Yellow Back Radio Broke-Down (3 page)

 

Well Chief if you insist, but if I ever sell this mind sauna to Hollywood I'll give you all of Gene Autry's bicycles.

 

How did you like that champagne Loop? It was made by a friend of mine in the mountains. California grapes no less. Get to that. I'll bet they'll be as in as this helicopter or French vintage a 100 years from now.

 

The Flying Brush Beeve tolled its way across the sky. Loop didn't hear the Chief's last one liner. He was musing. In his dreams Loop scribbled on a postcard a note to an old friend.

Ahead the lines of Video Junction moved in.

 

The other cowhands, unable to save their comrades who had been mauled by the burning Bear, rode back to the Purple Bar-B to report to Drag Gibson. Drag sat on a black velvet couch, his belly peeking out over his waist as if to say hello through its tiny red mouth of a navel. His reading of
Catherine
was interrupted by the jingle of guthooks mounting the steps of the Purple Bar-B's Big Black House.

 

Well boss we took care of them hard boppers who were camped outside the town. Only 4 casualties. One of the hands was eaten by a grizzly and some of the brains spattered our clothes, tasted something like veal. And there was this Juggler who shot so fast the stars abandoned their heavenly places to become his spectators but we plugged him too.

 

Good, Drag said sticking a pudgy pink hand into the pocket of his monogrammed silk robe recently ordered from St. Louis.

 

Gee Drag something stinks in here—phew. It's worse than the smell out there in camp where the circus lies in smoking ruins. Like the smell of tallow my ma use to burn for soap—like death, Drag.

 

Drag tapped the table next to the sofa while his eyes innocently scanned the ceiling.

 

Wonder what it could be boys? Go over and get Preacher Boyd to walk around with his hazel wand so's the women'll be satisfied. You know how women folk are. They love rhythm and ritual. Shuts them up all the time. Few flowers and a handful of shiny minerals, those crosses we left on Normandy beaches all tidy and in a neat row a couple of horns doing taps. Hell, their whole bodies are drawn by the goddamn moon. It plays upon their hides as it does the tides. Can't help themselves. Telegram from the War Department sung at the door, couple of guys folding flags they'll forget all about them punks. Another generation they'll be sending more out to get slaughtered. All you have to do is say Mother Country play upon their vanity.

 

Glad you got rid of them hooligans boys, they didn't like to march and was lazy. Talked about love and such things which is mush, right boys?

 

Mush is right, Skinny answered as he and two cowhands, as if to emphasize Drag's remarks, ran their hands across their lips and spat out repulsive and invisible kisses.

 

I don't know if Preacher Rev. Boyd will work out this time Drag, last time we saw him it was when the forces of the old recaptured Big Lizzy's Rabid Black Cougar Saloon. He started to have d.t.'s and said something about a gila monster who was God.

 

Those Protestants, so lazy with allegory.

 

What did you say boss?

 

Nothing boys, just a blue streak inflaming my mind, it'll go away.

 

Anyway boss you'd better see after him now. Whenever he uses that stick only dogs of Yellow Back Radio gather about to watch. Others poke fun and prod.

 

Drag thought a minute then snapped his fingers making a flat blubbery thick.

 

When State Magic fails unofficial magicians become stronger
Somebody say something? What was that? Did you say something foreman Skinny McCullough, one of you cowpokes say something?

 

No Drag, Skinny said shaking in his boots and spurs.

 

Drag looked around the ceiling again. He stared at the open window. Tiny black fingers were crawling over the sill. Drag drew his six shooter and fired into the night. The men climbed back from beneath the furniture where they had hid during the unexpected gunplay.

 

Boss, Skinny cried, what's wrong with you?

 

Thought I saw some hands at the window.

 

Drag's breathing became rapid. Sweat poured down his cheeks. He placed the smoking gun on the table.

 

Anyway boys, good work. Why don't you go over to Big Lizzy's Rabid Black Cougar and have one on me. Paint Yellow Back Radio red. You've done a good job. No more furious aggressive wiggles of them kids and the clown show closed down too. Can't say we were humorless—let them go out with a carny. Har har.

