Tag Archives: Zombie Western

Undead Man’s Hand – Chapter 35

shutterstock_131233601-copy

Salem, Massachusetts

1693

The Reverend Jonathan Willard was a stern faced man, his features old and withered. The old man surveyed the captives, two women and a man, each tied to a stake, kindling wood piled high over their legs.

“Who doth accuse these wretches of witchcraft?” the Reverend asked as he raised his flaming torch in the air. “Step forward and make your accusations known.”

The crowd parted to make way for three teenage puritans.

The accusations:

“Ernestina Meyer looked at me cross. I’ve felt peculiar ever since!”

“Hortense Tallmadge has a peculiar odor! It is of the devil!”

“Jericho Turner fills his home with books! What could he be doing with so many volumes if not using them to trap men’s souls?”

The Reverend shrugged his shoulders. “Eh. Good enough for me. Let the burnings begin!”

The crowd applauded.

“Wait!”

Mason Prendergast, Mayor of Salem, was a bearded man who wore a buckled hat. He pushed through the crowd until he reached the Reverend.

“Reverend Willard,” the man said. “What you are doing is most uncouth.”

“Away with you,” the Reverend said. “This trial is being conducted in accordance with biblical law.”

“You call this a trial?” the mayor asked. “‘A woman looked at me funny so let’s set her ablaze?’”

“If these three are indeed practitioners of witchcraft, they shall use their powers to shield themselves from the flames and be saved,” the Reverend said. “If not, they will all die good Christian deaths and be welcomed with open arms by the angels in heaven as martyrs in our ongoing war against the devil. I’ve thought it all through, Mayor. My logic is impeccable.”

“Your logic is non-existent!” the Mayor said. “The Governor has assured me that he will arrive in a week’s time to investigate your so-called trials. I urge you to stay your hand until then.”

“The Lord’s will cannot wait,” the Reverend said. “And besides, you don’t want bloody witches lurking about all willy nilly do you?”

“Smelling peculiar makes you a witch?” the Mayor asked.

“It doesn’t not make you a witch,” the Reverend responded triumphantly.

“And reading books?” the Mayor asked.

“Story books are tools of Satan,” the Reverend said. “Souls of men and women are trapped inside the pages and their lives turned into printed words. The bible is the only book that one should ever read. Everyone knows that. These three are vile sinners I assure you.”

The Mayor sighed. “Allowing this charade to go on for so long is my sin.”

Mayor Prendergast turned to address the crowd. “Will none of you join me in stopping this?”

The townsfolk looked to each other for a moment and then shouted in unison. “Burn the witches! Burn them!”

The Mayor shook his head. “May God have mercy on us all.”

The Reverend walked over to Ernestina. She was an older woman in her mid-forties, some gray in her hair.

“Do you confess to witchcraft?” the Reverend asked.

“Umm,” Ernestina said. “Should I confess to witchcraft?”

“God looks upon those who confess their sins with favor,” the Reverend said.

“Then…I am a witch?”

“I knew it.” The Reverend set his torch against the kindling until it was ablaze.

“Blast,” Ernestina said.

Hortense was a young woman in her early twenties with long red hair.

“Do you confess to witchcraft?”

“Pater huc me,” Hortense mumbled.

The Reverend looked to the Mayor. “Do you hear this? She speaks in tongues!

Hortense’s eyes rolled into the back of her head. “Audite me, Pater.”

“Please,” the Mayor said. “You’ve frightened the poor woman into some type of fit.”

As the flames licked Ernestina’s legs, she cried out in agony. “Agggghhhhh! I’m not a witch! I swear I’m not a witch!”

“Silence you!” the Reverend shouted at Ernestina. “Only a witch would deny being a witch!”

Hortense’s chants grew louder. “Convertimini ad me in captivos igni.”

“Enough,” the Reverend said. “I’ll hear no more of your devil’s talk.”

The Reverend set the kindling underneath Hortense ablaze.

Hortense kept chanting, louder and ever so defiant. “Et offeres super eos , ut propter audaciam!”

“And you,” the Reverend said as he reached Jericho. “What have you to say for yourself?”

Jericho was in his early thirties with a gentle, round face and long brown hair tied back behind his head.

“I apologize, Reverend,” Jericho said. “I get so very lonely sometimes and the story books…I do so enjoy reading tales of great deeds I shall never accomplish but…had I known it was an offense…”

The Reverend was clearly not swayed.

“Please Reverend,” Jericho said. “I’ll burn every book I own the second I arrive home and never look at another one again.”

“I can’t take the risk,” the Reverend said. “Warlocks are even more powerful than witches.”

Jericho closed his eyes as the Reverend set his torch upon the kindling.

Ernestina had been consumed, her remains fully charred. Jericho winced as the heat grew strong underneath him.

To the Reverend’s dismay, Hortense remained unscathed, despite being surrounded by flames. The fire simply bounced off of her.

“What in God’s name?” the Reverend asked. “You…you really are a witch!”

“Salvum fac servum tuum patrem,” Hortense shouted. “Et destinatam voluntatem semper erit!”

Whoosh! The fire that danced around Hortense’s body erupted into a massive fireball that spread its way forth, consuming the other captives, the Reverend, the Mayor, and the hundred or so townsfolk in its wake.

Advertisements
Tagged , , , , , , ,

Undead Man’s Hand – Chapter 28

shutterstock_131233601-copy

Buck Mulligan stood in front of a horse pen and waved a fat wad of cash in the air. The horses had been cleared out and replaced with two gargantuan, shirtless men.

“Place your bets! Place your bets! In today’s bout, Earl “Feelin’ Fine” Klein squares off against Otto “the Ox” Ziegler. Ladies and gentlemen, this is truly a clash of the titans. Hold onto your hats because these champions are bringing enough thunder to make Zeus himself nervous. Who wants in on the action?”

Buck twirled the end of his waxed mustache between his thumb and forefinger, then adjusted the bowler hat he was wearing. Before his very eyes emerged more cash stuffed fists than his eyes could count.

And then came the barked orders.

“Put it all on the Ox!”

“A sawbuck on Klein!”

As Buck counted up the loot, he felt a finger tap his shoulder. He turned to his right.

“Shit on a shingle, McCall, you’re a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?”

“I want a fight,” Jack replied.

“Look kid,” Mulligan said. “I love an easy mark but you’re too easy. So easy that you make my moral compass point north. Beat your feet down the street.”

“Come on Buck,” Jack said. “I need this.”

“Kid,” Buck said. “You’re 99 and 0. If I threw a slab of beef in there it would do better than you.”

“If I lose, I’ll never come back,” Jack said.

