CHAPTERS

.

ONE

THE MAN WITH THE CUE-BALL EYE

TWO

THE PURPLE TELEVISION

THREE

QOSER'S RETURN

FOUR

A BURST OF ENVIRONMENT

FIVE
CHORIZO

The town of Chorizo, Nevada is easily and often overlooked – bordering on ghost town. Actually, pretty much all of Nevada is bordering on ghost town with the exception of beautiful downtown Las Vegas, which hasn’t seen so much business since the days back before the Texan War. Once Texas declared its independence and rocketed itself out into space, tourism slowed. It was a tough time for the American economy. People were literally too afraid to leave their homes, especially too afraid to leave their home states. So, it wasn’t long before the other states followed in Texas’ footsteps. That’s when Japan finally fastened their reigns on Earth. The rest, as they say, is history.

But even of those who still live in Nevada, not but a handful have ever heard of Chorizo. And of that handful of people who do know about Chorizo, all but a finger or two have ever been there.
Chorizo is full of dusty streets, gritty men and filthy women. The sun doesn’t shine on a town like Chorizo; it can’t penetrate the thick black clouds that hang above, dangling over the town like some sort of wicked mobile. The residents don’t seem to mind the darkness.

Being the tiny spec of a town as it is, it is no wonder that Gusto Geraldo Herrera, Jr. had passed it several times, both ways, before finally being able to locate his destination. Crunch’s Saloon. But finally, here it is, standing before him.

He hops off of his steel horse and stretches. It was a long ride. He yawns, scratches his belly, and lazily walks up the steps leading into the saloon.

He draws his gun and kicks open the swinging doors, aiming straight ahead of him, in case there was any trouble. No trouble. He puts his gun away and walks to the bar.

The place is empty, except for decomposing human and Mope carcasses spread seemingly randomly throughout the room. The putrid smell of rotting flesh lingers in the air. He walks behind the counter, cracks open a bottle of whiskey and takes a whiff.

“Well, hello there, sexy…” he says to the bottle, then presses his lips against the opening at the top of its neck and pours its contents down his gullet. He chugs the entire bottle in one painful gulp and tosses it across the room. Glass confetti explodes into the air as the bottle shatters against the wall.

It is then that Gusto sees him. Qoser. Well, at least part of him. His headless body.

“Jeezus, Qoser!” he says as he leaps over the counter, over towards the lifeless body. “Shit, man!” He stands shaking in shock, staring blankly at the corpse at his feet.

“Don’t just stand there, GET ME OFF OF THE FLOOR!” someone yells in the distance.

“Qoser? Is that you, man?”

“Who else would it be, imbecile?!” Qoser shouts.

Gusto looks around the room. Qoser’s head is nowhere in sight. He looks high. He looks low.

“Where the hell are you, bro?”

“Where are you standing?” Qoser asks.

“I’m over here… by, uh, by the coat rack.”

“Come forward, past the bar.” Gusto walks past the bar. “Now, take a right and then after walking about five feet, immediately turn left.” Gusto abides. Still no Qoser in sight.

“Where ar—“

“UNDER THE TABLE, YOU HORSE’S ASS!”

Gusto kneels and sure enough, Qoser’s severed head is there, his one eye staring up at him.

“Jeezus, man… you look like shit!” Gusto begins to flick the swarm of bugs away from Qoser’s face. “These things really did a number on you, man. Your face is FUCKED UP.”

The skin on the left side of Qoser’s face, the side nearest to the floor, is now completely eaten away and halfway digested in the abdomens of about seventeen different insects and two heterocera. In such places as the top of his cheek and his chin, bone is exposed.

After Gusto flicks the last of the insects off, he picks up Qoser’s head.

“Uh, Gus… there is still something… inside of me. I can feel it.” Qoser says calmly.

Gusto holds Qoser’s head up above his own head to examine. Sure enough, squiggling about is the slimy tail of a gastropod, its head buried deep into his meat. Gusto takes a hold of the tail with his thumb, index and middle fingers and gives a taut tug. The worm slowly slides outward, fat from its gorging, and finally slips out completely with a sickening slop. Gusto releases his grasp and the fat worm splatters against the floor.

“Daammmnnnn.” Gusto says, wiping the slime from the worm off of his fingers and onto his shirt. “Pussy wasn’t lying when she said you were in some serious shit, Qoser!”

“Pussy…” Qoser whispers under his breath. “Where is she?”

Gusto shrugs his shoulders and rests Qoser’s head on his left forearm, football style. “She said that she had some last minute business come up, or something. I dunno, I just know she said she would shell out 50 clams if I were to come out here and get you myself. So, that’s why I am here.”