 

Well not exactly boss, Skinny said, two of them kids escaped and the Loop Garoo Kid from the circus rode off towards the town fifty miles from here. He seemed to be savage mad.

 

He'll never make it—across those cow skulls, cactus, rattlesnakes, stinging lizards, vinegarroon, cougars and whatever heathen lies out there now that we got rid of them injuns—speaking of injuns how did them Coult rifles work for you?

 

They're good for us boss—we're going to really get rid of the next heathen that raises his feather from behind the rock.

 

Too bad you let them escape though-sometimes I think I'm short of the genuine article around here boys.

 

Boss we tried to get em but never seed no hombre ride off like that—he was fastern a souped-up hare. Don't worry boss if he shows his face in Yellow Back Radio, if indeed he manages to through some miracle escape—if lowly desert vermin don't get him the Flying Brush Beeve will. As for the kids they're done for before they started. They headed for this unexplored territory to the south. Some kind of heathen co-operative society down there too. They'll be eaten or boiled in a caldron.

 

Now get, boys, so's I can be alone with my thoughts which is a pretty spooky situation since Drag is not only nickname for the horseman who rides to the rear of the herd catching the dust, bringing up the stragglers and sick among the cattle but my name is also shorthand for something scaly, slimy and huge with dirt.

 

Gee Drag it's great to have a smooth talking white man like you leading us you must get all that information from the book you're always reading, Skinny McCullough said as he and the ebullient cowhands departed for Yellow Back Radio.

 

Just suppose that the Loop Garoo Kid managed to get through all the tests waiting for him between Yellow Back Radio and the town lying fifty miles from here. He'll come after me. You know, the revenge motif. What the hell may as well make hay while the sun shines. Take my wife for an instant. Black cows donated their organs, orphans, widow women, squatters and sheep herders donated their teeth I stole eyeballs kidneys livers from road agents and injuns all stored down in the basement. What a mess. Still she's getting worse. Anyway what did the old Woman on the talk show say, “I suggested the sits bath and herbs to make her last months comfortable Drag my darling listener. Truth is she will die off shortly like some great red hog who has swallowed tacks, she will end up on Forty-second Street a pale reminder of a government inspected hotdog.” Here I am, old, ugly, mean and ignorant. Fish fill my lakes as if they were spawnings paradise my barnyard overflows with the pecking order of erotic cocks. My fruit is so plentiful their orchards weigh down the valley. Black diamonds, black gold and other precious minerals lie in great untapped beds so huge they would dwarf even my ego. And about 3000 head started up the Chisholm to market yesterday. But what would happen if I popped off like the rest of the swells what's pushing up daisies out in the bone orchard?

 

The old Woman told us chances are 1-65,000 poker odds that a new crop of kids would come on the scene protesting, having love feasts and trying to turn the town into an open city. What I gotta do is start the flow towards docility a-gushing. Get rid of this broken seed stored in my loins. It aches. I will have some nice obedient progeny who will manage all the forms after I'm gone and nickelodeon for the worms
.

 

What am I waitin for? I got to knock off that horrible hybrid in the kitchen and take a swell looking art nouveau broad
. But before he could act he looked around. It was like a monster flickah drammer—the confrontation. Horrible hybrid meets Spooky Situation. Horrible hybrid was dripping wet. She walked across the room on her leafy feet webbed hands outstretched and the scales of horrible hybrid's body shown green by the kerosene lamp.

 

In a quivering voice the Various Arrangement of Dead Parts said: What happened Drag dear husband you were supposed to bring me a towel?

 

Spooky Situation removed the six shooter from his holster and emptied it into Horrible Hybrid but the junk kept coming, sloshing across the floor to embrace Drag.

 

Drag managed to get over to the gun rack. There he picked out a Winchester and fired ball after ball into the creature's chest until it made some unusual groan and dropped to the floor.

