Tales of the Symbiotic Saloon -- possibly fiction

[Old Guy]

TALES OF THE SYMBIOTIC SALOON

Purgatory could be a dingy gray waiting room with bad water, poor plumbing and surly matrons.  Or, it could be a town in the middle of Nowhere.  All manner of folks might hole up there until next Tuesday - or Judgment Day - whichever comes first.

Ch. 1 - The Symbiotic Saloon

"Doc" Medicine Man, slouched in his accustomed place, at the corner table, opposite the bar.  A piano occupied the back wall.  No one was playing the piano.  Across the table from Doc, Recce Bydeath, the town drunk, snored softly.  Infidel held down his usual spot near the end of the bar. Veronica sat at her table to the right of Medicine Man, cheating at solitaire.

Muskrat, the Russian miner, strolled in through the swinging doors.  Spotting Doc, he ambled on over and sat down, calling across to Gunner the bartender, “Viskey! Vun vor me. Vun vor Doc.”  He grinned and launched into a long tirade about something.  Doc nodded here and there, sipping the rotgut Muskrat called ‘viskey’.  He hadn’t a clue as to what the Russian was talking about, but it didn’t seem to matter.

Veronica lost her tenth game of solitaire and started another.  Muskrat droned on.  Infidel sipped his warm beer and shifted from one leg to the other.  Doc closed his eyes, drifting away.

The swinging doors banged open and in strolled the Raptor gang.  Doc sat up, suddenly awake. The Russian fell silent.  Recce moaned in his sleep.  Everyone else froze.

Monk, the musical Raptor, minced back to the piano and sat down. “Anyone mind if I play a little Wagner?” he asked.  No one objected.  Monk had a rotten temper, as the late lamented piano player had discovered when he admitted that he couldn’t play any tune other than ‘Dixie’.  Monk began to play a passage from ‘Parsifal’, although no one else knew what it was.

Zoomie Raptor slid into a chair across from Veronica.  “Deal the cards, ma’am,” he said, in that nasal whiny voice everyone hated, but didn’t dare say anything about on account of his being mean as a snake and twice as deadly - or so he always said.

Duey Raptor lounged at the bar, as was his wont.  Although ugly as sin and possessed of a gravelly, anti-hero type voice, Duey was the least offensive of the Raptor gang.  He seldom shot anyone on Sunday and always gave a few dollars to Majoor, the broken down Civil war vet living under the front porch of the Symbiotic Saloon.  Some said he did that because the veteran was his illegitimate brother.  Others said it was because Majoor was the only man in town who could explain what ‘symbiotic’ meant.

Infidel was a little further into the bottle than is usual on this particular evening.  Thus it was that he conceived a sudden dislike for the music of Wagner.

“Hey!” he hollered, startling Monk and ruining the passage he was deep into at the moment.

Monk stood up.  A dog barked in the distance.  Infidel snarled, “Don’t play any more of that damned claptrap!”

“I’ll play my claptrap anytime I want!” retorted Monk, hands dropping to his twin double-action, silver-plated .45 caliber hog legs.

“Not in this bar you won’t!” shouted Infidel, reaching for his big Colt Single-Action Army revolver, in it’s fancy cross-draw holster.

In an instant the bar was transformed.  Doc and Muskrat ducked under the table, putting the sodden Recce between them and possible mayhem.  Veronica dashed for the other end of the bar, leaving Zoomie staring foolishly about.  “Hey . . . I want two cards . . .”

Duey grabbed his whiskey bottle and sidled down the bar, away from the two gunslingers.

Gunner, the barkeep groaned.  “Now boys.  Don’t go shootin’ holes in the place again.  The insurance payments are killin’ me!”

Infidel could care less about insurance premiums.  “Tell this moron not to play any more of that damn fancy-pants music.”

“I’ll enjoy my music whenever and wherever I wish,” hissed Monk.

Both men tensed.  Death was in the air.  Infidel stepped away from the bar, giving himself more room.  Monk sidled clear of the piano.  They faced one another over a distance of – oh, nine feet, maybe ten.  Not over eleven feet.  Let’s say ten.

In the distance a dog barked.  Medicine Man glanced at the Russian.

“Vot is it vit dog?” whispered Muskrat.  Doc shrugged.  He made a mental note to bring up hiring a dog-catcher if they ever decided to hold a City Council meeting.

At that moment, the swinging doors banged open again.  One broke off completely and thumped to the floor.  Gunner groaned.  All eyes turned toward the front.  Except  Infidel and Monk, of course.  They stood toe-to-toe (metaphorically speaking.  Remember, they’re ten feet apart.) and snarled threats back and forth.

Majoor stumbled out of the dark and stood blinking in the lamp light.  He gripped a double-barreled ten gauge shotgun.  “What the hell is all the noise?”

“Well,” explained Veronica, breathlessly, “Infidel don’t like Monk’s playing.  And . . .”  She trailed off as everyone (except the two gunslingers) turned in her direction. Blushing, she went on, “I . . . I ain’t very good at public speaking, but, here’s what I think happened . . .”

“STOP! I DON’T WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENED!”  Majoor grabbed Duey’s bottle and slammed down a couple of large swallows.  “I just want quiet,” he whispered.  “First it’s the damn barking dogs, then these two fools arguing over a bit of Wagner.” No one said anything.  The two gunmen stared open-mouthed at the grizzled bum.

“I know just what to do,” said Majoor.  Suiting action to words, he walked closer to the piano and raised his shotgun.

“No!” screamed Gunner.  “That came all the way from Chicago!”

Majoor hesitated only for a moment.  Then he triggered both barrels, blasting the piano into a tangle of shattered wood and wires.  As the double boom died away, he spat into a nearby spittoon and mumbled, “I never liked anyone or anything from Chicago.”  Then he stumbled back out the door and into the night.

Infidel dusted the wood chips off his hat and retreated to the bar.  Monk stood where he was, turning one way, then the other.  Bits of keyboard adorned his fancy wool vest.  Finally, he snorted and stalked out.

“Well,” said Doc, as he brushed the wood chips off his chair and sat down.  “Looks like that’s over.  Too bad about the piano.”  Recce snored softly.

“Remind me,” said Duey, gesturing toward the one remaining swinging door.  “Remind me to buy that old fart some more shotgun shells.”  He pulled the cotton plugs out of his ears. “Quietest evening I’ve had in years.”

“Hey,” called Zoomie. “I need two cards.”

(to be continued)

 

[Gunnar]

Ah yes!  He's BACK!

 

[Danjanou]

Oh God here we go again.  ;D

Seriously Jim your literary skills have been missed around these parts.

 

[Old Guy]

Ch 2 - Morning at the Symbiotic Saloon

Monk strolled down the street admiring the morning sunshine and the bright blue sky.  He sighed expansively.  It was a gorgeous fall day.  A lovely day to walk the single wooden sidewalk from one end of town to the other - all four blocks of it.  He paid no heed to anyone else.  Majoor climbed out from his burrow under the porch of the Symbiotic Saloon.  “Mornin’, Monk,” he said, touching his faded blue forage cap.

Monk was stunned to silence.  No one ever said ‘good morning’ to him.  Folks usually just got the hell out of his way.  He had that kind of a reputation.  Managing a slight nod, Monk wandered on down the walkway, slightly out of sorts.  It was still a nice day and he still didn’t feel like shooting anyone, but the bloom had gone off of the rose, so to speak.  Majoor shrugged and headed for the Cheap Eats café.

Recce, the town drunk, was snoozing on a bench in front of the saloon.  Seized by a sudden impulse, just like the time he shot the town dentist, Monk sat down in a rocking chair a few feet from the bench and studied the Irishman.  Recce remained unconscious.  A couple of buzzards settled onto the roof of the livery stable across the street.