Mulligan collected the last bet and tucked the giant cash wad into his pocket. He turned his attention to the fight.

Otto was giving Klein’s face what for.

“Fine,” Mulligan said. “Make it an even hundred then. When you lose…”

Jack corrected Mulligan. “If I lose…”

“When you lose,” Mulligan said. “That’s it. You’ll never get another fight from me ever again. I got standards, kid. Not many, but I got some.”

The crowd gasped. Then shouted various guttural noises. Then came the cheers as Otto delivered one last crushing blow to Klein’s face.

Klein dropped to the ground. Otto, his muscles glistening with a mixture of his opponent’s blood and his own, raised his bare fists high in the air as the crowd cheered.

“Time to doesy doe, kid,” Mulligan said. “Your dance partner awaits.”

Most men would have fled in at the sight of the giant beast in the middle of the ring. Jack smiled and was on his way when he spotted a young brunette beauty in the crowd.

He walked over to her.

“Hi Ginny.”

Virginia Pierce, the town butcher’s daughter, rolled her eyes and belted out an exaggerated sigh.

“Hello Jack.”

“I’m up next,” Jack said.

“Good luck,” Ginny said.

Jack blushed and looked down at his shoe. He stalled for a moment then looked back at the girl.

“You know they say a kiss brings good luck.”

“It’s over, Jack,” Ginny said.

“I know,” Jack replied. “Just, you know…if I die…”

“Uggh,” Ginny said. “Fine.” She leaned up on her tip toes and pecked Jack a fast one on his cheek.”

Jack grinned. “I’ll never wash my face again.”

“What else is new?” Ginny asked.

Tagged , ,

Undead Man’s Hand – Chapter 25

shutterstock_131233601-copy

About an hour later, Bullock found himself nearly catatonic, silently staring at the wall as he sat in the back of Aunt Lu’s cafe. He wasn’t hungry. He just sat there.

Merrick and McGillicuddy, on the other hand, were scarfing breakfast down. Ham and eggs, bacon, home fries, grits, pancakes – it was as if Aunt Lu’s mission in life was to make everyone in town morbidly obese.

“Mr. Bullock,” Doctor McGillicuddy said. “Please. Get a plate and take some of this. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“No word of a lie,” Merrick added. “In all my travels I have never encountered a chef as skilled in the culinary arts as our own Aunt Lu.”

Bullock ignored both men and kept staring at the wall. Finally, he spoke up.

“I hate your guts, Merrick.”

“I know,” Merrick said. “I don’t blame you.”

“Why did you do this to me?” Bullock asked.

“I tried to stop you,” Merrick said. “Once I thought the whole thing through.”

“But I…”

Doctor McGillicuddy cut him off. “You assumed due to your experience as an officer of the law that you could handle Al Swearengen but he is like no other criminal you have ever seen, a modern day megalomaniac who has dotted his every “i” and crossed every last one one of his ’t’s.’ Our entreaties did not do the man justice and you did not realize how evil he was until you met him in person.”

“That sums it up,” Bullock said without taking his gaze away from the wall.

A hand waved its way past Bullock’s face. It belonged to Lu, who stopped by to drop more plates on the table. Corned beef hash and buttered biscuits with gravy.

“Oh no,” Merrick said. “Lu, please! I’m going to bust!”

“Well someone’s got to eat it,” Lu said. “I made too much and I can’t let it go to waste.”

Lu looked Bullock over.

“Why isn’t he eating?” she asked.

Merrick took a sip of coffee. “He’s had a rough morning.”

“Hey,” Lu said as she snapped her fingers in front of Bullock’s face. “Don’t you know its an insult to come in my place and not eat something?”

The cook noticed the star pinned to Bullock’s shirt.

“New sheriff?” she asked.

Doctor McGillicuddy sighed. “Afraid so. And worse, he’s contemplating a war with Al Swearengen.”

Lu threw her hands up in the air and walked away. “Oh hell no. Last thing I need is to make friends with a dead man.”

Bullock sighed. “I hate you Merrick.”

“I know,” Merrick replied.

Tagged , ,

Undead Man’s Hand – Chapter 22

shutterstock_131233601-copy

The first ten minutes of Bullock’s tenure as Sheriff of Deadwood were uneventful. He felt proud of himself, that he’d found a way to improve his family’s well-being. As he walked down the road, a few people noticed the star.

There were a few mutterings about it. “New Sheriff in town” and so forth.

Around the eleventh minute, Bullock noticed that a large crowd had gathered outside the town stable. Curious, Bullock graciously pushed his way through the townsfolk until he was inside.

Harvey Turner, a big man in overalls, was the stable keeper. He stood over a dead body that was lying on the ground, pieces of hay sticking to the blood that covered his face and clothing.

Doctor McGillicuddy was on his knees, examining the body.

“What state exactly was he in when he found him?” the doctor asked.

“I lifted up a bale of hay to feed the horses and there he was,” Harvey said. “Put a fright in me something fierce.”

“What’s going on, Doc?” Bullock asked.

Doctor McGillicuddy had been so busy with his examination that he hadn’t even noticed Bullock’s entry into the stable. He looked up and the first thing that caught his attention was the shiny star pinned to Bullock’s shirt.

“Why in God’s name are you wearing that?” Doctor McGillicuddy asked.

Tagged , , , , ,

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 135

shutterstock_32022656927

“Now this next group of assholes aren’t board members, by they do just as much damage,” Earp explained as he laid out four more cards.

The King of Spades featured a skinny man with crazy eyes, the kind that can penetrate a man’s soul. The Jack of Spades was as big as a bear and just as hairy.

“Johnny Ringo and Curly Bill Brocious,” Earp said. “The ringleaders of the Red Slash Gang. These two degenerate shit stains are giving my brothers and I one hell of a time in Tombstone. So far, there’s been a delicate truce between the humans and the supernaturals but I swear it’s about to turn into one giant shit storm any second. All over silver. Tombstone’s lousy with it. The humans want it to protect themselves. The vamps and wolves don’t want to get shot with it.”

The Queen of Spades card featured a single white porcelain mask.

“Madam Bisette,” Earp explained. “No one knows if that’s her real name or what her face looks like, since she’s always holed up in her sanctuary in New Mexico. But she’s a powerful witch who has aligned herself with the Legion Corporation. Speaking of witches…”

Earp tapped his finger on the Queen of Clubs. A beautiful, long haired Mexican woman. “Isabella Izquierda. Once upon a time she was rumored to have been the mistress of General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna himself.”

“Santa Anna?” Slade asked. “His time was long ago. If she was with him, she’d be old or dead.”