Qoser is quiet in thought; he’s not even paying attention to Gusto’s ranting. A shiver of pain resonates throughout his face and along his severed neckline, reawaking his senses and snapping him out of any daydream he may have been having.

“Gah!” Qoser shouts, “These bites on my face hurt ten times worse than my neck. I think the green one was poisonus. Is my face swollen?”

Gusto looks down at Qoser, resting like a baby in his arm. “Yeah, dude, your face is totally fucked. It’s all swollen and bleeding and shit. You look fucking disgusting.” Qoser closes his eye and bites his lip in anger. “What? I’m just being honest.”

“I need to clean out my wounds,” Qoser says, “Set me up on the bar, over there, and pour whiskey over my face and neck.”

“Whatever you say, bro.” Gusto sets Qoser up on the bar, then makes his way to the back and grabs another bottle of whiskey. He pops off the cap and takes a swig.

“Yup, it’s whiskey alright!” He takes a second swig before pouring the rest down Qoser’s goulashed face. The alcohol imbibes into his skin, painfully burning any trace of bacteria or infection that was previously living within. Qoser howls in pain.

After a few minutes of silence, while he was allowing for the burning sensation to leave, Qoser speaks. “We need to get back to Japan. Can you fasten my head and body to your bike securely?”

“Sure thing, bro. I’ll start working on that now.” Gusto walks over to Qoser’s body, leans over and hoists it up onto his shoulders. Gusto is a brawny guy. He may not have brains, but he is definitely someone you want to have on your side of the fight.

He kicks open the bat wings and disappears into the darkness outside.

Qoser closes his eyes. He quickly falls into a deep slumber. Dark grey clouds billow and fill his every thought. Little jolts of lightning encase his brain and shoot slivers of energy into each of its cavernous folds. His mind inflates and deflates like a balloon – twisted, like a kiddie carnival. A tiny ball of fury pushes up from his throat and enflames his eyeballs. He rapidly throws open his eyelids, eyeballs now fireballs.

A shadowy figure steps into the saloon in the distance, a bright white light shines from behind, silhouetting the man and the bat wings behind him.

Smoke begins to drift in through the doorway. The man walks closer to Qoser. The closer the man gets, the more and more the white smoke fills the room and clouds Qoser’s vision. The man is standing before him now. Qoser is blind.

Is it Maundin?!

Qoser takes a deep breath and closes his eyes in fear.

“Hey, uh, Qoser, I hate to wake you up and all, but you think you could do your trick with the lightning, you know? Cause that drive is brutal man, I don’t think I can do it again without maybe taking a little rest first, you know?”

Gusto’s words quickly snap him out of his sleep. He wakes to find that he has been duct taped to the abdomen of his own body, which has also been taped to the back of Gusto’s motorcycle, behind where Gusto is sitting.

“Oh, uh, sure.” Qoser answers, pretending as if he was awake all along.

Qoser calls for the lightning. Immediately they are struck with a bolt and are sent hurling through space, riding home on the current.

I remember when I was a teenager, all those years ago, my Mama tried to scare me into behavin’. She said I was gonna go to Hell and burn for all eternity if I didn’t start attendin’ church. I never really had much of an imagination, so the thought of the Devil, God and a Holy Spirit just didn’t really ever sink in with me. I did end up goin’ to church though, but more in hopes of meetin’ girls than savin’ my soul.

Mama always wanted to sit in the front row, get as close to the action as she could.

I remember that ol‘ pastor, too. He had the hugest goddamn nostrils there ever was. I used to think that if ever I was given the chance, I could prob’ly fit my entire fuckin’ fist right up his snout. I never got that chance, but I did manage to get three fingers inside of his daughter later that Summer, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.

Anyway, once that pastor got a’goin’ on a roll, Mama would leap out of her seat and shout at the top of her lungs. She wouldn’t even be speakin’ in English, she would just babble and scream like some damn fool! The other kids used to ask if Mama was some sorta retard. I never fought ‘em, neither; for all I knew, she was.

I used t’get so red in the face durin’ her little outbursts. Finally, I just started t’sneak out to the hall whenever she got a’goin’. Ain’t no way I wanted to associate myself with those fools in that church, no matter the cost – Hell, fire, whatever. Anything would be better than to spend all eternity with folks that carry on the way they do, anyhow.

I raised all kinds of hell after that; some of which I got caught for, some of which I didn’t. Shit, I did everything from pissin’ in the communion wine to jerkin’ off to the naked angels that were printed on every Sunday’s program.