Medicine Man came up the street, heading for the saloon and his morning pick-me-up.  He nodded to Monk but didn’t say anything.  At Recce’s bench, Doc stopped to make sure the drunk was still alive.  Satisfied with his findings, he went on inside.

“What’s with Monk?” he asked as Gunner poured a double shot of whiskey.

“Don’t know.  He’s been perched out there for the last fifteen minutes or so.  Why don’t you go ask him, if you’re so damn curious?”

“Not me.  None of them Raptors is very polite – him least of all. Notice the buzzards?”

“Yep.”  Gunner turned peer at the livery stable, squinting in the bright sunlight.  “S’pose they’re waitin’ fer Recce to kick off or keepin’ an eye on Monk, in case he shoots someone?”

“Monk, I figure.  Recce seems pretty healthy for a drunk.”

At that moment, the drunk woke up.  Slowly - ever so slowly - he swung his legs off onto the porch and swiveled into a slouching position.  He was halfway through his morning aerobics before he noticed Monk watching him.  “Hello!” he said, startled.  Finishing a leg stretch, he settled back against the wall of the saloon.  “Morning,” he added noncommittally.  His stomach rumbled.  It was time to go down and join Majoor at the Cheap Eats café.  But to do that he’d have to get up and walk in front of Monk.  He started to go, then stopped.

“Stop twitchin’,” ordered Monk.  Recce froze.  “Why do you drink all the time?” asked the gunman.

“Ah . . . well.”  Recce began to sweat.  He couldn’t remember ever deciding to drink or not to drink.  It just happened.  Inspiration struck.  "Same reason you shoot people.”

One of the buzzards snapped his wings.  The sound echoed down the quiet street.  A dog barked in the distance.  The two men glanced in the direction of the barking and simultaneously said, “Damn dog!”

Monk laughed out loud, something no one could ever remember him doing. He clapped Recce on the back.  “A philosopher,” he said, laughing again.  “Who would have thought?”

Recce pasted a smile on his face.  “Not me.  That’s for sissies.”

Monk’s smile faded.  “I’m a philosopher.”

“Of course you are,” said Recce.  “I meant that only sissies think.”  He swallowed dryly.

“Damn,” murmured Monk, grinning again.  “You’re quick.  Come on.  I’ll buy you breakfast.”

“Look at that,” hissed Gunner .  “They’re goin’ off arm-in-arm, like old pals.”

Medicine Man nodded.  “Maybe they discovered they have something in common.”

“Maybe,” agreed Gunner , doubtfully.  “The buzzards have flown off.”

“That’s a good sign, I suppose.”

“Not fer the buzzards.”

Veronica picked her way across the street, trying to avoid the worst of the horse and cow doo.  It was impossible to miss it all.  She thought longingly of her native Boston, where the streets were paved with brick and kept scrupulously clean of the animal residue.  Frowning, she tried to recall why she was living in this filthy little town, dealing cards at the Symbiotic Saloon.  “I think my mind is gone,” she muttered.

“Mine too,” said Duey Raptor, coming along behind her.

“Oh!” she jumped to one side, scattering a semi-dried cow pie.

“Pardon, ma’am,” said Duey. “Pardon me.  I was just contemplating the nature of life and the inevitable decay of all natural things, when I heard you going on about losing your mind.”

“You were what?”

“Surprised you, eh?”  Duey took her arm and began navigating across the street.  “Us Raptors are known for our philosophical natures.”

“Most folks only know you for your habit of populating Boot Hill,” mumbled Veronica.

“What was that?  Never mind.  I can guess.”  As they stepped onto the sidewalk Veronica gently disengaged her arm from Duey’s.

“I’m headed toward Cheap Eats,” said Duey.  “Are you going that way?”

“There’s no other place to eat.”

“Of course there isn’t.  Well, then, we can walk along together, can’t we?”

“Okay,” agreed Veronica, hesitantly.  “Just keep to your side of the planks - and try not to kill anyone on the way.”

“Madam!  You wound me!  Kill someone?  I, Duey Raptor?”

A heavily bearded man carrying a saddle stepped out of an alley not twenty feet in front of the happy couple.  Duey stopped suddenly.  “You!” he shouted.

The other man dropped the saddle and went for this gun, screaming imprecations. The blat-blat of gunfire filled the air.  Veronica dove for the street. Swearing and shooting went on for nearly a minute, then dead silence descended.

Medicine Man leaned out of the Symbiotic’s front door, surveying the street.  There was no sign of the man with the saddle.  Duey lay in a heap in front of the hardware store.  Doc reached back inside for his bag and strolled slowly down towards the scene of the shooting.  With any luck his patient would bleed to death before he arrived, saving all manner of trouble.

Duey lay blinking up at the blue sky.  He grinned at Medicine Man.  “Did I get him, Doc?”

“The other gentleman is nowhere in sight.  If you hit him, it wasn’t immediately fatal.”

“Damn.  I’ve got to get that shootin’ iron of mine aligned.”

“Are you hit?”

“No.  I just decided to take in the view after I ran out of bullets.”

Doc reached down and helped Duey to his feet. The aging outlaw picked up his black hat and examined it carefully.  “Damn! Just as I thought!  That owl-hoot put some holes in my hat!”  He handed it to Doc.

Sure enough, four neat holes decorated the hat, just above the hatband.  Duey shrugged.  “It’s okay.  I got a spare at home.”  The two men headed for Cheap Eats.

Veronica peeked over the edge of the sidewalk in time to see Medicine Man and Duey walk away. She was smeared with animal dung.  One shoe had a broken heel.  Her bonnet looked to have intercepted a bullet.  “What am I doing here!” she grumped.  “I wonder when the next train leaves for Boston.”  She heaved herself up and headed back to the hotel.

Muskrat tipped his hat as he passed, heading for the Cheap Eats.  Intent on her troubles, she didn’t see him.  At the café he announced to all and sundry, “Veronica goink Boston!”

“No she ain’t,” said Majoor. “There’s no train service from here to Boston - or anywhere else.”

(tbc)

 

[Old Guy]

Ch. 3 - Slow Afternoon at the Symbiotic Saloon

Duey hauled back on the reins.  “Whoa!  Whoa, there!”  The wagon creaked to a halt.  Majoor sat on the edge of the Symbiotic Saloon front porch, eyeing the Raptor Gang.

“Howdy!” exclaimed Duey.  He was in a jovial mood.  “Need any shotgun shells?”

Majoor shook his head.  “Nope. Still got plenty left from that last case you sent me.”

Monk glowered at Majoor.  He and the grubby Civil War vet disagreed on music, among other things.  He wished Duey would let him shoot the old fart.

“Where you boys headed?” asked Majoor.

“Over to the next town,” explained Duey.

“Didn’t know there was one.”

“Sure, it’s off thataway.”  Duey waved vaguely toward the horizon.  “Maybe two-three miles.”

“Fancy that,” said Majoor.  “Does the place have a name?”

“Why . . . Next Town, I suppose.”  Duey turned to the other Raptors. “Either of you ever heard the name of that other town?”

“Not me,” said Zoomie. “First I heard of it was when you started talkin’ about robbin’ banks.”

“Me neither,” said Monk.  “Except I think the name is Next Townburg.”

“Could be,” mused Duey.  “I woke up with an urge to rob a bank.  Since we ain’t got one, why I figure the next town must.”

“Stands to reason,” agreed Majoor.  “Quite a rig you got.  Where’s your horses?”

“Horse!” exclaimed Monk.  “Bite your tongue!  Them critters is dangerous!”

Duey chuckled.  “Monk had a run-in with a merry-go-round horse last year.  Plum took away any hankerin’ he had for horses.”

“It wasn’t a merry-go-round!” shouted a red-faced Monk.  “It was a carousel!”