“Witchcraft, Slade,” Earp said. “I don’t know how they do it. Abracadabra, presto change-o and poof a wrinkly old hag looks new again.”

Earp put the deck back together and left it on the table. “Ringo’s a vampire,” Earp said. “Brocious is a werewolf. Bissette and Izquierda, witches. Those last three are the only non-vampires that the Legion Corporation has allowed into their inner circle. Vampires are a snobby lot, always treating the other supernaturals as peons so you can imagine the werewolf and the witches must be bringing something to the table.”

Slade slid the deck towards Earp. Earp slid it back. “Keep it. I’ve got my own. Also, take a look at these.”

Earp laid out two wanted posters. “These filthy bastards didn’t make Bill’s list but they’re still of interest.”

The first poster featured a side by side comparison of Ezekiel Kane as a human and as a werewolf.

“Rumor has it that this furry son of a bitch bought it in the train wreck,” Earp said. “Tell me it’s true.”

“It’s true,” Slade said.

“Thank God,” Earp said as he drew an X over Kane’s poster. “Werewolves aren’t so much loyal to the Legion Corporation as they are to the almighty dollar, and so far no one’s been willing to match Legion’s price for their muscle. Of course, they’ll abide by their alpha king’s wishes, and old King Zeke had been in league with Legion for awhile.”

Earp rolled up the poster and stuffed it in his pocket. “Who killed him?”

Slade paused. “Someone who uh…doesn’t want to be involved.”

Earp got the message. “Too bad. We could use all the help we can get. Scary part is, the Western werewolves will be thrust into turmoil now until one of them fights their way to the top of the pack to claim the throne. If only there was a way to put a decent werewolf in charge who could talk the werewolves into becoming our allies.”

Slade closed his eyes and mumbled to himself. “Oh fuck.”

“You all right?” Earp asked.

“Yeah,” Slade said. “Something I ate.”

“I hear you,” Earp said. “I feel that cookie coming back up on me.”

Realizing he just stepped in it, Earp looked at Miss Bonnie and added. “Ulcer, ma’am. Your cookie was fantastic.”

“You hear that, Rain?” Miss Bonnie asked. “My cookies are fantastic.”

“Oh yeah,” Slade said. “That they are.”

“That leaves us with this psychotic,” Earp said. He pointed at the second wanted poster. It contained another side by side comparison. Two pictures. One of Hoo Doo Brown as a man and the other as a skeleton.”

“I’m not even sure how to explain what this fella is,” Earp said. “All I know is that a few years ago, Hyman Neill was a nobody. Now all of a sudden he goes by the name of Hoo Doo Brown and has positioned himself as the top crime boss in New Mexico. People claim he’s got magical powers and in the right moonlight, the only thing you can see are his bones.”

Earp looked the poster over. “Just when you think you’ve heard it all…”

“You end up scratching a scab until a new load of puss bursts out,” Earp said. “I’ve got no idea if Hoo Doo owes any allegiance to Legion, but from what I’ve heard, he’s one violent hombre and is not to be trifled with. I pity anyone who tangles with him.”

Earp tapped his fingers along the arm of his chair for a moment then came out with it. “Slade, you’ve got a great set-up here. Nice house. Lovely wife and baby on the way.”

Miss Bonnie smiled.

“Simpleton brother who means well.”

Tobias frowned.

“I hate to ask you to pick up and leave all this for awhile but, if you’d be willing to round up a posse and ride out on a mission to put a silver bullet in any one of these villains, I’d be much obliged.”

Earp fished around in his pocket for a moment, then pulled out a shiny U.S. Marshal star and slapped it down on the table.

“Your country, or what’s left of it, needs you to put that back on again.”

Slade looked at the lovely face of Miss Bonnie, then to the bulge in her stomach, then to his adoring dopey brother, and finally back to the grim face of Wyatt Earp.

“I…uh…”

Tagged , , ,

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 132

shutterstock_32022656927

A month later, Fiddler’s Gulch was bustling with new life. As Slade walked down the main thoroughfare, he could see construction everywhere. Hammers pounding nails. Saws cutting wood. People working together to restore old shops and houses and even build new ones.

His better half had already opened up a new joint. He leaned up against the sign that read, “Miss Bonnie’s” and waited awhile. The door was open, so he poked his head in.

Miss Bonnie was looking as appetizing as ever. She dressed plainly, but had put a blue flower in her hair.

“Now girls,” Miss Bonnie said. “What is the most important thing for a woman to do?”

Miss Bonnie looked around the room. Her students sat at their desks. They were mostly young, in their teens and twenties, but there were a few in their thirties and even one or two that had some gray hair.

No one answered. Slade took a seat on a bench outside the school. When he sat, the other half of the sign was revealed. “School for Wayward Females.”

The wind carried the class discussion to Slade’s ears. He listened and smiled.

“Oh come on,” Miss Bonnie said. “We talked about this.”

“Take care of her man?” Maureen asked.

“Wrong!” Miss Bonnie bellowed. “Ten demerits, Maureen. Alice?”

“Be pretty,” Alice said. “So she can catch a man.”

Slade heard the disappointment in Miss Bonnie’s voice. “You’ve failed me miserably, Alice. Just sit there and think about what you’ve done. Jessica.”

“I know,” Jessica said. “Learn to cook and sew and clean so her man will be happy.”

“Jessica,” Miss Bonnie said. “A life is a long time to spend scrubbing out a man’s shitty britches. Is that what you want for yourself? Huh?”

“No,” Jessica replied.

“I didn’t think so.”

Realizing this show was too good to miss, Slade poked his head into the doorway again.

Miss Bonnie scrawled three words on the chalk board.

“Now everyone repeat after me…make that money!”

Teacher and students repeated this mantra a few more times until Miss Bonnie held up a shiny silver tipped bullet.

“This,” she said. “It’s the new currency now and the more of them you have, the better off you’ll be. I’m not saying don’t find a good man or fall in love, but the more of these you have, the more options you’ll have and the less you’ll have to put up with being treated like the shit under a man’s shoes.”

“This,” she said as she waved the bullet around for everyone to see. “Gives you the power to walk away, girls. And you never want to be without the power to walk away.”

Jessica raised her hand. “How do we get those?”

“Ooo,” Alice said as she raised her hand. “I know. We can all become.…ladies of the evening.”

Giggles ensued. Miss Bonnie pointed at Alice. “A year ago I’d of told you you’re right but now you’re wrong.”

“Well what else can we do to make money?” Maureen asked.

“Anything,” Miss Bonnie said. “If you’re good at something, then do it…for money. If you’re good at sewing, sew for money. If you’re good at cooking, cook for money. Find a skill. Do something productive. Get paid for it.”