People used to tell my Mama that I was a ne’er do well, that I wasn’t gonna amount to shit. I used to get so pissed whenever they’d say it, but now, looking back, standing in front of my rusty ass Chevy van with a broken finger, injured palms and runnin’ from a man with a goddamn cue-ball for an eye, because he’s pissed that I stole his purple television… well, I can’t help but think that, shit, they may have been right.

Marley flips up her visor. “You ready?” she asks.

“Give me just a minute…” I say, holdin’ up the empty ice bucket. She nods and flips her visor back down.

I walk over toward the Motel Vera main office to where the ice machine is located. The glow from the machine illuminates half of the dusty lot. Bright fucker. I shield my eyes with my Stetson and push my fist against the dispensing button. The machine vibrates and sputters. I hear a loud crunch, tumbling… but not of ice, it sounds like heavy metal. I put my ear up to the front of the machine. All of a sudden, boilin’ hot water sprays from the dispensary, burnin’ my fingers and soaking my left leg in the process.

“Goddamn it!” I say, as I pitch the fuckin’ bucket about ten yards out into the lot. “Can’t nothin’ go right today? Christ!”

Marley is watching me, unmoving, from her motor-sickle. That woman has to think that I am nothin’ but a goddamn fool. And, shit, it just gets worse once my confidence is rattled. Fuck.
I pick up the bag and walk back over to my van.

“Why don’t we just ride together? I’ve got plenty of room here in the van.”

“I’d rather not. I think it best if we didn’t know too much about each other. It could cloud our thinking.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right, but have you ever been to the planet of Japan before?”

“No. But I have GPS, it couldn’t be that difficult to find.”

“No, I was only thinkin’ of that burst of environment out there. There are all kinds of holes, vortexes and poison clouds, crazy shit... if you don’t know what you’re doin’, then you could easily get killed a million ways.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Ookkaayy…” I hop in the van. She wants to get killed, fine by me, it’s no sweat off of my ballsack.

I put the key in the ignition and give a flick of the wrist. The van stalls. I turn the key back, then try and start it again. VOOM! The engine roars and the van jumps as I put it into gear.
We’ll see how well she does trying to get through that asteroid belt just outside of Nevada’s atmosphere.

I gas the van till the speedometer reads 45. I pull back the lift lever. Boosters beneath the van cough and spray sparks on the dusty road as the vehicle angles itself toward the night sky. The van smoothly, but not quietly, lifts off of the ground and soon enough, it’s piercin’ through Nebraska’s ozone and out into the wild black yonder.

Ugh, my head is spinning. I’m discombobulated. Darkness. I see only darkness. But I hear so much more. A cacophony of sound! Loud booming, shouts, and gunshots echo throughout and rattle my brain.

Suddenly, an image appears from out of the darkness. A face. A dirty face, half covered by a black Stetson hat. He has a mouthful of smoke. He begins to exhale. The smoke hits my face and fills my nostrils. Maundin.

Maundin, your eyes are as black as the darkness that surrounds you. I’ll never forget your face, your stench.

You’re mine!

I open my eye and stare at the floorboards; the cue ball in my left socket is heavy and angles my face towards the floor.

I’ve been greeted by a large lime green insect, an ant, about the size of my thumb. The ant places one of its filthy legs upon my cheek and twitches its antennae as if it were sniffing at me. I purse my lips and try to blow the vile insect away, to no avail.

Still twitching its antennae, the ant travels south down along my cheek, down to my chin, until finally finding what it had been sniffing for all along – the sweet spot, my severed neck meat.
I lie here, completely paralyzed, and suffer as the pest begins to feast upon me. I feel as if I am about to lose consciousness. I close my eyes.

Ah, the Doom Magnetic!

My eyes open wide.

I won’t be able to tear into it much, as I can only channel my own emotions at the moment, but maybe I can cut a slit just enough for a whisper to slip through.

I extend my tongue as far as I can outside of my mouth. With a single motion, I slowly cut into the atmosphere with the tip of my tongue, from the right to the left. I manage to cut a slit about an inch and a half wide.

“Gus?” I call, answered only by silence. “Gus, are you there?” I wait for a response.

“Damn it, man? How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that! I go by Gusto… GUS - TOE!” His speech is somewhat difficult to understand. There is now a lot of background noise.

“Gusto, you’re right, I apologize. Ah, look buddy, I’m going to have to ask you for a favor…”

“Ha, buddy? You must be in some serious shit, Qoser, to call me that. Haha. What do you need?”