 

Chinaboy, Chinaboy. Come in here will you? The chinaboy ran into the room. His slanted eyes became orbs and he threw up his small yellow hands when he saw whatever it was lying on the floor.

 

Mop this up and bury it on the hillside. Crops looked a little weak up there this year, Drag said pointing to the bubbling mass on the rug and spitting tobacco on his wife's remains. Drag hobbled over to the fireplace. He threw some pieces which lay on the floor into the fire, ran his hands across the sticky yellow patch of bull's sperm on his head and put on a dressing gown. The Great House was empty except for Drag.

 

Guess I'll go upstairs now and burn the marriage stiffycate, Drag thought, climbing into the portable elevator attached to the side of the winding staircase. He ascended to the second story of the building.

 

Once upstairs Drag removed the marriage certificate from the wall and put it into the fire. He then sat down and drank some whiskey.

 

Suddenly something black jumped out of the closet, leaped through the window into the yard. What the? Drag thought, a cigar falling from his lips and onto the floor.

 

At Big Lizzy's Rabid Black Cougar, Drag was being discussed in earnest by the foreman and two cowhands from his ranch.

 

A daffy cat a really daffy cat, started saying spooky things about magic.

 

The foreman stared at the plump pink of nude dangling a flower between her teeth painted in an oil portrait above two moose horns hanging behind the bar.

 

Those kids said some nasty things about the six gun, the foreman addressed the bartender. Said we ought to unzip our pants and draw it from there. Them smart alecks good riddance.

 

Just then a tall mustached man walked into the bar. He wore a slouch hat single breasted black frock coat and flowing black tie. A star rested near his right breast.

 

Boys, the Marshal said, putting a hand on Skinny's shoulders, thought you might want to know that the middle aged of Yellow Back Radio voted to commend you for saving the town from them kids who had it under siege. Didn't even need the Preacher and his hazel wand this time. Just talked fast and said freedom every three words. They said they were grateful to you and the boys for freeing Yellow Back Radio from the kids. They're glad you got rid of those brats who were being influenced with Spirit. Everybody take their hats off.

 

The bartender removed his Straw, the Marshal his Slouch and the foreman his Stetson and the cowpokes seated at the tables their battered and beat up Ten Gallons.

 

The Preacher Rev. Boyd, who was down at the other end of the bar, kept still. He was crying into his beer. Tears covered the froth of the stein.

 

I did everything, sponsored light shows, took them off the streets and nothing worked. O what am I going to do? What the Church lacked in aesthetic it couldn't even make up in pyrotechnics.

 

The Marshal and foreman and the bartender winked all around as the Preacher turned a greedy trembling hand up to his lips and drank down the two bits a throw of Red-Eye whiskey.

 

What's going on tonight boys?

 

There's a lecture room over at the Hotel, Marshal, Skinny said. Got some bandits' heads in jars preserved in alcohol—we saw it last night. It was good and nasty, not like a necktie party which at best gives only a few epiphanous and titillating moments but long, sustained. Eyes were bulging and we stood there with our glimmers hypnotized like the jars were a pair of rep-towls. The faces were wet and covered with a red silky substance. It was better than that dog fight where the one hound ate into the other pooch's maw. But not as good as those scalps belonging to one hundred injun children and squaws that they exhibited last week.

 

Outside it began to rain on the rooftops of the Hat and Boot store, the Feed store. Their tops, reflecting the heaven's disturbance, went on and off like blue tubes.

 

Marshal what are you going to do if the Loop Garoo Kid develops some kind of specialized mystique and comes hunting for us because we burned down the party? How are you going to get him shoved into the pokey? Into the hoosegow? Into the dim, dark sneezers?

 

No problem, the Marshal said putting a boot on the rail of the bar. Me and Kit Carson use to kill an injun every morning before hoecake and salty dog. He loved violence so we buried him with his shotgun, case he ran into some persnickety spooks beyond the Great Divide. I'm sure I can handle the Kid if he rises from some remote crypt and hangs out horrific super-hero shingles with a side dish of unusual origin process.