“Ooo,” Jessica said as she waved her had around. “What if the men tell us to stop?”

“Jesus Christ,” Miss Bonnie said. “Have I taught you girls nothing? Tell them to fuck off!”

Alice appeared scandalized. “Miss Bonnie! This is subversive talk!”

“Yeah well, this is a subversive class,” Miss Bonnie said. “And it’s free so stop complaining. All right, that’s it for today. Remember, next week we’re going to talk about how to protect yourself from men, the zombie kind who want your brains and the pervert kind who want your…well, we’ll get into that later. Class dismissed.”

Slade watched as the students filed out the door. His beloved followed in a slow waddle, then plopped down next to him and started rubbing her belly.

“Oof. This varmint is taking her sweet time.”

“Interesting class, school marm,” Slade said.

“It’s a new world,” Miss Bonnie said. “Maybe some good can come out of it.”

Slade and Miss Bonnie snuggled up close.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Miss Bonnie said.

“You’ll pay me to talk?” Slade asked. “Times have changed.”

“Out with it,” Miss Bonnie said. “I can tell something’s eating at you.”

“Tobias.”

“What about him?”

“What do we think about him?”

“‘We?’” Miss Bonnie asked.

“You’re my advisor in all matters now,” Slade said.

“Shit,” Miss Bonnie said. “What did I do to deserve such a terrible position?”

Slade rolled his eyes.

“He seems nice,” Miss Bonnie said. “He looks like you, has a lot of similarities but…”

“What?” Slade asked.

“He’s positive,” Miss Bonnie said. “And you’re…”

“Not,” Slade said.

“You’re getting better,” Miss Bonnie said. “You’ve come a long way but there are times when you are so depressing you could make a laughing hyena want to hang itself.”

“Thanks,” Slade said.

“I said you’re getting better,” Miss Bonnie repeated.

Slade ran his fingers through Miss Bonnie’s hair and privately relished the joy of being able to do so whenever he wanted now, free of charge.

“He’s young,” Miss Bonnie said. “And a bit dopey. But he has obviously spent most of his life building you up in his head and he clearly worships the ground that you walk on.”

“So the old man gives me the shaft and this kid…”

“What?” Miss Bonnie asked.

“Gets the life I should have had,” Slade said.

Miss Bonnie sighed. “Was that his fault?”

“No,” Slade said.

“And did a psychopath try to feed you to a zombie when you were twenty?” Miss Bonnie asked.

“No.”

“So maybe he hasn’t exactly had the best of luck either,” Miss Bonnie said. “But somehow he keeps a happy face anyway. You could learn from him.”

Slade grunted.

“And he could toughen up a bit,” Miss Bonnie said. “He could learn from you. Him as the Mayor, you as…”

“Don’t say it.”

“The Marshal,” Miss Bonnie said.

“I’m retired,” Slade said.

“Fine,” Miss Bonnie said. “As whatever you want to be. Point is, together, you two could do this town some good.”

“I guess,” Slade said.

“And it’s not as if there’s been a line of people showing up to love either of us in our lives,” Miss Bonnie said. “So if someone’s willing to be your brother…”

“I should take it,” Slade said.

“Hey!”

The conversation was cut short by Tobias, who was running like a mad man down the street with one hand on his hat to keep it from falling off. “Rain!”

“Speak of the devil,” Rain said.

“Rain!” Tobias stopped when he reached the couple and leaned his hands on his knees, catching his breath. “You got to….see this.”

Slade stood. Miss Bonnie tried to but her little one had other plans. She let out another “oof” then sat back down and bid Slade to see whatever it was without her.

Together, Slade and Tobias ran through town, past all the hustle and bustle of a patch of desert that was thriving with new life.

“It’s him,” Tobias said. “It’s really him.”

“Who?” Slade asked.

“It’s… you’ve got to see!”

The Slades reached the edge of town, where the buildings stopped and the endless sand began. Out in the desert, a lone rider approached. He wore a long duster and from his hat to his boots, he was dressed all in black.

To top it all off, he had one hell of a mustache.

“It’s him, isn’t?” Tobias asked.

Slade grunted.

A few moments later, the rider brought his horse to a stop, then dismounted. He walked towards the Slade brothers with great confidence, as if they weren’t worthy of his presence.

The rider’s face was mean, so mean that one look could have dropped a horsefly at a hundred paces. He stood there silently for a bit and chewed on the wad of his tobacco in his mouth, then spit the juice out on the ground.

“Marshal Earp,” Slade said.

“Marshal Slade,” the rider replied.

“Oh,” Slade said. “I’m not a Marshal anymore.”

“So I heard,” Earp said. “We need to change that.”

Tagged , , , ,

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 127

shutterstock_32022656927

The top of Tobias’ hat flapped up and down as he dragged a bag of grain behind him. Arnold and the rest of the townsfolk helped, while Eleanor, too frail to drag anything but herself, came along for moral support.

Legend has it that there was no act too evil, vile, or immoral that Sawbuck Sam Duncan wouldn’t have done for a ten dollar bill, hence his infamous nickname. But on top of his killing and thieving, he’d been treating the Gulch like his own personal bank, making withdrawals from the citizenry in exchange for protection…from himself, naturally.

He rode into town with his two lackies, Clovis and Slim. Clovis had a pair of buckteeth, so prominent you didn’t know whether to stare at them or use them to open your beer. He manned the reigns of a wagon, ready to pick up Sawbuck’s loot.

Slim was an ironic nickname because he was, in fact, very fat. So fat that if horses could talk, his probably would have asked him to skip a meal or two, or seventy-five.

“Everyone stay calm,” Tobias whispered.

“I am,” Arnold whispered back.

“Good,” Tobias said.

“The Mayor usually gets it first,” Arnold noted.

“God damn it, Arn.”

Sawbuck reached the welcoming party and hopped off his horse, his spurs jangling with each step. The shotgun toting Clovis wasn’t far behind. Slim joined his compatriots, and while no one could be sure, historical accounts quote witnesses noting that his horse breathed a sigh of relief.

“Well you didn’t make me wait,” Sawbuck said as he counted the bags.

“No sir,” Tobias said.

“And you brought all ten.”

“Yes sir.”

“What a surprise,” Sawbuck said as he chewed on a toothpick. “You shit brains are finally paying attention. Load it up.”

Tobias didn’t need to be asked twice. He felt relief but refused to show it. He grabbed a bag and hucked it into the wagon. Arnold and the other townsfolk joined in.

Sawbuck stepped up to Tobias and stuck his finger into a hole in the middle of Tobias’ hat.