“Well, it seems I’ve lost my head… literally. Oh, and I am being eaten alive by a giant Paratrechina longicornis.”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, I hear what sounds like several women laughing.

“Gus— uh, Gusto? Are you there?”

“Oh, yeah, hey buddy… I’m kind of busy at the moment. I’ll get a hold of you tomorrow.” He pinches the slit shut.

“Goddamn you, Gus!” I yell. My shouting attracts the attention of more insects. Soon enough, they are all hovering over my open wound and feasting on all the fleshy bits.

The only person left that I can count on is her… SourPussy. Or has it been too long? She may be a little upset, but she will come for me. I know she’ll come for me.

With nothing to lose, I dart out my tongue and reopen the Doom Magnetic.

“Pussy, baby, are you there?”

The slit is pinched closed immediately. This will be tough, but she will come for me. I just may have to do a little explaining.

I tear into the atmosphere again.

“Hey, Pussy, baby, I need your help!” I dart out my tongue just as she tries to pinch it closed again. My tongue blocks the slit from sealing.

“What the fuck do you want from me, Qoser? Haven’t you already put me through enough?”

“Hey, baby, I’m sorry I haven’t called you in a while. I’ve just been really busy lately.”

“Oh really? So, you’re telling me that you have been so busy in the last month that you haven’t had a single second free to get a hold of me, until now?”

“Yes, that is exactly what I am saying!”

“What about last weekend when you and Gusto got shit-faced in that bar in the second realm? Were you too busy to call me then?”

Goddamn it, Gus!

“It was a government mission, baby, we weren’t drinking! Remember, we’ve been looking for this… this Maundin character… we haven’t had time for any leisurely partying.”

“Or girlfriends for that matter…”

“Hey, hey… don’t talk like that, baby. You know I care about you.”

“Oh yeah, well if you care about me so much, then tell me you love me…”

“. . .”

“I’m waiting…”

I look down at the various insects eating away at my neck meat.

“I… um…” A lump forms at the top of my throat, a lump that doesn’t allow the words I and love and you all to come out in sequential order. “I… really need your help! I’ve been decapitated! Alien insects are eating away at my flesh! Oh, the horror!” A little overacting to get her heart pumping.

“Oh my god! Qoser, are you alright?”

“I could be, if you come and get me. But please hurry, I am feeling very faint.”

“Oh my God, I’ll be there right away!”

“Thanks, baby.”

I smile furtively, then lick the slit sealed.

I begin to count the cracks in the floorboards, passing time, until her arrival.

A shiver of pain shoots up Maundin’s arm as he attempts to twist the doorknob on the door of Motel Vera’s room 187. He winces in pain from his injured palm and is forced to use the fingers from both of his hands to open the door.

As he enters, a musty wall of aroma fills his nostrils. This room has been home for the last two months. Pizza boxes and empty beer bottles are littered throughout the room. He tosses his dusty black Stetson hat on the bed and runs his fingers through his hair like a boney comb. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

They’re after you.

His eyelids unsnap. THE VOICE! THE VOICE has returned!

They know where you are. They know what you’ve done.

“By God…” Maundin mutters under his breath. The last time he had heard the voice was when it had instructed him to steal precious merchandise from the Japanese government nearly three months prior. Since then, he has stolen the goods, but has yet to receive any further instruction… before tonight.

You’ve done well, Maundin. Very well. Hell, until tonight, I’d thought you had gotten away with it scot-free. But they are looking for you and they’re mighty pissed off, too.

“I’ve been waitin’ for you. What in hells bells was the hold-up?”

Business is business, Maundin. I still gotta mind the business, don’t I?

Maundin sticks the tip of his tongue to the left inside corner of his mouth – his tell sign. He does this unconsciously whenever he is feeling uneasy. This is why he must always wear a handkerchief over his mouth whenever he plays poker. Eyes like steel, but a mouth like a fucking open book.

As you know, they’re after you. You’ve got to get on the move. I’m going to need you to bring the merchandise down to the Ice Cap…

“The Ice Cap? Are you shittin’ me?! You want me to take the fuckin’ thing back to Japan?!” Maundin says, now tonguing the inside corner of his mouth as if it were cherry-flavored.

They’ll be combing the galaxies for your grubby ass. The safest place to go is right underneath their noses. Trust me, they’ll never suspect a thing.

Maundin pulls out a hand-rolled cigar from his shirt pocket and pins it between his lips. He strikes a match and takes a draw, holding the smoke at the end of his throat. The smoke dries his salivary glands. Suddenly, he is thirsty.

