough for a horsefly to buzz through. Inevitably, air blew through the opening in such a way that left the occasional whistling sound mixed in between his words.

“Son, I realize you’re the numero uno honcho around here and you call the shots, so don’t go takin’ what I’m about to say as some kind of insubordination…”

Slade nodded. Even that much felt like an annoyance to him.

“…but I’m not sure you’re aware that in prior situations such as this one, past holders of your esteemed office would conveniently find themselves busy whenever shit went down.”

Slade raised an eyebrow. It felt like a lot of work.

“You see,” Gunther said. “We go and mend a fence, or find an old lady with a cat stuck in a tree or do somethin’ that takes our attention away from the locus of the chicanery at hand and that-a-way if there’s ever an inquiry by the Federales regarding our alleged dereliction of duty, we just say we’re painfully sorry but we was doin’ our duty elsewhere and unfortunately we missed out on all the action but don’t worry on account of we swear we’ll try harder to get ourselves killed the next time.”

‘Slade’s jaw worked on the hunk of brown gunk in his mouth. He didn’t bother to think about Gunther’s proposal.

“No.”

“No?” Gunther asked.

“No,” Slade repeated. He had a low, raspy voice, kind of like he was always in need of a lozenge.

Gunther shook his head. “Are you some kind of ijit?”

No response.

“Do you want to die?”

Slade kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead, not even bothering to look at his number two.

“I want to do my duty.”

Gunther chuckled. “Well, shit,” he said. “Why don’t we just go crawl up in our beds, blow our brains out and save the Buchanan Boys the trouble?”

Now Slade looked at Gunther. “Because when I die…I’ll die with my boots on.”

That was a sentiment the old man respected. A brash, youthful notion, seeing as how dead men have no need for footwear, but a noble thought just the same.

The boss’ eyes were back on the road. “If you want to clear out, go ahead.”

Gunther slapped Slade on the back. “Nah. I may be practical, but I ‘aint yella. Hang tight.”

The old timer walked across the street. Slade didn’t bother to ask where his compatriot was off to, but just in case he was wondering, Gunther said, “We need more deputies.”

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Jan 19 2016
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zombies

Zombie Western – Chapter 5

Jack Buchannan earned the nickname “Smelly Jack” due to the fact that he and soap weren’t exactly good acquaintances. His hat and duster were covered in stains. That’s because he never bothered to wash either of them. Ever. His beard was filled with little chunks of food. Amongst the populace, there was a difference of opinion as to whether Jack was saving his lunch for later of if he was just a sloppy eater. The answer was likely a little from Column A and a little from Column B.

Worst of all, he was bat shit crazy, a murderous psychopath who should have been thrown in an insane asylum the day he was born. And that’s just what his mother had to say about him.

BLAM! Jack blasted his Remington straight in the air. His boys were rowdy. Anxious. Itching for a fight. They shared their leader’s grooming habits. Most of them were Jack’s brothers. Some were his cousins. Some were even his brother-cousins. The Buchanan family tree was more of a flat, branchless log.

“WELL, WELL, WELL, WHAT HAVE WE GOT HERE?!”

Jack hopped down off his horse and got right up in Slade’s face. The outlaw’s rancid breath wafted into Gunther and Doc’s nostrils, giving each man an upset stomach. Slade took the brunt of the odor but didn’t budge. He moved for no man.

“Rainier Slade!” Jack said. “‘Aint you the no good rotten louse who lead the posse that put my brother Dave on the end of a noose?”

Slade and Jack locked eyes. It was on.

“Yup,” Slade said.

“Why in the hell did you go and do that for?” Jack asked.

Slade studied Jack’s face, barely visible behind all the unruly whiskers. “He broke the law.”

Jack laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed some more. His boys joined in. Then abruptly, the killer shouted loudly, maniacally.  He sprayed spittle all over Slade’s face which, as you might expect by now, did nothing to dissuade our hero.

“I AM THE LAW!!!!!!!” Jack declared.

Jack spotted the bottle in Doc’s hand. “What’s that?”