“Oh, yeah.”  Duey grinned at Majoor.  “I always get them two confused.”

“Where’d you get the ox?” asked Majoor.

“Mighty dad-blamed curious, ain’t you?” growled Zoomie, leaning out of the wagon box in order to fix the scruffy vet with a dangerous stare.  Zoomie was said to be nasty as a snake.  Nobody ever said that but Zoomie.  Folks just took him at his word.

“Well, it’s a good looking ox,” explained Majoor.  “Might need one myself some day.”

Zoomie lost his grip on the wagon seat and toppled into the street, crashing headfirst into a fresh pile of oxen doo. 

Majoor nudged his unconscious body with one dusty boot.  “Looks like your one down on bank robbers, Duey.”

Duey spat into the dust, nearly missing the rotten, dangerous, ugly and comatose Zoomie.  “I reckon me and Monk can handle the job.”

“I’m sure you can,” agreed Majoor.  “I have every confidence in your abilities.  But, it seems like an ox-drawn wagon is a bit slow for a getaway vehicle.”

“I know,” said Duey.  “I’m concerned about that.  But I couldn’t find a moose.”

“Moose?”

“Yeah, moose. We’re from up Minnesota way, you know. Horses and mules don’t like the cold weather up there. Nor do oxen. We ain’t got no animals but moose and sheep.”

“So you have to use them as beasts of burden, eh?”

“Well, not the sheep. Gotta save them for Saturday nights.”

“Of course.”  Majoor shaded his eyes and peered in the direction of Next Townburg.  “If you plan on robbing the bank today, you better get started.  I’ll see that no one runs over Zoomie.”

“Right neighborly of you,” said Duey.  “We’ll be on our way then.  See you later.”

“So long.  Have a nice day.”

As the wagon rumbled slowly down the street, Monk glared back at Majoor. “He don’t mean it!”

“Mean what?”

“No way he means for us to have a nice day!”

Medicine Man wandered out of the Symbiotic and sank into a rocking chair.  He watched Majoor swatting flies off Zoomie.  An hour went by.  “Where did the Raptors go?” he asked finally.

Majoor peered down the street.  The Raptor Gang was almost to the edge of town.  “Going over to Next Townburg and rob the bank there.”

“Dang it!” cussed Doc.  “Nobody ever tells me anything!  I didn’t even know there was a town over there.  Has it got a bank?”

“Nope.”

“Has it got a saloon?”

“Nope.”

“How about a hardware store?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, let’s see. Criminy!  Don’t tell me it’s got a church!”

“Nope.”

“Well, then what the hell is there in Next Townburg!”

“The US Marshal’s office - and the Territorial Prison.”

“Prison!  I didn’t know we was a territory, much less that we had a prison.”

“Neither did I,” said Majoor.  “Until today.”

(tbc)

 

[Old Guy]

Ch. 4 - The Graybar City Raid

Duey reached over and nudged Monk.  “Wake up,” he hissed.  “We’re here.”

Monk sat up and started his morning stretches.  He halted suddenly.  “This is Next Townburg?”

“Appears to be,” said Duey.  “Keep your voice down.  Looks like that dandy wants to talk.”

A tall man dressed in sharply creased black trousers and a crisp white shirt strolled toward the waiting Raptors.  He wore a spotless white hat and bore a star on his left shirt pocket.  Duey spelled out the letters.  U – S – M – A – R –S – H – A – L.  He glanced at Monk.  “What the hell kind of a word is usmarshal?”

Monk paled slightly.  “That’s a United States Marshal, you moron!”

Duey nodded.  He’d thump Monk for that ‘moron’ remark later.  At that moment it seemed more appropriate to touch his hat and smile at the Marshal.  “Morning, sir.”

“Morning,” replied the lawman.  He walked slowly around the ox and stopped on Monk’s side of the wagon.  “You boys planning on staying long in Graybar City?”

“Graybar City!” exclaimed Monk.  “We thought this was Next Townburg!”

“Dang it!” cursed Duey.  “We’ve done lost our way, officer.”

“Yes,” agreed the Marshal. “You have.”

“Uh . . . could you possibly direct us to Next Townburg, sir,” mumbled Monk.

“There’s no such place,” rumbled the Marshal.  He grinned suddenly, nearly blinding the Raptors with the sun flashing off his perfect white teeth.  “You boys came to murder, cheat and steal!”  He said it in a way that brooked no argument.

Duey swallowed his gum.  “No, sir!  You got us all wrong, Mr. Lawman!  We ain’t the kind to do any cheatin’!”  Not knowing the meaning of ‘brook no argument’, Duey was arguing.

The Marshal ignored him.  “Name’s Sapper.  I don’t allow such scum as you in my town.”  His guns cleared leather in a split second.  Monk sat staring down the impeccably clean barrels of two .45 Colt New Army revolvers.  “Toss down your guns.  And don’t try any funny stuff.  You first, Mr. Duey Raptor.”  The marshal chuckled.  “Yes, I know who you are.  Got a stack of wanted posters with your picture on them.  Bad likeness though.”

“Sorry to hear that,” murmured Duey, as he dumped his gun overboard.

“Now you, sonny.”  Monk blushed at the ‘sonny’.  He sighed and wished he hadn’t called Duey a moron.  What goes around comes around, just like Ma used to say.  In his embarrassment, he forgot to disable the theft alarm on his guns.  His black hat began clanging.

Blam! Blam!  Sapper’s guns went off almost together.  The alarm noise stopped.  Monk’s hat, now torn and ragged, plopped into the dirt twenty feet away, sparking and smoking.

“I warned you!” snarled Sapper.  “I plainly said no funny stuff!”

“Yes, sir.  Sorry, sir,” whined Monk.

In a trice, Marshal Sapper bundled the two miscreants into one of the cells at the back of his office.  He picked up a handful of wanted posters and showed them to Duey.  “See, your face is plastered all over these posters!”

“Wait!” exclaimed Duey.  He pointed at the top poster.  “That ain’t me! Look at it!  That’s a woman.”  He craned around.  “Betsy Smith.  See?”

“A likely story,” laughed the Marshal.  “Smith.  I’ll bet you’ve used that name a hundred times.”

“Well . . .”

“And look at this one,” crowed Sapper.  “Baldy Smith.  And this one!  Sam Jones!”

Baldy Smith was bald as an egg and at least 70 years of age.  Sam Jones was clearly of Chinese extraction.

“But . . . I ain’t in none of them pictures,” moaned Duey.  “I’m being railroaded!”

“Let’s see,” mused Sapper.  “Some of these must be your old pal Monk.”

“This is crazy!” cried Monk.  “I want a lawyer!”

“Yeah,” Duey nodded in agreement.  “We want a lawyer.”

Sapper frowned.  “There aren’t any lawyers in Graybar City.”

“Well . . . well, then,” Monk tried to think.  It hurt.  “You can’t hold us unless we get a lawyer.”

“Who says?”

“The law says.  The US Consternation and the Crooks Rights Bill!’ crowed Monk.

“Dang, boy,” said Duey.  “All that schoolin’ is finally payin’ off!”  He beamed at Sapper.  “Boy went clean through the fourth grade.”

“Well, not all the way.  I shot the teacher just after New Year.”

“Near enough.  Near enough.”  Duey eyed the Marshal.  “Get us a lawyer or get us outta here!”

They left town a few minutes later, headed back the way they’d come.  Marshal Sapper walked along with them for a bit.  “I can’t seem to hold onto any criminals,” he lamented.

“Why ain’t you got any lawyers in town?” asked Duey.

“It’s the prison,” said Sapper.  “Makes ‘em nervous.  After a week or so the poor fellers can’t sleep nor even keep track of their billable hours.”  He shook his head.  “It’s a sad situation.”