“What ‘bout Doogan? I can’t do this alone. Hell, if it weren’t for ol’ Doogan, we never would have made it outta there alive in the first place. The sombitch was a goddamn dead-eye.” He pauses. Exhales. “I need a partner. Shit, maybe three…”

I’ve already made arrangements. She should be in your vicinity within the hour.

“She?! Heh, as much as I could use a good fuck-buddy right ‘bout now, dontchu think it would be smarter to take somebody who ain’t gonna tempt me? I don’t need no woman t’slow me down. Maybe when this is all said and done, then, you know… we could talk.”

Haha, Maundin, I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.

A patch of static fills Maundin’s brain, as if it were a radio seeking through the stations, then, suddenly, there is silence. THE VOICE is gone.

Maundin takes a final draw from his cigar, drops it to the floor and stamps the flaming weed into the carpet with his dusty black boot. He exhales slowly.

A light from outside of his room shines in through the window. Car headlights. He throws his body against the wall and withdraws his gun. His heart is in his throat. The light goes out. Maundin slowly pushes the curtain aside with the barrel of his pistol, just enough for him to sneak a peek.

Two men get out of a shiny black car and step up on the wooden platform just outside of Maundin’s front door. Maundin pulls back the hammer on his pistol – ready for the worst.

The two men turn to each other, embrace, and begin to kiss each other so deeply it is as if they were trying to taste each other’s stomachs. They pull away from each other, take a quick look around and then retreat behind the door of the room next to his. Maundin uncocks his gun and places it back in its holster.

He has to move quickly, they could be here at any moment. For all he knew, they were already outside, waiting for him to make the first move. They could be out there right now sitting in their cars, skinning an apple with the same knife that they intend to peel his own ass with.
Sweat starts to bead up on his forehead. He walks into the bathroom and empties the towels from the cabinet below the sink. He takes his knuckle and knocks against the back wall until he finds a hollow spot. He punches. The section of wall crumbles and behind it lays a brown burlap sack. Inside of the sack looks to be some sort of large cube. It’s the merchandise. The goods. He pulls the sack out from behind the wall and dusts it off. It is heavier than he remembered.

He unties the sack and slowly pulls out its contents. He is holding a purple 19” television with yellow twist-dials and a bent antennae attached at the top. The glass screen is convex and golden in color. Three cool blue fins run across it’s width on both the right and left sides.

All of a sudden, a loud rapping echoes throughout the room. Maundin shoves the purple television back into the sack, jumps to his feet and redraws his gun. The rapping grows louder and louder.

BOOM!
BOOM!
BOOM!

Faster and faster!

BOOM!
BOOM!
BOOM!

It is rapping so fast that it is now keeping pace with Maundin’s heartbeat. He jumps out of the bathroom, points the pistol and blindly pulls the trigger. A bullet darts out from his cannon and splinters the wood around the doorknob of his front door.

The rapping continues, but slower now. A faint moaning is barely audible over the pounding. It’s coming from the room next door. The two men from earlier are having sex – the headboard of the bed is pounding into the wall with every pump of their hips.

“Jesus, God…” Maundin exhales and clutches at his heart. “A couple more scares like that, by God, and I’ll be pushin’ fuckin’ daises by the time those Japs finally catch up with me.”

Suddenly, the door swings open. A beautiful, pale-skinned, tall drink of water stands in the doorway, holding a double-barreled pistol aimed straight between Maundin’s beady black eyes.

“Bang Bang. You’re dead.” the woman says, calmly. Maundin tries to swallow, but can’t quite manage it. The woman smiles and lowers her gun. She is wearing a tight brick-red leather suit that shows off her mega-sexy curves. Her large breasts are nearly spilling out of her top. She has long flowing blonde hair that nearly reaches the top of her apple-bottom ass.

“You must be my new partner? Maundin, is it?” the woman asks.

Maundin laughs and walks over to the bed. He picks up his black Stetson hat, dusts it off, at plants it proud atop his head.

“I don’t think so, sugar, this man rides alone.”

He walks over, wraps his arms around her and grabs her ass. “Maybe another time, huh?”

The woman smiles up at him, reaches behind her back and bends his middle finger back to meet his wrist. He drops the burlap sack and frantically tries to free himself, but she has too good of a grip on him. She twists his finger like a fucking bottle cap. His bone snaps.

“Ah, shit! You bitch!”

The woman loosens her grasp. He covers his broken finger with his right hand, as if to protect it from any further harm.

“Now, I believe that we got started off on the wrong foot.” The woman says calmly. “My name is Marley.”