“That’s from when I shot Mayor Finley as I recall,” Sawbuck said.

Tobias nodded, forcing the top flap of his hat to bob up and down.

“Pumped him full of lead,” Sawbuck said as he pointed to a second hole in the hat. “Just like Mayor Benton.”

“Sure enough,” Tobias said.

“Oh,” Sawbuck said as he lifted the top flap of Tobias’ hat up, then let it flop back down. “That must be from when I trampled Mayor Bratton with my horse. Sure was a lot of fun. His oily hide laying in the dirt, hoof prints all over his ass.”

Tobias stayed quiet as Sawbuck leaned in to study the latest Mayor’s face.

“Can’t say he didn’t deserve it though,” Sawbuck said. “He fucked me over and no one fucks over Sawbuck Sam.”

Tobias nodded.

Sawbuck squinted his left eye shut and looked at Tobias with his right. “You’d never fuck me over, would you boy?”

Tobias shook his head. “No sir.”

“Good,” Sawbuck said as he smacked Tobias in the back so hard he almost knocked him over. “Keep it that way and you’ll be wearing that hat a good long time.”

“Hey Sawbuck!”

Sawbuck turned around to find Clovis standing in the back of the wagon, holding up a brick.

The outlaw erupted into a rage. He grabbed Tobias by his collar.

“You fucking me, boy?!”

“What?” Tobias asked as he eeked out a chuckle. “No. Didn’t you ask for grain and bricks?”

Sawbuck backhanded Tobias across the face, knocking him to the ground.

“I swear I thought you asked for grain AND bricks,” Tobias said. “None of my business. I assumed you were building an outhouse or something.”

Sawbuck slapped Tobias again.

“Come on, Sawbuck,” Tobias said as blood trickled out of his mouth. “Just a big misunderstanding. Didn’t you all think he asked for grain and bricks?”

Arnold was nervously shaking as he stepped up. “I thought he asked for grain and bricks.”

Sawbuck wasn’t up for a discussion. Instead, he pulled his pistol and shot Arnold in the head, then pressed the hot barrel against Tobias’ forehead.

“Anyone else think I asked for grain AND bricks?”

Tagged , , ,

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 126

shutterstock_32022656927

In the history of the West, there wasn’t a job less thankless than that of Mayor of Fiddler’s Gulch. The last three holders of this less than esteemed position had been shot dead.

Even so, Tobias, the current office holder, at the ripe age of twenty, made due. As a sign of his status, he wore a black stovepipe hat. The circle of felt at the top had ripped long ago so it flapped up and down whenever he walked. No suit. Just a plain blue shirt and trousers, both in need of a good washing.

The town was just a small collection of houses and run down stores along a dirt road. Much of the population had either died, been zombified, murdered, or dispersed. Twenty souls were left under the Mayor’s watch.

Tobias strained under the weight of the bricks he was carrying. When he reached the road, he dumped them on the ground, then proceeded to put one in each of the bags of grain that had been lined up.

Arnold Watson had once been a shopkeeper, back when there were people to sell things to.

“What are you doing?” Arnold asked.

“Sam wants ten bags,” Tobias said. “We only got seven so I’m improvising.”

“He’ll check,” Arnold said. “You know he will.”

Tobias put a brick into another bag, then used his hand to scoop grain over it. “Maybe he won’t.”

“He will,” Arnold said. “And then he’ll shoot one of us as an example. He always does.”

The Mayor stood up and threw up his hands. “Well I don’t know what else to do, Arn. Ole Sawbuck ain’t exactly reasonable. He’s taken everything we have and keeps demanding more.”

“Lying to him is a good way to get one of us killed,” Arnold said.

“What do you think will happen when he shows up and we only have seven bags?” Arnold asked. “We apologize and he tells us that’s ok? He’ll give us more time and come back for the other three later? No. We know he’ll definitely shoot one of us if we only have seven. At least this way there’s a chance, a small chance that he might not and by the time he figures it out, we’ll have hightailed it out of here.”

“We’re just supposed to leave?” Arnold asked. “Where to?”

“Hell if I know,” Tobias replied. “But we can’t stay here. Sawbuck’s cleaned us out but he keeps trying to squeeze blood out of a stone.”

Eleanor Stuckey, an old gal who’d been a school marm in a previous life, sat on her porch knitting.

“Listen to the Mayor, Arnold,” she said. “You know he’s right.”

“Damn it,” Arnold said as he grabbed a brick and shoved it deep down into a bag. “Fine. But take that stupid hat off.”

“I like it,” Tobias said. “No one told Mayor Bratton to take it off.”

“He wore it well,” Arnold said. “You look like a jackass.”

“Eleanor,” Tobias said. “Does this hat make me look like a jackass?”

The old lady looked up from her yarn and squinted at the Mayor through her spectacles.

“Nope. You look all kinds of regal.”

Tobias opened up an empty bag, tossed a brick into it, then pored some grain out of another bag onto that. “You hear that, Arn? I’m regal.”

Tagged , , , ,

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 123

shutterstock_32022656927

One Year Later

New Mexico

The Rattler was aptly named because it was filled with vipers. Cutthroats, villains and assorted reprobates guzzled brews and exchanged tales of their heinous misdeeds.

Gambling. Brawling. Knife fights. It was comparable to the Bonnie Lass, but with less charm and ambience.

The double doors swung open and in walked a man wearing a hat with a red feather in it.

Miles. He’d hit a growth spurt and was over six feet now. Height. Muscle. There was even the slightest beginnings of a rudimentary mustache on his lip.

The joint grew silent. Card games. Fist fights. It all came to a halt as all eyes followed him as he bellied up to the bar.

Nelson Cooper, the owner/barkeep had a face that looked like it defined stupid. Lazy-eye. Crooked teeth. Unibrow. Permanent scowl. Dirt beard. Stain covered shirt that looked like it doubled as a bar rag.

Miles plopped a coin on the bar. “Sarsparilla. Straight up.”

Cooper and his contingent of barflies laughed.

“Can’t you read?” the barkeep asked as he pointed to a sign above the bar.

It read, “No Vampires. No Zombies. No Werewolves.”

“We don’t serve your kind here,” Cooper said.

Miles gulped. How did this scumbag know anything about him? He’d just strolled into town and hadn’t said a word to anyone.

He bluffed.

“I’m not a damn werewolf,” Miles said.

Cooper pointed to one more line on the sign. “No Negroes.”

“Shit,” Miles said.

He picked up his coin and scooched off the barstool.

A voice called out from the back left corner of the room.

“Cooper, quit acting like the power to poor booze gives you a ten foot dick and pour my friend a drink.”