The next morning, when they could just make out the profile of the Symbiotic Saloon on the horizon, Monk started complaining.  “The marshal didn’t give us our guns back.”

Duey wasn’t having any of it.  “We was lucky to escape with our lives!  I’ve heard of Sapper.  If he wasn’t a stickler for the law, he’d be danged dangerous!”

Monk pouted for an hour or so.  “We’re gonna look damn funny trudging back into town with no guns.”  He blanched.  “They might . . . they might even try to take advantage of us!”

“They wouldn’t dare,” Duey assured him, although he was worried about that himself.  “Besides, Zoomie is there.  I’m sure he has the town whipped into shape.”

“Maybe.”  Monk felt like a little boy without his guns.  “What’ll I say to those folks?”

“Say?  You’ll say nothin’!  Just snarl, like usual.”

Monk snarled once, just for practice.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” said Duey. “You gotta scare ‘em so bad they don’t notice you ain’t got no guns.”

“I don’t feel good about this, Duey.  I’m plum scared.”  Big tears rolled down Monk’s face.

Duey looked away.  He was scared too, but driving the ox took all his concentration.  Monk’s sniveling was getting to him.  He reached over and whacked the crybaby.  “Dang it, cut that out!”

“Well, what shall I do?” blubbered Monk.

“Just quit that girly sobbin’!  Think of somethin’ else!”

“But thinking hurts!” wailed Monk.

“Well . . . well, then, practice yer snarlin’!”

“My snarling?”  The hardened gunslinger brightened up at once.

“Practice snarling,” repeated Duey.  “We might need it.”

Even the ox got mighty tired of Monk and his snarling.  But at least it beat the crying.


(tbc)

 

[Old Guy]

Ch. 5 - Kabob Night at the Symbiotic Saloon

He stepped through the swinging doors and stood there, surveying the room.  Medicine Man, lounging at his usual table in the corner, saw him first.  He nudged Muskrat, but the miner didn’t wake up.  He was dreaming of Mother Russia – or fat little sheep.  Recce, the town drunk, lay snoring in the corner behind Doc.  He whimpered quietly, suffering from an overdose of kabobs.

The man was dressed in a well-used gray coverall with military insignia at breast and shoulder – all faded to near oblivion.  His billed cap was crushed comfortably over gray hair.  Eyes sweeping the room, the stranger walked slowly to the bar.  He didn’t look to be packing any heat, but  Infidel and Duey both slid down the bar, giving him plenty of room.  Veronica stopped cheating at solitaire and Monk quietly placed his hands on the table, in plain sight.  Nobody said a word.

Gunner , the barkeep, stood dumbly for perhaps five seconds. Then, he recollected his business and managed to squeak, “W-what’ll it b-be, sir?”

The stranger touched the bar with a hand burned deep brown by strange suns.  “Whiskey!”  Gunner grabbed a bottle of the good whiskey and poured a shot.

“Leave the bottle,” grated the stranger.  His voice was mellow, with a tinge of too many smokes and rivers of booze.  He downed the shot with one gulp, then carefully poured another.  From one shirt pocket he drew forth a battered cigar.  “Anybody got a light?”

Dead silence.  Not a soul in the room smoked.  The stranger turned slowly, his strange blue eyes mocking them all. 

"Sorry,” he said.  “Is this a non-smoking bar?”

Duey shook himself and came alive.  “No, sir!  No, sirree!  Far from it!”  He started to slap the stranger on the shoulder in a comradely fashion.  An attack of common sense stopped him just in time.  He stood with his hand dangling foolishly for a moment, then stepped to the end of the bar and retrieved a lantern.  “Here, sir,” he mumbled.  “Light it off this here . . .”  The stranger lit the cigar and waved Duey away.

“Looks like a quiet Saturday night,” rumbled the stranger.

“Oh, it’s not Saturday . . .” exclaimed Infidel before Duey trod on his foot.  “Oww!  I . . . ah . . . mean, sure – sure, it’s pretty damn quiet for a Saturday night.”

A quaking Veronica accidentally spoke up.  “What’s your name, stranger?”  She covered her guilty mouth with both hands.

The man laughed slowly in that private, dangerous way some men have where you know right off that it’s dumb as hell to laugh along with him.  Recce giggled in his sleep.

Ignoring Recce, the stranger drew on his cigar and said, “No name.  Had one.  Had several.  Out there between the stars names don’t count for nothin’.”  He tapped an ash on the floor.  Gunner squirmed, but kept quiet.  “Call me Nameless.”

“Uh . . . sir,” ventured Monk, the mean Raptor.  “Are you a spaceman, sir?”  The rotten, worthless, morgue-populating little monster looked innocent and pure. Airplanes and spaceships were a particular interest of his - ever since he pulled the wings off his first dragonfly.

“I am that,” said Nameless.  “Just got off a run from Beer-on-Tap.  Ever heard of it?”  Everyone in the room looked vague.  “I didn’t think so.”

Medicine Man frowned.  “What’s a spaceman doing in an old west bar?”  He almost ended with some remark about Nameless being out of place, but elected to forego the opportunity.

“Time gets all twisty-turny when you’re jumping along barely plotted tramlines in the Big Dark,” replied Nameless, evidently taking no offense.  “Sometimes when a Black Hole torques your ship out of reality and dumps it screaming tippy-toe around the Event Horizon, why time gets tossed in the dustbin.”  He glared around.  “You know what I mean?”  Quick nods all around.

Nameless swallowed another shot of whiskey.  “Mind gets a little soggy in the Big Dark.  Things leak in and out.  Memory doesn’t serve.”  He slammed a fist down on the bar.  “Time dilation! We got your fusion-powered, ram scoopin’ dilation.  We got time crammed into a lamp with the genie!”  His voice fell to a whisper.  “Wormholes.  Boreholes.  Squirm holes.  All kinda tunnels through the Big Dark.”  He fell silent and stared down into his empty shot glass.
Funeral quiet slopped in through the windows and filled the room.  In the distance, a dog barked.  Nameless looked up, frowning.  “Hey!  Where’s your piano?  Ain’t these places supposed to have a piano?”

“Um . . . we did have a piano,” replied Medicine Man.  He glared at Monk and Infidel.  “A couple of our local yokels got into a row over musical preferences and another citizen blew the piano to kindling, thus making the argument moot.”

“Moot?” said Nameless.  “What was the music?”

“Wagner!” exclaimed Monk, glaring at Infidel.

“Claptrap!” roared Infidel, returning glare for glare.

Nameless nodded.  “Claptrap, indeed.”  Monk slumped back, stunned.  Infidel gloated.

“I liked to sit on the piano,” muttered Veronica.  “Majoor shouldn’t have blasted it to pieces.”

“Majoor?”  Nameless looked around curiously.  “I knew an Majoor once.  He was our navigator on the Leaning Beak to Domelight run.  I worked on the black gang then.  It can’t be the same Majoor.  Can it?”  In the distance, a dog barked.
“Naw,” chorused the group.  Everyone talked at once.  “He’s an old drunk!”  “Lives under the porch.”  “Civil war vet”  “Scrounger and thief!”

Nameless held up his hand.  The room quieted.  “Okay,” he shrugged.  “It’s not the same guy.”  He re-filled his shot glass.

“Tell us some more, sir,” pleaded Monk, his beady little eyes bright with joyous wonder.

“Well . . .” began Nameless, bashing another blob of ash on the floor.  Suddenly, the swinging doors swung open, splintering against the wall.  Gunner groaned.

A large green creature wallowed inside.  It had a some leg-things to stand on, a couple of pseudopods, and a host of tentacles, along with a single, large green eye.  Infidel passed out at the mere sight of the monster.  Veronica shrieked, but stayed conscious.