She extends her right arm, offering a handshake. Maundin, his face full of pain, reaches out and greets his partner respectfully.

“You might want to get some ice for that finger.” He nods and grabs the ice bucket from atop the dresser. Marley slides a heavy white motorcycle helmet over her head; her visor too tinted to see her face.

“Let’s ride.” she says, dangling her keys in front of his face. He picks up the sack containing the purple television and mutters something under his breath.

“Fuckin’ bitch.”

“Fill ‘er up.” says Doogan, slamming his dirty beer mug on the countertop of the bar. It is his fourteenth tonight and he is just gettin’ started. The barkeep takes his glass, pulls back on the tap handle, and fills the mug up to its rim – not even a centimeter of head sits atop. The barkeep returns the glass to Doogan’s dirty, bleeding hands.

Doogan tips his brown Stetson hat towards the barkeep and takes a sup.

It’s been a pretty good night. So far, there have been four separate barroom brawls that have broken out. Nothing gets a man’s heart a’thumpin’ like good old fashioned brawlin’. Eighteen men have died tonight here in this very saloon – three at the hand of ol’ Doogan. It’s been a slow week. Many of ‘em have nothin’ to look forward to ‘cept the weekend beatings down here at Crunch’s Saloon. They all secretly hope that they too will one day die fightin’ - to be a man who stood for somethin’. They all wish they could be so lucky.

Doogan spins around on his bar stool, his back now facin’ the bar. He studies his surroundings, the aftermath. Only two round wooden tables are left standing upright, the rest have toppled over or have been broken into kindling. It’s dark, ‘cept for the stage - where Five Japanese geisha-girls are dancing nude, covering their goodies with large wooden fans. The pain in Doogan’s fist is starting to return. He clenches it tight and feels his arthritis stiffening around his bones. He chugs the rest of his beer and slams the glass back down on the bar. He needs to drink faster – loosen up a bit.

Beer number fifteen.

“…oh, yup yup, she’s a beaut’ alright!”

There are two men sitting at the bar to the left of him who are showin’ off their guns to each other.

“Where’d you get somethin’ purdy like that, Dale? Down there at that gun shop on Twelfth?”

“Are you kiddin’? They ain’t got nothin’ but toys down there at that shop. If you want a real gun, you gotta go through the jailer.”

“The jailer? Ah, you is pullin’ mah leg, aintchee?”

“No shittin’, the jailer! Slip him a twenty and he’ll let you have your pick of the lot. He just don’t want you mentionin’ his name if you get caught with one of ‘em.”

“Fair enough. I ain’t no squealer no how!”

Doogan steals a peak at the boaster’s canon. Ha, it ain’t nothin’ but a dollied-up .36. It ain’t nothin’ compared to the boom-sticks ol’ Doogan has held in his day. Hell, it ain’t nothin’ compared to the boom-stick he’s got on him right now. But Doogan ain’t one to brag. In fact, Doogan ain’t much of a talker period.

“You wanna see it in action?”

“Heh, yeah buddy!”

The man with the nice purdy gun snaps back the hammer and unloads hot lead into his comrade’s skull. Blood sprays the walls. Bits of brain and bone shower the men sitting at the table behind them. The men wipe the blood off of their faces and pick the gooey bits of brain from their beards, before standing up to pulverize the man with the purdy gun.

“Hey, hey, hey!” the barkeep interrupts, “You’ns all heard what the Sheriff said! If’n we can’t keep the murderin’ down here to less than twenty a night, then I have no choice but to close up shop! You don’t want that and I don’t want that. So now, I reckon you boys best be playin’ nice from here on out, or you can go and get yer beer somewheres else!”

The men give the man with the purdy gun a nasty look and then quietly return to their seats. “I suggest you best be puttin’ that purdy lil’ cannon of yours away. I don’t want no more killin’ tonight, y’hear?” advises the barkeep. The man heeds his advice and buries the gun back into its holster.

Doogan takes out a hand-rolled cigar from his left shirt pocket, lights it up. He pushes the butt to his lips and takes a draw.

BOOM!

The whole place shakes somethin’ awful as a bolt of lightnin’ strikes down from the sky and makes contact with the ground in front of the saloon. Everyone in the bar is quiet, startled by the close vicinity of the bolt.

The bat-wing doors of the saloon swing open and a pack of strange black critters scurry into the bar. The critters look strange, definitely not human. They’re deep purple in color, short – about two feet tall, and have large shiny teeth, sharpened at the tips – as if they all had mouths full of yellow daggers. None of ‘em have eyes, but somehow they all seem t’ be pretty aware of their surroundings.