Doc’s favorite question. He handed the bottle over. “Why it’s my Miracle Cure All, sir! Please, do help yourself, its been known to calm even the most unruly of dispositions.”

Down the hatch. Glug…glug…glug. “Not bad,” Jack said as he passed the bottle to his boys, who each took a taste. “Could be stronger.”

“Oh, as a man of science I assure you any stronger and you wouldn’t be alive,” Doc said.

Jack pressed a finger into Slade’s chest, pushing it hard, as if in an attempt to push it straight through.

“‘Aint no law out here ‘cept what the strongest man says is the law,” Jack said. “Might makes right, if you got the steel you make the deals and if you take the lead then you’re dead. Simple as that.”

Gunther cleared his throat. “I wonder if there might not be some kind of peaceful resolution to be had here.”

“SHUT UP OLD MAN!” Jack shouted. “I ‘AINT TALKIN TO YOU!”

“All right then,” Gunther replied.

“Tell you what, Marshall,” Jack said. “I’ll give you till the count of three to walk your sorry ass away before I blow your head clean off. And I’ll enjoy it too because I miss my brother somethin’ awful.”

Slade chomped on his cigar. He was moved enough to come out with a full sentence. “Looks like you got plenty of brothers to spare.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “But Dave was my brother AND my uncle, so he was doubly special to me.”

Gunther and Slade traded glances. Neither one of them wanted to bother trying to figure out the scenario that made that possible.

Jack reached his hand downward, curling his fingers over his sidearm. Slade did the same, as did the rest of the Buchanan Boys. Gunther held his Winchester tight. Doc prepared to flick his wrists.

At this point, you, the noble reader should imagine yourself viewing this scene on a television. The camera whips around quickly to each character and zooms in on their eyes, leaving you, the viewer, to wonder whats on their minds. Is this for real? Is everyone about to kill each other? Throw in an emotional song filled with trumpets, whip cracks, and men grunting in a guttural manner and you’ve got the quintessential Western movie showdown scene.

“Rain,” Gunther whispered. “If you got an ace up that sleeve of yours, now would be the time to play it.”

Slade had nothing to say.

Jack started the count. “ONE…”

“Aw shit,” Gunther said. “Well, I had a good run.” He looked up to the sky. “I’m a-comin’ Mavis.”

“…TWO…”

Doc looked around. “I say, gentlemen, I just recalled that I have a very important appointment tomorrow morning and it would be quite rude of me if I were to die and miss it so I think I shall just…”

Slade took out his cigar and inserted two fingers into his mouth, one on each side. He blew a loud, sharp whistle.

Rustling sounds. War whoops. On the rooftops on the stores lining each side of the street, over a hundred Native American braves appeared, bow and arrows and rifles at the ready.

Behind our trio,  a dusty cloud barreled down the road. Galloping sounds. More battle cries. A hundred more warriors on horseback.

“Rain, you magnificent son of a bitch,” a wide eyed Gunther said.

Jack didn’t share the sentiment. “Goddamn pussy!” he said to Slade. “Lettin’ Injuns do your dirty work!”

Insults like that didn’t bother Slade. He was the type of man who had to respect a man before his insults could bother him.

“Boys,” Gunther said. “I reckon y’all want to let your steel hit the ground and put your hands up now.”

The Buchanan Boys may not have been known for their brain power, but they knew when they were outfoxed and outnumbered, so they did as instructed.

Chief Standing Eagle. He stood over 6’5” and had a bare, broad chest with muscles upon his muscles’ muscles. He wore a full feathered headdress. It was colorful. White. Red. Black. They all shook as he dismounted his horse.

The look in the warrior’s eyes when he saw Jack. It was definitely personal. Even Jack knew it.

“Aww shit, Slade!” Jack cried. “You can’t do this!”

Standing Eagle and Slade traded nods. The Chief walked forward, darted out his right hand, clasped it around Jack’s throat and lifted him off the ground, high into the air.

