| Two shillings and a six pack
could buy anyone's silence in the violent town of Sugar Gulley, a
literal rat's nest of the world's nastiest, honriest hombres to ever
hit the pike. This was where Dexter Slimbone found himself one cool
November night, unaware of the town's unforgiving attitude towards
strangers. He had been traveling by chuckwagon to the Mohobe Desert
when his Chuckhorse had taken with the scurvy and he had to lay it
to rest. Stressful situations were not strangers to Dexter, having
been down on his luck for some twenty-odd years. He was a single man,
slim in the shoulders and round in the belly with a thirty-dollar
smile and a two-bit story to tell. It was The Big Toe Saloon where
Mr. Slimbone found his next order of |
 |
business. He
staggered into the bar with a toothless grin and a saliva stain on
his blue-collared shirt, dollied up to the bartender and demanded
a "wooskey" and no questions. Without a word, the bartender
passed a shot glass to the stranger and filled it to the top with
Jimmy Beam. Chuckling as he lifted the whiskey, Dexter tossed it back
and rolled his eyes counterclockwise, as he was north of the equator.
"Brimmin' with taste" a happy Mr. Slimbone stated just before
releasing an extremely loud belch, "Bartender, hit me again.
Chop chop, man! We haven't got all day, now have |
| we?" The bartender returned
with the bottle of whiskey and once again filled Dexter's glass to
the top, giving him a suspicious eyebrow-raising as he poured. Dexter
just stared at the glass as it was being filled, nodding his head
in agreement with the bartender's actions. When the bartender finished
pouring, Dexter slammed the drink down his parched throat with a neediness
not unlike a heroin addict right before a fix. You see, whiskey was
Mr. Slimbone's friend, even though it made him hyper. As it turned
out, he was also broke and had no cash to pay for his drinks tonight,
so he threw the whiskey glass at the bartender |
| and darted out
of the saloon doors. "Hey!", screamed the bartender, "You
get back here and pay me for those drinks!" The bartender grabbed
the rifle from under the stuffed moosehead, but alas, he was too late.
The toothless stranger was already alfway to hell by that time, he
figured by the way he scurried from the bar stool. "A free bottle
of me finest rum to the man who brings me the head of that stranger!"
yelled the bartender, shaking his fist violently in the air.There
was a clearing of the saloon like a fire had just broken out. Gunslingers
with their pistols drawn |
 |
| headed out onto the street to search
for the man who had just stolen from the bartender. Dexter had decided
to stop running once he hit the outskirts of the city, but when he
turned around to see a whole gang of professional killers following
him, he chose to continue instead. And so he kept running, into the
morning hours when his back suddenly went out with a snap. "My
sp...sp...spine!", gasped Dexter as he fell head first into a
muddy puddle of horse urine. The villagers finally caught up with
him |
| and Dexter spied
them coming over the hill. He couldn't move. All that he could do
is watch as the red-faced, bearded fat-bodies came toward him waving
their pistols over their heads in victory. The man in front came running
towards him, not slowing down as he approached, and completely trampled
over Dexter's body. They all took turns running over Dexter, emphasizing
stomping on his head as hard as they could. Dexter couldn't do anything
but weep as they pulverized his fragile body. When they were finished,
one of them pulled out a knife and walked over to the sobbing Mr.
Slimbone. He began carving his neck, to and |
 |
| fro, like a man carving himself
a piece of ham. Dexter screamed as his head was ripped from his torso.
When they returned with Dexter's head, the bartender confessed that
he really didn't have a fine bottle of rum. He just wanted the stranger
to pay dearly for stealing his drinks. So they threw the bartender
into the street and began running over him with their big boots, all
kicking him in the head as they stepped off of his twisted body. To
this day, no one in Sugar Gulley will speak of such town secrets and
some would say that it's better not to know. |
|