“Oh, Timmy!” cried the beast, in a surprisingly mellow, womanly voice. “Timmy!  Are you ready?”  It held up a chronometer on a chain.  “Time to go, lad.”

Nameless/Timmy slammed his glass on the bar.  “Dammit, Norf!  Why do you always barge in at the wrong time!”

Norf quivered a bit.  “Sorry.  It’s a natural talent.”

Nameless/Timmy stubbed out his cigar and stuffed it back in his pocket.  Waving the green monster out before him, he headed for the door.  “So long, folks!  I’m off to the Big Dark with the big dork.  Thanks for the whiskey!  Don’t take any non-titanium fusion bottles!”

That was that - almost.  Suddenly, Norf peered back through the doors and said crossly, “Can’t you do something about these beastly barking dogs!”  Then it was gone.

Medicine Man sauntered back to his usual place in the corner, where Muskrat slept the sleep of the truly ambidextrous.  Gunner began wiping down the bar.  Monk sat quietly sulking, building up a colicky resentment against . . . oh . . . everything.

Recce whined again, caught in a kabob fantasy.

Veronica went back to cheating at solitaire.

(tbc)

 

[Old Guy]

Ch. 6 - Blackjack Night at the Symbiotic Saloon

Monk frowned. He held a nine of hearts and a six of clubs.  Veronica had dealt him an eight of spades.  “Um . . . just a second,” he muttered.  “I just gotta add up these here numbers. Neither the dealer nor Medicine Man, the only other player, voiced any complaint as Monk made his laborious calculations.  He had a habit of shooting those who commented on his lack of mathematical skills, his choice in clothes, or asked him the time of day.

“I forget,” grumped Monk.  “What game are we playing?”

Before Veronica or Doc worked up the courage to tell him the game was blackjack, a stranger walked into the saloon.

The man appeared somewhat bemused, or even confused, as he took in the wrecked swinging doors and the occupants of the Symbiotic Saloon.  A rifle butt jutted over his shoulder.  Sighing, he walked slowly to the bar, nodding at Gunner the bartender.  “How ‘bout a beer?”

“Sure,” said Gunner . “We got beer. What kind you want?”

With a vague gesture, the man replied, “Just somethin’ wet.”

“What’s your name, stranger?” asked  Infidel, speaking from his usual position at the end of the bar.  He was always a little forward.  His mama spent many years in therapy as a result of the lad’s overly familiar remarks to total strangers.  But that’s another story.

“Well,” began the stranger.  He sipped at his beer.  “Gawd!”  He spat the swill onto the bar.  “This tastes like piss!”

“No way!” exclaimed Gunner , a trifle defensively. He picked up a bottle of the offending booze. “It’s . . ,” he squinted.  “Well . . . hell.  I guess it is.”  He glared at Medicine Man.  “I ain’t gonna let you keep these samples in the cooler if you keep mixing them in with the beer!”

“Gimme a whiskey!” demanded the now irate stranger.

Duey watched the stranger drink off a couple jolts. “What’s your name, stranger?”

The man grinned at Duey and shook his head.  “Can’t seem to recall much of anything.  Not even my name.”

“How can you have forgot your name!” rasped Monk, tossing his cards down and rising from his chair.  “I think you came in here to flummox us!  Like that there spaceman . . . uh . . . fella.”

The stranger regarded the mean Raptor calmly. “I ain’t forgot my name . . . exactly.  Just can’t seem to put my finger on it for sure.”

Monk laughed cruelly and whipped out his pistols.  Immediately, a strident bonging noise filled the room.  Everyone cringed.  Duey reached over and whacked Monk on the arm.  “Turn off that damn theft alarm!  I told you a hunnert times . . .”

Blushing, the eager killer holstered his guns and quieted the alarm.  Placing the hat back in place, he pulled his silver-plated pistols again and leveled them at the stranger.  “Let’s get back to your name,” he demanded in his irritating nasal whine.

With a pained wince, the man reached back and brought his weapon forward.  Medicine Man and Veronica dove under the poker table and crawled off to the side.  Recce lay snoring on a bench in the corner, about twenty feet behind Monk.  He moaned slightly.

Monk stared into the double barrels of the stranger’s gun.  His eyes bulged out, increasing to just less than the size of the over-and-under bores.

“It’s a special piece,” explained the stranger.  “Thirty millimeter shotgun.  Buckshot in both barrels.”  He grinned slightly.  “Lots of buckshot.”

Duey crouched, one hand on his gun.  “Careful there fella!  You shoot my brother and I’ll have to blow you away!”  He shrugged.  “Nothin’ personal.  You know how family can be.”

“I appreciate your candor,” replied the stranger.  “Families are often a trial.  However, I must point out that once I touch off the first round – removing this feller’s upper torso, along with most of the back wall – I’ll just turn slightly and splatter your liver and lights over the remains of the wall and onto that busted up piano back there.”

Recce whined again, doubtless dreaming of marching kabobs or recalcitrant sheep.  Infidel eased over against the side wall to avoid being splattered.  Gunner sank out of sight behind the bar, visions of second and third mortgages and sky-rocketing insurance rates dancing in his head.  In the distance, a dog barked.

Majoor walked in just then, shaking his head.  “Hey, Doc . . ,” he said, then fell silent as he caught sight of the tableau.  Well, not really a tableau, but sort of a desperate situation or pregnant scenario.  Anyway, he stopped short.  “Ah . . . sorry . . . I was just . . . uh . . . just gonna suggest we hire a sheriff and dog-catcher.  Um . . . those pesky . . . ah, dogs.”  He began inching back toward the door.

The stranger glanced at Majoor.  “You guys in the market for a sheriff?”

Tension began draining out of the room.  Duey stood up and put both hands on the bar.  Infidel sighed and took a quick slug of beer.  Gunner stayed where he was.  Monk remained frozen before the menacing shotgun, but his bladder relaxed, accounting for the draining noise.

No one else said anything, so Majoor answered.  “Sheriff and dog-catcher.  You interested?”

Lowering his shotgun, the stranger nodded. “Sure am.  That’s why I came here.  Heard you needed a sheriff and someone to run a crooked roulette wheel.  Name’s . . . uh . . . dang!  There it goes again!  I had it just for a second there.”  He slid his weapon back into place and picked up his drink.  “It’ll come back to me.”

Duey reached over and shoved Monk’s rigid arms down.  Holstering his brother’s guns, he gravely aimed the bloodthirsty killer toward the door and gave him a gentle shove.  “Go change your pants.”  Monk walked stiffly out the door.  No one laughed.  Everyone ignored the wet spot on the floor.  It was hilarious, but they all knew Duey was a horrible tattle-tale and if anyone so much as giggled at Monk’s discomfiture, they were dead meat.

“I think my name is Quagmire!  Yeah!  Quagmire."

“Quagmire?” said Veronica, coming out from behind the big iron stove.  “That a first name or what?”

“Hmm.” Quagmire considered for a moment. “First.  Last.  Both, I guess.”

Medicine Man headed back for the poker table.  “Okay, Quagmire. I guess you can be sheriff.”

“And dog-catcher,” added Majoor.  “Someone’s got to do something about those mutts.”

“Don’t forget the crooked roulette wheel,” said Quagmire.  “That too.”

Gunner , finally back up behind the bar, coughed.  “We . . . uh . . . don’t refer to it as a ‘crooked’ roulette wheel,” he mumbled.  “Not in front of . . . ah . . . customers.”

“Oh, right.”  Quagmire grinned suddenly.  “When do I get sweared at?”

“You mean sworn in,” said Majoor.  “That’s just a formality.  The bigger question is – where do we find a suitable star?  We’ve never had us a sheriff before.”