“Slade…SLADE!!!” Jack’s whining was interrupted by coughs and sputters as the Chief tightened his hand. “You can’t turn me over to this…to this…SAVAGE!!!”

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Jan 19 2016
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zombies

Zombie Western – Chapter 4

Slade was right where Gunther had left him, still in the street, concentrating on the road ahead. The Marshall finished his chaw and traded up to a cigar, chewing on it as he squinted his eyes just to keep them open through the blinding high noon sunlight.

“I’ve recruited a special deputy,” Gunther said.

Doc put his hand out. Slade shook it. “Obliged,” was the most gratitude the stoic was able to muster.

“A distinct honor to meet you, Marshall,” Doc said. “Doctor Elias T. Faraday, M.D. by way of Boston, Massachusetts though I assure you I’m no relation to the Chestnut Hill Faradays, lousy beggars…”

“He’ll chew your ear off and spit it out if you let him,” Gunther warned.

The three men stood in a row, watching and waiting, waiting and watching. Had you, the noble reader, been facing them, you’d of seen Slade in the middle, Gunther on the left, and Doc on the right.

“‘Fraid there weren’t any other volunteers,” Gunther said. “Bunch of pansies.”

Slade chewed on his cigar. A few moments passed.

“Miss Bonnie sends her regards,” Gunther said.

“Oh?” was Slade’s response.

“Oh that perked you up, huh?” Gunther asked.

More cigar chewing.

“My mistake,” Gunther said. “Since you don’t care I’ll spare you the details.”

“What?” Slade asked.

“Well,” Gunther said. “I don’t recall her exact words but she left me with a general impression that if you buy the farm today she’ll be broken up about it.”

The end of Slade’s cigar glowed red with an inhale. Smoke billowed out of his mouth in an exhale.

“Yeah?” Slade asked.

“Yup,” Gunther said. “Gal even offered to come back you up. I turned her down, of course, a gun fight being no place for a lady.”

“Right,” Slade said.

The side of Slade’s mouth not chomping on the cigar curled up in a virtually unheard of smile, then quickly disappeared.

“I saw that,” Gunther said.

Doc pulled out the bottle of snake oil he was carrying in his suit coat pocket and waved it in front of Slade’s face.

“Marshall,” Doc said. “I couldn’t help but notice you speak in the manner of a man with a sore throat. One sip of my Miracle Cure All will…”

Gunther pushed Doc’s hand away. “Trust me,” the old man said to Slade. “There’s still an taste in my mouth like I licked a gopher’s rear end.”

Slade paid no attention to any of it. Nothing was going to distract him from the impending showdown.

“Suit yourselves, gentlemen,” Doc said as he took a gulp. “More for me.”

BONG….BONG…BONG….

The church bell rang twelve times.  Noon.

“You two should walk away,” Slade said through gritted teeth. He said most of his words through gritted teeth. That’s just what tough guys do.

Gunther put his hand on his boss’ shoulder. “Son,” he said. “I’ve lived my life. Had my Mavis. Had my younguns. Explored all over this country. Anything else I do is just extra cream in the butter churn if you ask me. Don’t worry about me none, I’m with you till the end.”

Slade grunted. Gunther knew that meant, “Thank you.”

Doc ruined the moment by clapping his hands. “Bravo, sir, bravo. Finer words were never spoken. To that sentiment, allow me to add that I too have traveled through many a town in this new world. I’ve seen many a hamlet torn asunder by fiendish bullies and you, Marshall Slade, are the first man I’ve seen brave enough to stand up for all that is just and good in the world. You move me so that I simply must be a part of your stand.”

Another grunt from Slade. Even Gunther was impressed.

“Maybe there’s more to you than I thought, Doc.”

“Plus, I’ll be able to sell even more bottles of my Miracle Cure All once the distinguished members of the press spread tales of our victory across the continent,” Doc said.

“And you ruined it,” Gunther replied.

Clip clops. Loud yelling. Hoots and hollers. Guns being fired in the air. Thirty some odd Buchanan Boys rode their horses through town. Leading up the pack?

None other than the notorious Smelly Jack Buchanan himself.

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