The barkeep threw his hands up and trembled in fear. “Aw hell, Hoo Doo. I didn’t know he was with you.”

“Well now you do.”

Miles looked over to the corner table. There sat a rakish man with a gaunt face. He was skinny, bordering on emaciation. Sandy hair and a black hat with a white band. Rumpled suit that looked a tad baggy for him.

“Thanks,” Miles said as he started for the door. “But I don’t want any trouble.”

“Nonsense!” the man said. “Come have a seat and we’ll have a little chat.”

The barflies returned to their debauchery. Miles took a seat at the man’s table. Cooper plopped a bottle of sarsaparilla down.

“Soda pop!” the man scoffed. “Bullshit! He’ll have a scotch.”

“I don’t drink,” Miles said.

“And I didn’t hear that,” the man said as he shooed the barkeep away.

Miles took a swig of sarsaparilla. He’d been running all day and was powerfully thirsty.

The man dropped a few pinches of tobacco onto a paper and rolled himself a cigarette.

“Hoo Doo,” the man said.

“Who do what?” Miles replied.

The man grinned. “Me do.”

Miles was confused. “You do what?”

“Hoo Doo.”

“You do hoo doo?” Miles asked.

“I do,” the man answered. “My name and my trade are one and the same. Hoo Doo Brown, at your service.”

Cooper set a glass of scotch down and left. Miles stared at it.

“It’ll put hair on your chest,” Hoo Doo said.

Miles picked it up.

“Not that you need any,”Hoo Doo said.

Miles was flabbergasted. Hoo Doo lit his cigarette and popped the end between his lips, leaving it to dangle there.

“Oh come now,” Hoo Doo said. “I can spot a supernatural at fifty paces. I saw the look on your puss when that fat sack of crap insulted you. It was all you could do to keep yourself from unleashing the beast and tearing him apart. Not to cast aspersions on your kind but werewolves aren’t exactly known for their self-control. What gives?”

The young man raised the glass to his lips. “I’m a peaceful werewolf.” He took a sip, choked, then immediately sprayed it out in a fine mist.

Hoo Doo laughed. “Your first drink I take it?”

Miles made a face as if he’d just been sucking on a lemon. “And my last one. That was awful. Why do people drink this stuff?”

Hoo Doo reached into his pocket and pulled out a bar of soap and a small pocket knife. He went to work whittling the soap.

“Oh,” Hoo Doo said. “To forget the past, I suppose. I’m not exactly sure of the science of it all but I can’t imagine a beverage that dulls the senses could taste like candy.”

Miles returned to his sarsparilla.

“What’s hoo doo?” Miles asked.

“Now there’s a question,” Hoo Doo said as he whittled away. “I suppose I could regale you for hours about its history but when it comes right down to it…”

Hoo Doo tapped the ash off his smoke into an empty glass. “…it’s the art of asking demons for favors.”

Miles eyes grew wide with fear.

“Not exactly a profession I’d recommend,” Hoo Doo said. “Nothing in life is free and well, those demons are happy to cater to your wishes if you ask them the right way but they take a little piece of you each time.”

Hoo Doo sighed. “Sometimes I feel like I have nothing left to give. One of these days, I really should stop.”

Miles scooched back in his chair. “Thanks for the drinks, mister. I best be moving on.”

“Oh please,” Hoo Doo said. “You just got here. And you never even told me your name.”

“Miles.”

“Tell me Miles,” Hoo Doo said. “What’s a nice werewolf like you doing in a place like this?”

“Just passing through.”

“On your way to…”

Miles was torn between his fear and his inner desire to not appear rude. “Mexico.”

“Que bueno,” Hoo Doo said. “Pretty country. Prettier senoritas.”

“I guess.”

“You’re out of luck I’m afraid,” Hoo Doo said. “The Federales have got the border locked down tighter than a nun’s knickers out of fear that their country might get overrun with zombies. Can’t say as I blame them. Zombies are truly the biggest assholes in the entire supernatural world.”

Miles shook his head. “Guess I’ll do something else.”

“And what do you do?” Hoo Doo asked.

“What?”

“Your profession,” Hoo Doo said. “Your employment. Your raison d’etre. How’d you get that coin that Fuckface McGee over there refused because he prefers ignorance over making money?”

“I…I begged for it.”

“A beggar?” Hoo Doo asked. “Oh, no no no, son. We can’t have that at all. Have you got any skills?”

Miles shrugged. “I can draw.”

“Ah!” Hoo Doo said. “An artiste! I do admire a pretty picture and I’m certain one day when your pantings are hanging in museums I’ll gush with pride as I tell people I knew you when but I’m afraid I don’t know a single accomplished artist who can help you get started. Can you build something?”

“No.”

“Swing a hammer?”

“I could try.”

“Tote that barge? Lift that bail?”

“I would if anyone would hire me.”

“Ah yes,” Hoo Doo said as the shavings from his bar of soap piled up on the table. “I imagine your color makes it difficult to win over folks like old Cooper there.”

“I’m not complaining,” Miles said.

“That’s the spirit,” Hoo Doo said. “Perhaps you could become a hired gun.”

Miles sipped his soda. “That’s a job I’d never want.”

“Could have fooled me with that Colt strapped to your hip,” Hoo Doo said.

“Gift from a friend,” Miles said. “Just for show. I don’t even keep it loaded.”

Hoo Doo rolled his eyes. “Son, let me help you. That is information a stranger should not know.”

Miles nodded.

“That’s information that even a friend should not know,” Hoo Doo added. “Are we friends yet?”

“I don’t think so,” Miles said.

“We’ll get there,” Hoo Doo said. “Regardless, assume everyone is looking for your weaknesses. They’ll find them sooner or later but you don’t have to point them out and make it easier for them.”

Miles nodded again.

“Many a bad man would pay top dollar for the services of a werewolf,” Hoo Doo said.

“I’m not that kind of werewolf,” Miles replied.

“As I live and breathe,” Hoo Doo said. “You really are a pacifist werewolf.”

“A what?”

“Pacifist,” Hoo Doo said. “You abhor violence.”

“I do.”

“That’s admirable,” Hoo Doo said. “I’d quit violence myself if it weren’t so damn effective.”

Hoo Doo put his knife away and set his soap down on the table. He’d carved the bar into the shape of a little man. A round head. Stick body, legs and arms.

“Give me your critique as an artist.”

“Not bad,” Miles said.

“I’m no Michelangelo but I try,” Hoo Doo said.

Cooper was back. “Hey Hoo Doo, I know you’re the King Shit around here but I can’t have this nigger drinking in my bar all night. Pretty soon all the niggers will want to…”

Hoo Doo balled his hand into a fist, raised it up, then pounded it down on his little sculpture, smashing it flat.