“Yes we have!” exclaimed Medicine Man.  He walked over to the still-snoring Recce and extracted an object from the Irishman’s shirt pocket.  “See?”  He held up a small plastic star with one point broken off.  “Recce just never got around to doing much sheriff-type work.”

Duey took the badge from Medicine Man and handed it to Quagmire.  “By the authority vested in Majoor, I now pronounce you Sheriff and Dog-Catcher.  May God have mercy on your soul.”

Quagmire blushed.  “Jeez, guys,” he shuffled around the room, shaking hands.  “My Ma will be dang proud!  She always said I’d never amount to nothing much.  I’ll send her a postcard, first thing in the morning!”

“No you won’t,” said Majoor, with a tired sigh.  “There’s no postal service from here.”

Veronica stomped her foot in exasperation. “No damn trains.  No stagecoaches.  Now no post office!”  She shook a fist at Majoor.  “You leave a lot of holes in things!”

Quagmire looked from the irate woman to Majoor.  “You some kinda political bigshot?” he asked Majoor.  “The one that runs things?”

“No,” muttered Majoor tiredly.  “I’m just the fella that lives under the porch.”

“Oh,” said Quagmire sympathetically.  “A writer.”

(tbc)

 

[Old Guy]

Ch. 7 - Ambush at the Symbiotic Saloon

“Why’d you do that?” asked Sheriff Quagmire.

Monk turned. He held a smoking .45 in either hand. “What . . .?”

Quagmire nodded toward the shattered, bleeding corpses in the street.  “How come you shot ‘em?”

Holstering his pistols, Monk shrugged.  “I dunno.  They was there.  So I shot ‘em.”

The sheriff nodded slowly.  “The French have a word for it.”

“The who?  I never had nothin’ to do with no . . . no . . .”  He scowled.

“French,” said Quagmire, spelling it slowly.  “Foreign people.  Live in a place across the ocean.  They eat snails, wear berets, and have socialized medicine.  You know . . . communists.”

Monk nodded sagely.  He knew what a snail was and was nearly certain he’d heard of an ocean once.  Maybe in school.  Just for an instant he regretted shooting his fourth grade teacher before he had a chance to learn about berets and communists.  “So what,” he exclaimed belligerently.  “What kinda words do these French folks have?”

“They’d say shooting things was your raisin dee toot.”

“My raisin . . .”  Monk ground his teeth.  “You’re makin’ fun of me!”  He snarled, hands brushing his fancy-schmancy gun grips.  Teasing Monk was a proposition fraught with danger.

Quagmire didn’t crack a smile.  “Yeah,” he said seriously.  “Your raisin dee toot is sorta your reason for being - why you’re here.”

Monk frowned, unable to decide whether to blow Quagmire to little gobs of flesh and bone or just kick the crap out of him.  He stalled for time.  “I’m here because Duey brought me into town.”

“Sure you are,” said Quagmire, soothingly.  “I know that.  But that ain’t what I mean.”  He pointed at the cluster of dead vultures.  “There’s your purpose in life.”

“Killing vultures is my purpose in life?”  Now Monk was really confused.  He liked killing vultures.  Heck, it was good target practice.

“Not just vultures.  Shooting holes in things is sorta your specialty.”  Quagmire grinned.  “You’re a specialist!”

Monk took a deep breath and let it out slow, trying to think.  Inside he felt all gooey and smarmy, like he was either going to throw up or start crying.  A tear ran down one cheek.  “Thanks,” he sniveled.  “Nobody never said nothin’ that nice to me before.”

“Well, think nothing of it.”  Quagmire, daring greatly, slapped the trigger-happy slaughterer on the back.  “Just be proud – and pick up your mess.”

“Ah . . .” Monk blinked.  “Pick up . . . what?”

Quagmire waved at the stinking pile of vulture feathers and guts.  “Scrape up them dead critters and get ‘em outta town.  Even specialists can’t litter the street.”  He turned on his heel and walked off, heading for the Symbiotic Saloon.

Monk stood there, staring at the vulture viscera.  “Well,” he mumbled finally, “he is the sheriff.”

“Raptor!” shouted a new voice.

Monk looked up, blinking.  “Who? Me?”

“You!”  The speaker was dressed in white shirt and crisp, black trousers.  A star flashed on his manly chest.  Monk squinted in the glare of sunlight on the man’s teeth.  It was Sapper, the US Marshal from Graybar City.  “You’re under arrest!”

“Me?  You can’t arrest me!”  Monk glanced around, thinking there must be some mistake.  Alas, there was no one else around.  “I . . . ah . . . I gotta get a shovel,” he mumbled, shuffling away.

“No you don’t,” said Sapper.  “Get your hands up!”  A pair of gleaming New Army Colts flashed into his hands.  “Reach for the sky!”  Monk reached.

Sapper waltzed over, guns tracking a spot just above Monk’s belly button. “I got me a dandy new lawyer over at Graybar City,” he snarled.  “You’re wanted, Raptor!  Dead or alive!”

Duey heard the commotion.  He stepped out of the saloon, tugging at his new hat.  It wasn't broke in yet.  “So what,” he said.  “All us Raptor’s is wanted for something.”

Sapper jammed one revolver in Monk’s ear and trained the other on Duey.  “True,” he replied, “I got a poster with your picture on it, too.  Put your hands in the air!”

“I don’t think I will,” said Duey.

“I’ll shoot you down like the dog you are!” shouted Sapper.  In the distance a dog barked.

“Dang it!”  Quagmire stepped out of the saloon, scowling.  “It’s that blasted dog again!”  He stopped and looked around.  “What’s going on here?”

“The marshal is abusing us,” whined Duey.  “He wants me to put my hands up, knowing full well that the arthritis in my shoulders makes that painful as all get out!”  He hung his head.

Quagmire nodded to Sapper.  “That true, Marshal?”

“I didn’t know about his dad-blamed arthritis!  I’m just trying to arrest him!”

“Arrest Duey?”  Quagmire was startled.  “And Monk?  You crazy?”

“I’m a lawman!  What are you?  You’re wearing a tin star!”  Sapper squinted at Quagmire’s badge. “Well, I guess it ain’t tin - and its got a point missing.”

Quagmire sauntered out to the edge of the porch.  “The one missing the point, is you,” he said in a low, dangerous tone.  Suddenly, he coughed and choked.  Duey pounded him on the back.

“Dang!” rasped Quagmire.  “Doing that low, dangerous voice does that to me every time!”

Veronica, with her usual good timing, chose that moment to step out of the hotel and start across the street.  She detoured around the vile smelling heap of shredded vulture. Catching sight of the assembled mob, she stopped.  “I can’t believe it!” she exclaimed.  “A whole street full of carrion and you morons just stand there, playing with your guns!”  She swept the four of them with ‘that look’.  “Do any of you know what a shovel is?  A wheelbarrow?”

There was a general embarrassed shuffling of male feet.  “Shucks, ma’am.”  “A shovel, ma’am?”  “Wheelbarrow?”  “My back hurts.”

“God!” she stamped one foot, then resumed course for the saloon, head held high, ignoring the lumpy proletariats.  Sapper hurriedly shoved his guns away so he could touch his hat.  Monk blushed to the tips of his pointy ears and tried to suppress a snicker.  Veronica had a stringy blob of vulture gut stuck to one shoe.  Quagmire and Duey got the hell out of her way.

No sooner did she disappear into the saloon than a general slapping of gun leather ensued.  Monk got the drop on Sapper, only to realize he hadn’t reloaded at the conclusion of his vulture wasting endeavors.  Sapper dropped one shiny Colt into a pile of oxen doo and got a cuff link caught in the action of the other.  Duey jerked his own gun and immediately sagged against a post, gasping with pain.  His shoulder really was acting up.