They pile into the bar, about a hundred of ‘em in total. They are all croaking like giant toads, deep and guttural. The entire bar is filled with the symphony of a swamp. The acoustics in this ol’ saloon ain’t too shabby, either – it kinda sounds nice, peaceful.

No one in the bar had ever seen such a sight – no one ‘cept for ol’ Doogan. Doogan knew all about these critters. In fact, ol’ Doogan even spent a summer out on Mopervista, the critters’ home planet. His line of work requires him to travel such distances. Doogan also knows that these Mopes are mean sonsabitches – and whatever they’re doin’ here, it ain’t no joke. If two or three of these Mopes get a hold of somebody, then two minutes later there ain’t nothin’ left of ‘em but their shiny white bones.

Doogan exhales. Good cigar – damn good.

The saloon doors swing open again. A tall, bald Japanese man, holding a long black scepter with a white stone shinin’ atop, enters the saloon. He is wearing a long dark blue kimono and a large kasa hat made from Japanese cypress that covers most of his face. He has a long gray and white bushy Sam Elliot moustache with no beard. He stands in the doorway and quite dramatically raises his head so that everyone in the saloon can see the face beneath his kasa. The man has a cue ball for an eye. The ball is much bigger than his socket. It looks as if it had been beaten into his face and his skin had just healed on up around it. The man speaks.

“I’m looking for a man…” the Japanese man speaks in perfect English. “His name is Maundin. Can anyone here tell me where he is?”

Maundin? Doogan knew that name. What the hell were they wantin’ with Maundin? Doogan turns around, now seeing the man for the first time. The man with the cue ball for an eye! Could it be? Is it really him?!

Doogan stands up and walks over toward the Japanese man. The Japanese man sniffs at the air and smiles.

“Maundin is here! I can smell him!”

Everyone in the bar is silent. The girls onstage are struggling to wiggle back into their clothing.

“You!” the Japanese man says, pointing to the man with the purdy gun, “Tell me where Maundin is!”

“I don’t kn—“

“Tell me where Maundin is or die!”

The man looks around at the Mopes, suddenly surrounding him. “I’m sorry, I don’t know any Mau—“

The Japanese man gives the signal. The Mopes pounce on the man and strip the meat clean from his bones.

“You!” the Japanese man says, pointing again at another stranger in the crowd. “Tell me where—“

“Now you just calm yer bones there, Mister!” interrupts the barkeep, “You just broke the law… now I hafta close up fer the evenin’! Everybody, get on outta here! Go on, get!”

“No one is leaving.” says the Japanese man, calmly.

“I ain’t got no choice in the matter. It’s the law!” says the barkeep.

“I AM HIGHER THAN THE LAW, I AM A GOD!” shouted the Japanese man.

The bar is quiet again.

“Now somebody better be giving me some information on the whereabouts of Maundin and give them to me quick. I am beginning to lose my patience.” says the Japanese man, burying his frustration. “Barkeep, the next round is on me.”

The barkeep nods and starts distributin’ drinks all around. Doogan knows it is him that the Japanese man smells. He gets up and casually walks toward the bat wings.

“Tut! Where do you think you are going?” the Japanese man asks him.

“I need some fresh air.” Doogan quips.

“Then remove that foul stogie from your mouth and have a seat.” Doogan slowly pulls the cigar from his mouth and drops it to the floor. “The show has only just begun! One of you, turn on all of these lights!”

One of the men from the back of the bar walks over and flips the main switch. The bar lights up like a goddamn shoppin’ mall.

“Now, I’ll ask again…” the Japanese man says, “Where is Maundin?”

The saloon remains quiet. Doogan looks around at all the others.

“I know he is here, this whole god forsaken place reeks of his presence!” He is getting angry. “Do any of you even know who I am?”

No one else in the saloon seems to recognize him.

“My name is Qoser. I have come from the fifth realm. I can peel your skin with a flick of my wrist and turn your bodies inside out.”

Just about everyone in the saloon is a’shittin’ in their britches right now, ‘cept for ol’ Doogan. Doogan is playin’ it cool.

“I don’t want to have to kill every last one of you, but I will not lie to you, I have been known to do worse. Give me what I want. Hand him over and I will let you be.”

No response, only silence. The Mopes are droolin’ so much that little puddles are gathering down on the floorboards. There is gonna be a feast tonight!

“Ahhh…” Qoser closes his eyes and takes a deep whiff, “I can smell your hatred! You would like to kill me, wouldn’t you? Hahaha… your anger can only make me stronger! Just look what I can do with your hatred!”