As for Cooper, he didn’t gasp or choke. He didn’t cry out in pain. He simply collapsed in a giant heap on the floor.

The barflies cared enough to look, but not enough to get involved. They went about their business. Miles jumped out of his chair and lightly slapped Cooper’s cheek.

“Mister!” Miles said. “Hey Mister! Wake up.”

Miles looked up. The smashed soap. The smile on Hoo Doo’s face.

“What did you do?”

“I asked for a favor,” Hoo Doo replied.

Miles shook the man’s shoulders. “Hey! Mister, come on!”

The young man looked back to Hoo Doo. “Do something!”

Hoo Doo sighed. “Oh God, you’re one of those bleeding heart types aren’t you? All right…”
Hoo Doo took his time as he took some of the soap and rolled it into a ball to make a head. Then he crafted a few sticks to make a body, legs, and arms. He wiggled his fingers over the sculpture and…

“Get off me nigger!”

Cooper pushed Miles aside and stood up. “What the hell happened?”

“You had one too many I suppose,” Hoo Doo said. “My friend here was just trying to help you.”

“Trying to sneak a feel on my pecker was what he was doing,” Cooper said. “We don’t take kindly to queers in here neither.”

Cooper stormed off back to the bar. “I’m going to add that to my sign.”

Miles returned to his seat.

“Shit,” Hoo Doo said. “I worry about you, Miles the Pacifist Werewolf. If you let a half-wit like that walk all over you then you’ll be doing it for the rest of your life.”

“I’d rather take people’s abuse then hate myself for hurting them.”

Hoo Doo’s cigarette was all smoked out. He took another paper and some tobacco from his pocket and rolled another one.

“Ahh,” Hoo Doo said. “Then you have hurt someone.”

“None of your business.”

“There’s a spine,” Hoo Doo said. “We’ll make a man out of you yet.”

Miles stood up. “Goodbye.”

Hoo Doo lit his new cigarette. “Well, I can’t say there are many employment opportunities out there for pacifist werewolf but as it turns out I just happen to have one.”

“Not interested.”

“It’s very lucrative,” Miles said. “You’ll never have to beg for coins again and you’d be surprised how quickly a fat pocket earns you the respect of even the most basic of imbeciles.”

There was a little voice in Miles’ head, working overtime as it shouted for him to leave.

He went against his gut and sat back down.

“Like I said. I won’t hurt anyone.”

“And you won’t,” Hoo Doo said. “For it’s not your claws or your teeth that I’m after but rather, your above average sniffer.”

“My sniffer?”

“Precisely,” Hoo Doo said. “Son, down in Mexico lies a magnificent treasure of great value. It isn’t made out of gold and who cares, seeing as how that commodity has become less precious ever since our esteemed government gave us the cold shoulder. It’s not even silver, which would be more useful as everyone and their uncle wants to pack silver heat now that the cat has been let out of the bag with regard to the existence of werewolves and vampires.”

“Diamonds?” Miles asked.

“Hell no,” Hoo Doo said as he puffed on his cigarette. “What good did a diamond ever do anyone except for getting a bunch of people killed so some ugly lady could pop it onto her finger and smile? Same thing with rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. All junk compared to this.”

“I can’t think of anything more valuable than gold, silver or jewels,” Miles said.

“For years I have sought a treasure made out of flesh and bone,” Hoo Doo said. “And for just as many years, I have searched for a werewolf to sniff it out for me. Alas, I have yet to meet a werewolf I wasn’t sure would snap me in two and take the treasure for himself as soon as he found it…until now. This job really does call for a pacifist werewolf and I must say I feel like asking God to pull his pants down so I can kiss his ass for finally sending me one.”

“I don’t know…”

“I’ll cut you in.”

“Fifty-fifty?” Miles asked.

“What?” Hoo Doo asked. “Fuck no, pacifist werewolf. I’m the one who’s done all the research and I’m the one taking all the risk sneaking your furry hide across the border. We get caught, all you need to do is wolf yourself and run away. Me? They’ll string me up and hang me up by my toes in a dank, depressing dungeon somewhere until the end of time.”

Miles looked out a window. The moon was full and was casting some light onto the table.

“But if you can’t do it without my nose…”

“I have created a monster,” Hoo Doo said. “Fine. I’ll take seventy, you take thirty. Keep in mind I’ll be paying two unsavory characters to join us out of my own pocket. Mexico’s not a place you want to visit without some muscle and we both know you won’t be providing that, pacifist werewolf.”

“What if I say no?” Miles said.

Hoo Doo shrugged. “Then I return to my glamorous lifestyle of drinking alone, you go outside and beg for people’s pocket change and the treasure stays lost, unless some other jackass finds a less greedy pacifist werewolf to find it for him first.”

Miles was torn. He thought about how his father had once been sweet talked into taking what sounded like a fancy, high paying gig only to end up a tool of evil. He didn’t want to make the same mistake, but he was getting tired of begging for money as well.

“I won’t have to hurt anyone?” Miles asked.

“You have my word,” Hoo Doo said as he took a drag on his cigarette and stretched out his hand.

Miles took it. “Then I’m in. I guess you look trustworthy.”

Hoo Doo leaned into the moonlight. His face disappeared and was replaced with that of a chattering skull. No eyes in the sockets. Just bone. Miles watched in terror as cigarette smoke poured through Hoo Doo’s teeth then swirled around his rib cage, the bones of which looked as though Miles could reach out and play like a xylophone.

Miles looked down to see he was holding a boney hand. He looked up.

“Well now,” Hoo Doo said. “I wouldn’t say that.”

Tagged , , , , , , , ,

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 122

shutterstock_32022656927

J. Wellington Willoughby, the esteemed and elderly president of the First National Bank of Chicago sat behind his oak desk and buried his face in a newspaper.

The main headline -“The West Has Been Zombed!”

Sub-headline One: “Wall Erection Efforts Along the Mississippi River Underway”

Sub-headline Two: “Legion Corporation Denies Allegations of Impropriety”

Willoughby lowered the paper. His head was bald, yet the white hair stuffed in his ears was quite lush. He licked his finger and turned the page. His eyes were giving out on him, so he studied the small print with a magnifying glass.

Further articles included, “Scientists Currently Researching the Causes of Zombification” and “U.S. Government Urges Citizens to Turn In All Suspected Vampires and Werewolves.”

Thomas Sinclair, Head Clerk, knocked on the door then let himself into his boss’s office. He was a young man with dark hair who wore a bow-tie and a green eye-shade.