There then ensued a general chorus of “Dang!” and a frantic scramble for cover.  Only Quagmire remained where he was, on the porch.  Pretty soon guns blazed from three directions.  Bullets shattered the saloon windows.  A pigeon keeled over dead, killed by the concussion.  Monk had his hat shot off.  Sapper got mud on his shirt and vulture gizzard on his new boots.  Duey lay in the dirt, trying to get his shoulder unlatched.

Sheriff Quagmire sighed and unlimbered his shotgun.  He fired one round to the left and one to the right.  It sounded like the Devil’s own artillery.  In fact, when the sound echoed down to Hell, the Devil ordered an audit of his cannon, just to be sure.

As the shattering noise faded away, Quagmire snapped the shotgun open, ejecting the spent shells.  They bing-bonged across the porch.  Whistling lightly, he popped in two reloads and surveyed the silent street.  “Anyone else want to play?”  Nobody made a sound, except for the creaking of Duey’s shoulder, which ain’t a shootin’ offense.  Quagmire shook his head and went inside.

A single crack split the tremulous quiet, followed by a squeaking.  One of the porch roof posts, blown nearly in half by Quagmire’s buckshot round, sagged to the ground, followed by most of the roof.  Majoor popped out from under the porch.  In the distance a dog barked.

Majoor surveyed the devastation.  “Hell,” he muttered, gesturing helplessly.  “My roof!”

Quagmire stepped back out, kicking bits of lumber out of the way.  “Did you hear a dog?”

“Yeah,” replied Majoor, holding out his hands. “Give me that damned cannon.  Then go do your dog catching thing.”

“But . . .” Quagmire clutched his weapon tightly. “I might need this for the dog,” he whined.

“No you don’t,” said Majoor.  “We can’t afford any more home improvements.”

(tbc)

 

[Old Guy]

Ch. 8 - Spaghetti Night at the Symbiotic Saloon

Marshal Sapper met the stranger just outside Graybar City. Sapper touched his hat.  “Howdy.”

“Howdy, Marshal.”  The man leaned to one side and spat.  His horse stood quietly, ears twitching.  “You just comin’ from that there next town?”

“Yep,” replied Sapper.  “Went over to arrest a couple of evil-doers.”

“Sounds like them rotten Raptors.  Did you finish ‘em off?”

Sapper flushed hotly.  “No!  When the gunplay was over they’d lit out for parts unknown!”

“Too bad.  Where’s your horse?  Never seen a marshal on foot before.”

“Well . . . ah . . .” Sapper frowned.  “I don’t rightly know.  Never had one since I been here.”

“Strange . . .”  The man spat again, then took out a green plug of tobacco and bit off a fresh chew.  He didn’t offer any to Sapper.  “Reckon I’ll wander on over to the next town.  What’s the name of it anyway?”

“Name?”  Again Sapper was at a loss.  “Can’t recollect ever hearing it.  Raptor Town?”

The stranger shrugged.  “If that’s what it’s called, it needs re-naming.”  He urged his horse into motion.  “I’ll be at the Symbiotic Saloon,” he called.  “Stop by later and I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Careful, mister,” replied Sapper.  “Them Raptors don’t like horses - nor strangers.”

“That’s okay.”  The man spat, cold-cocking a toad.  “My horse don’t like Raptors neither.”

Sapper watched the stranger ride slowly toward the town, just visible on the horizon.  The man wore dusty gray trousers, faded blue shirt, and leather vest.  His sweat stained hat had once been gray.  He wasn’t wearing a gun.  Sapper shook his head sadly.  More fodder for the Raptors.  Vaguely depressed, he headed for his office.  “I need a little pick-me-up,” he muttered.  “Maybe some sarsaparilla.”  He felt better already.  His pace quickened.  After a drink he’d break out the crayons and draw moustaches on some wanted posters.

Majoor watched the stranger slide off his horse.  There was something familiar about the man.  “Howdy, rough-looking stranger,” said Majoor.  “Reckon you’re unfamiliar with the local inhabitants.  The Raptor gang don’t cotton to horses ever since Monk Raptor encountered a badly behaved carousel pony.”

The man loosened the girth on his saddle.  “I’m familiar with all sorts of pond scum,” he said.  “These Raptors sound like the muck at the bottom of the pond.”  He launched a stream of tobacco juice sideways, smacking a heap of vulture gizzards.

Majoor laughed.  “The Raptors are definitely a medieval type mob.  I only say that because they’re not in town.”

“Of course.”  The stranger took in the sagging porch roof and Majoor’s tools.  “What happened to the roof?”

“Gunplay.  The Raptors and Marshal Sapper had a little misunderstanding this morning.  Sheriff Quagmire put an end to it - and nearly finished off the porch in the process.”

“He finish off any of the Raptors?  That’d be a community enhancement project.”

“No.  I think he’s got a soft spot in his heart for the poor misguided lads.  Product of broken homes, you know.  Sheriff thinks Monk suffers from ADD.  Boy should be on medication.”

The stranger nodded slowly and spat again.  “Speaking of medication - come on inside.  I’ll buy you a beer.”

“Well . . . I really need to finish shoring up this porch, but . . . what the hell!”  Tossing his hammer into the nail bucket, Majoor followed the stranger into the saloon.

Medicine Man and Muskrat were at their usual table in the back corner.  Muskrat was beating Doc at a fast game of tiddly-winks.  Veronica was slumped over the poker table, snoring softly.  Infidel stood at the far end of the bar, nursing a hangover.  Gunner smiled at the stranger.  “What’ll you have, sir?”

“Beer,” said the stranger.  “Beer for the house.”

Instantly, the bar became crowded.  Gunner passed out foaming mugs.  The stranger tossed a gold piece on the bar.  “Keep the beer coming, barkeep.”  That’s when Monk walked in.  Silence fell with a muffled thud.  Regulars edged away from the stranger, skillfully hanging onto their beers.

“What idiot brought a horse into town!”  Monk demanded in a shrill voice.

“The horse is mine,” replied the stranger genially.  “He ain’t for sale.”

Monk purpled.  Easing over to the bar, he asked, “Where’s my beer?”  Gunner hastily drew the nasty little varmint a beer.  Everybody breathed a sigh of relief.

After a deep swig, Monk stood back a little and eyed the stranger up and down.  “I hate horses!” he announced, squeaking just a bit.  “And I don’t like you worth a dang!”

The stranger spat into a handy spittoon.  “Don’t blame you.  Can’t stand myself at times.”

Confused, Monk took another pull on his beer.  Things weren’t going as he expected.  “Well . . . what’s your name?” he asked, stalling for time.

“Bobbit,” said the man.  “My friends call me Cap’n.”

“I ain’t your damn friend!” shrieked Monk, hands brushing the butts of his guns.  “Mr. Bobbit!”  The target of his anger ignored him.  That sent the mean little rat into a snit.  “You’re a coward and . . . and . . . your mother wore . . . aprons!”

Medicine Man and Veronica both like to have died just then, strangling with laughter.  Monk glared around.  Infidel squinted back at him, trying to figure out what was going on.  Duey nodded and raised his beer.  “Go get him, boy!”

Monk turned back to Bobbit.  “Okay, Cap’n.  Pull your pistols and . . .”  He broke off, staring. “You ain’t even got a gun!”  A look of profound wonder crossed his face.  Monk felt about two feet tall and four years old without his matched set of .45 Colts.

“Why do I need a gun?” asked Bobbit.  “You got plenty for both of us.”

Again, Monk glanced around.  No one was laughing.  He frowned, trying to think.  A thin tendril of smoke issued from each ear.  Finally, he sputtered, “What . . . what . . .”  Bobbit deftly plucked one of those dandy Colts out and smacked Monk between the eyes.  Slowly, his eyes crossed, then rolled back and down he went, like a sack of marbles.