Qoser lifts his right hand into the air, as if conductin’ a symphony. He has a silver ring on his pinky finger that slithers and wraps around the bone like a tiny snake. Its tail comes to a point that extends about half an inch from the tip of his finger. Qoser takes a deep breath and howls as he tears into the air with the tip of his ring. The air splits apart as if he were tearin’ into latex. Inside of the tear is absolute darkness, a vacuum. The further down he tears, the stronger the suction becomes. The men and women in the saloon secure themselves to somethin’ stable. The suction becomes stronger and stronger.

After two men and three or four Mopes are sucked into the void, Qoser licks his thumb and index fingers and pinches the slit closed.

The crowd is stupified. Qoser calls this the Doom Magnetic, but he doesn’t let anyone know that tonight. Tonight, he is beyond frustration.

“Kill them all.” Qoser orders, almost under his breath. He is tired of all this lack of cooperation.

The Mopes spread their black lips and reveal their jagged dagger-teeth just before pouncing on their prey.

It doesn’t take a hundred Mopes but a minute or so to strip all of them men’s bones… well, all of ‘em but ol’ Doogan’s.

Doogan stands firm in the far corner of the saloon. He finds a half-empty mug of beer on the table beside of him and gulps it down.

When the Mopes finish their snacks, they easily sniff out Doogan’s blood and come a’chargin’, a pack of about fifty of ‘em - all at once. Doogan throws his empty beer mug to the floor and quickly draws his cannon from its holster.

The gun is a purdy little, shiny automatic handgun with the words “Do it or die…” engraved on the handle. It’s the kind of gun only professionals carry. It’s the kind of gun only found in the underground.

Doogan unloads hot lead into the tiny brains of every Mope that comes his way. Blood, brains, purple flesh and teeth shower the saloon. When Doogan is finished slaying the last of ‘em, Qoser begins to clap.

“Bravo! Bravo! Great show, really, just marvelous!” Qoser continues to applaud. “Dare I ask your name, old boy? Perhaps I already know?” Doogan just keeps a’starin’ back at Qoser, still aiming his cannon. “Maundin?” Qoser stops clapping. His grin tightens into a menacing snarl. He holds his hand up in front of him and quickly yanks it back toward his body.

All of a sudden Doogan’s body, over twenty feet away, goes hurlin’ through the air comin’ to an abrupt stop just about a foot away from Qoser. Qoser keeps him there, hangin’ about two feet off of the ground. Qoser takes a deep breath in through his nostrils. He exhales.

“No… you are not Maundin, but you have his smell all over you. You know where he is, don’t you?”

“Fuck you.” Doogan says, spittin’ down in Qoser’s face. The wad of mucus slides and hangs limply off of his cue ball eye.

Qoser loses his temper and flicks his wrist. Doogan’s skin begins to tear and separate from his body, his internal organs spill across the floor. His skin stretches out like a blanket and folds itself back around the hanging skeleton, inside-out. Qoser allows the body to fall to the floor, lifelessly.
Qoser takes his sleeve and wipes his cue ball eye clean. The entire saloon is now covered with buckets of blood, brain and bone. I make my way through the mess, grippin’ a length of steel wire pulled tightly between both of my fists.

I make a mistake, I step on a sliver of skull. The crunch echoes throughout the otherwise quiet saloon. Qoser quickly turns around.

I wrap the steel wire around his neck and pull… tightly… with all my might I pull! As the wire cuts into his neck, it does the same to my hands. Both of our blood mixes and pours onto the floor below. Still, I pull harder and harder. I hear him gurglin’. He is spittin’ up blood. He mumbles somethin’.

“Maun… din…”

I begin to alternate hands, first pullin’ with the left, then the right, then the left again – a sawing motion. Qoser’s head is finally severed completely from his body. It hits the floor with a heavy thud, crackin’ his cue ball eye.

I take a moment to breathe and doctor my hands – rippin’ off a sleeve of Qoser’s kimono and tearin’ the cloth into thin strips. I wrap my hand tight to stop the bleedin’.

Doogan – he was a hell of a partner, but a necessary sacrifice. I’ve got to be smarter than this, they’re catchin’ up.

I take my coat off of the rack and exit through the swingin’ bat wings of Crunch’s Saloon.

NaNoWriMo

I will be trying to do the NanoWriMo thing again this year. If you are also going to have a go at it this year, then add me: http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/user/428300

Oh, and if you live in the Ashland, KY or Huntington, WV area, then let me know and maybe we could start a NaNoWriting group!

Anxiously waiting for November 1st,

III