“Mr. Willoughby…”

“Incredible,” Willoughby said to himself. “Sinclair!”

“Right here, sir.”

Whether it was deafness or dementia, no one could be certain, but Willoughby continued to shout. “Sinclair!”

“Here, sir,” Sinclair said as he waved his hand in front of the octogenarian’s face.

“Oh!” Willoughby said as he clutched his heart. “Are you trying to kill me, Sinclair? Announce yourself next time, will you?”

“I will, sir,” Sinclair said as he laid out a pair of documents on the desk. “Sir, I need your approval on…”

Willoughby tapped on the newspaper. “Have you read this?”

“Yes,” Sinclair said. “Dreadful business.”

“Are you kidding?” Willoughby asked. “This is wonderful business!”

Sinclair waited for the proverbial other shoe to drop.

“My holdings in the construction industry are going to surge in value thanks to this wall!” Willoughby declared. He strained to smile as much as the spent muscles in his face would allow. “Oh happy day.”

“I uh…suppose that’s one way of looking at it, sir,” Sinclair said.

“Buy up all the raw materials you can my boy,” Willoughby ordered. “Lumber. Stone. We’ll sell it to the government at triple the price and make a killing.”

“Very patriotic of you, sir,” Sinclair said as he pointed to the documents. “Now if I could just get you to look at these for a moment.”

“I swear even though my genitalia hasn’t functioned properly since Andrew Johnson was impeached it feels as though I’m experiencing a phantom erection right now.”

Sinclair choked back a touch of indigestion and avoided thinking of that image any further.

“Right then,” Sinclair said. “Sir, I need you to review a rather irregular transaction.”

“Irregular transaction you say?”

“Quite,” Sinclair replied. “In the lobby I have a woman who has identified herself as one Mrs. Annabelle Faraday. She has presented me with a certificate of marriage purporting that she is the wife of our client, Dr. Elias T. Faraday. You’ll note that the certificate has been signed by Marshal Rainer Slade as a witness.”

“Why do those names sound familiar?” Willoughby asked.

Sinclair turned the page of his boss’s newspaper to reveal two additional headlines. “Western Refugees Laud Marshal Slade as Hero Who Saved the East” and “Incompetent Doctor Who Unleashed the Zombie Chaos Presumed Dead.”

“Right,” Willoughby said.

“She also presented me with this Last Will and Testament, naming her as the sole heir of Dr. Faraday’s property, including any and all funds in his account with our humble institution.”

“It all seems to be in order,” Willoughby said. “The paper says the man’s dead. She has paperwork signed by a hero no less. What’s the problem?”

Sinclair nudged his head toward the door. “You’ll need to see for yourself, sir.”

“Oh for the love of…”

Willoughby’s bones creaked and cracked as he stood up. He reached for his cane and hobbled to the door. “You know how I feel about unnecessary movements, Sinclair.”

“I know sir.”

Sinclair escorted his boss out to the teller’s desk which overlooked a large lobby, decorated with two large marble columns and fancy works of art.

“What am I looking at?” Willoughby asked.

“There.”

Sinclair pointed out Annabelle, who sat on a bench, twirling a lock of her blonde hair around and around in her finger. Her face and dress was covered in a thick layer of dirt. When she grew tired of twirling her hair, she stuck her finger into her ear, whisked it around a bit, then pulled it out, sniffed it, and winced.

“Where?” Willoughby asked.

Sinclair pointed again. “There, sir.”

Willoughby pulled a pair of spectacles out of his pocket, put them on and squinted.

“Her?”

“Yes.”

“She looks like an unwashed prostitute,” Willoughby said.

“She is an unwashed prostitute,” Sinclair said. “Three customers have already lodged complaints that they were propositioned.”

Willoughby stepped up to the desk. “You there! Young woman!”

Annabelle looked around and then made a face as if to ask, “me?”

“Yes,” Willoughby said as he waved her over. “Come, come.”

Annabelle stepped up to the desk. Even Willoughby, with his failing eyesight, was able to scope out her heaving bosom.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Young lady,” Willoughby said. “Are you an unwashed prostitute?”

The blonde’s brain cranked and sputtered. What to do. What to say? Finally, she took a stab at it.

“Um…no?”

“Good enough for me,” Willoughby said as he hobbled back into his office. “Pay the lady, Sinclair.”

After Willoughby slammed his office door, Sinclair picked up a large, leather-bound ledger and thumbed through the pages.

“Let’s see,” Sinclair said as he reached the “F” section. “Fanning…Farmington…and ah! Faraday. How do you wish to settle your account, Mrs. Faraday?”

“Settle?” Annabelle asked.

“What would you like to do with the money?”

“I’m sorry,” Annabelle said. “Good old Elias and I never talked business. How much did he have?”

Sinclair pointed to Doc’s line in the ledger. It read, “Dr. Elias T. Faraday…$50,000.”

Now you, the modern reader, might look at that sum and not think it to be a big deal. Sure, you wouldn’t scoff at it. You might use it to pay off some bills, buy a new car, or tuck it away in the bank for a rainy day, but your life wouldn’t change all that much.

But the thing you have to remember is the year was 1880 and back then $50,000 would be the rough equivalent of being handed somewhere in the ballpark of $1.5 million dollars today. Doc sure had sold a metric shit ton of his Miracle Cure-All.

And thus, Annabelle briefly lost control of her legs and grabbed the side of the desk to keep from falling. Her eyes rolled back into her head as she achieved full orgasm, making unseemly sounds for all the customers to hear.

“Holy shit,” she said as she caught her breath.

“Are you all right?” Sinclair asked.

“Mmm hmm,” Annabelle said as she struggled to regain control of herself. “I’d like to take some with me. Walking around money.”

“A hundred dollars?” Sinclair asked.

“Shit no,” Annabelle replied. “Someone will conk me on the head for a hundred dollars. Better make it fifty.”

“Very good then,” Sinclair said as he handed Annabelle a fifty-dollar bill. She tucked it right into her bra.

“I have some business in Boston,” Annabelle said. “Can you send a thousand there?”

“Of course,” Sinclair said. “We regularly trade with Edgemont Savings and Loan. You’ll be able to draw upon it there. And the rest?”

“Can you send it to England?” Annabelle asked.

“It will take some doing but yes it’s possible,” Sinclair said.

“Hold onto it and I’ll send for it,” Annabelle said.

“I’ll put your name on this account and await further instructions,” Sinclair said.

“OK then,” Annabelle said.

The blonde returned to the bench and sat down.

“Was there anything else, ma’am?” Sinclair asked.

“No,” Annabelle said. “I just need a minute.”

Tagged , , , , , , ,
Advertisements