“Well . . .” said Bobbit, looking around the room.  “Am I drinking alone?”

Veronica walked over and nudged Monk with one foot.  “What are you going to do when he wakes up?” she asked.

“Hit him again, I suppose.  Unless you want to.”

Majoor stuck out his hand.  “Remember me, Cap’n?  We was together in the 45th Zouaves!”

“You’re mistaken, sir.  I was never in the Zouaves,” replied Bobbit stiffly.

“Okay, Cap’n.  Have it your way.  What are you up to now?”

“I’m a piano salesman,” announced Bobbit.  “I heard you folks had need of a new one.”

“Right,” sighed Majoor.  “Another old veteran reduced to penury and hard taskmasters.”

Nobody knew what the hell the old fart was going on about, so they ignored him.

“I can’t believe it,” crowed Veronica.  “A piano salesman!”  She hugged Bobbit.  “My hero!”

Pushing the madwoman away, Bobbit snarled, “I ain’t no damn hero!”

“Of course you aren’t,” agreed Majoor.  “Anyone can see you’re the anti-hero.”

“Vot he talking about?” asked Muskrat.  “Vot is anteehero?”

Medicine Man shrugged.  “Beats me.  Let’s get some more beer.”

“Damn!” muttered Infidel.  He banged his beer mug (empty) on the bar.  “I can be a hero! Or even an anti-pasta hero!”

“Quiet!” hissed Gunner .  “We’re not talking about sandwiches!”

“Besides,” added Veronica, “you don’t chew.”


Ch. 9 - Sunset at the Symbiotic Saloon

“Whoa!” exclaimed Sapper, gripping the edge of his desk. Another tremor rippled through the building accompanied by a roaring gust of wind. He dropped his crayons and leaped away from the desk, scattering a stack of wanted posters. The unmistakable sound of cascading bricks filled the air. Sapper peered out the window, trying to see what was happening. Through the flying dust and debris, he glimpsed a crumbled ruin where the Territorial Prison had once stood. “Hot dang!” he shouted. “It’s a dad-blamed earthquake and a tornado! All at once!”  Quickly grabbing items he wanted to save, the Marshal headed for the back of the jail, where the stone walls offered better protection. Nails shrieking, the roof vanished and the air came alive with flying dirt, shredded sagebrush and fluttering wanted posters. Sapper crouched in a corner, whining. “Mommy.”

An hour later he dug his way out of the demolished jail.  The prison was gone.  Swallowed up, as it were, right down to the last brick.  Sapper turned slowly.  Not a stick of wood remained standing.  His jail consisted of a heap of rubble.  With a sudden sucking sound, even that heap sank into the earth.  It was as if Graybar City had never been.  A distant crash drew his attention.  He couldn’t see what made the noise, but a haze of dust lay over the next town.  “Uh-oh,” he muttered.  “Either Duey cut a huge one or . . .”  Hatless and clutching his teddy bear, Sapper started walking.

The Symbiotic Saloon was gone, as was everything else.  No café, no hotel.  Even the dead vultures were gone.  Nothing was left, except for a small striped awning pitched in the middle of what had been the main street.  Majoor and Medicine Man sat in the shade, drinking beer.  Neither said anything.  Sapper opened a cooler and collected a beer, then sagged into an empty lawn chair.  “Howdy,” said Medicine Man.

“Howdy,” replied Sapper.  He eyed the other man, lying in the dirt, curled in a ball. “Is that who I think it is?”

“Yep,” said Majoor.  “It’s Monk.  He’s in the final stages of a monumental temper tantrum.”

Sapper nodded.  “Do tell.”  He drank off a good bit of his beer.  “Man!  That’s good.  Where are all the others?”

“Don’t know,” said Medicine Man with a shrug.  “Woke up to a combination hail storm, tornado, earthquake, hurricane, and quicksand situation.  When I got here, Monk was kicking his feet and holding his breath.  Majoor gave me a beer - and here we are.”

Monk scrambled to his feet and stood staring sullenly at the three men.  Without a word, he turned and disappeared, leaving behind only a brief swirl of dust and the lingering scent of brimstone.

“Well,” murmured Sapper.  “That was interesting.  Now what?”

Majoor propped his feet up on a cooler.  “First we finish the beer.”

“And then?”

“Then we go wherever the others went.”

“So . . .”  Medicine Man opened another beer and sighed.  “This is kinda nice.  Quiet and all.”

“Yeah,” agreed Sapper.  “Where do we go from here?”

“I don’t know,” replied Majoor.  “A new location, I guess.  But I’m sure of one thing.”

“What’s that?” chorused the other two, on cue.

“There damn sure better be a piano.”


The End

PS: This is not the End end.  There is at least one more Symbiotic Saloon tale, but I don't have it here.  There may be another one or two as well.  It's been some time since this drivel emerged to sully an innocent world.

 

[Old Guy]

Well, folks are visiting the post, so I assume this stuff is of interest.  Somebody say something!

Here's another little tale involving Purgatory and the Symbiotic Saloon, along with an eclectic mix of characters.

****************************

DEATH DOWN BELOW
JR Hume

A Detective in Purgatory

I wanted to dance.  My feet didn't seem to touch the ground.  I felt like a man does when he's just fallen in love and hasn't yet seen his new heartthrob sitting on the toilet.  You know what I mean.  Before all illusions are smashed and ground underfoot.

So -- I felt good.  Better than I did a few minutes -- hours? -- ago, that's for sure.  Most anything would be an improvement over that.  Imagine me, curled around half a dozen hot slugs, trying to breathe, while a couple goons drag me toward the edge of a pier.  I couldn't recall swallowing any dirty water, so I must have checked out before they dropped me into the bay.  Next thing I know, I'm walking along a gravel road, remembering the taste of warm blood in my mouth and the feel of rough timbers scraping at my back.

But I felt fine -- the way I feel the morning after a three-day binge, when I'm mostly sober and fresh from a hearty meal of dry toast and weak tea.  Light on my feet, like I said.  And ready for a little hair of the dog.

Around me lay a waste of sand and gravel, all in shades of gray.  A dingy town grew closer with each feathery trudge.  It had a broken down, shabby look -- the kind of place where a man might get a shot of whiskey -- or a knife in his ribs.

No sign named it.  The first buildings on either side were boarded up.  I could see the other end of the street and more gray desert not more than two hundred yards ahead.  To say it was a small town was to overstate the case.  The proverbial wide spot in the road takes up more space.

A hotel squatted on the right.  I knew that's what it was because of the faded sign nailed over the door.  'Hotel' it proclaimed, though no town name was mentioned.  I started that way, then noticed a saloon across the street.  Immediately, my pitter-pattering feet veered in that direction.  The establishment even had a name.

The Symbiotic Saloon.

Further down the street, next to the hotel, I saw a hardware store.  Across the street from that was a café.  Cheap Eats Café.  But my feet strayed not from their righteous path.  I fairly danced across the porch and through the batwing doors.

And stopped.

Death stood at the bar, one boot hooked over the foot rail.  There were others in the room, but I saw only him at that moment.  I knew who it was, no question.  The thought that I might be dead began percolating through my skull.  I slid back a step.  No good.  He grinned and beckoned me forward.  "Pour my friend a drink."

A gray-haired man placed a glass on the bar and filled it with amber liquid.  I could not resist the siren call of booze.  As I bellied up, the bartender handed me a pack of cigarettes.  "I think that's your brand," he said.

They were indeed.  Crottin Cheval, the unfiltered coffin nails I'd learned to smoke during the Big War.  The barkeep lit a match.  I took a long drag.

Nothing much happened.  The wave of good feeling I'd ridden into town began to slop around my ankles.  Smoke drifted up from my chest.

"Here," said Death.  "Let me fix those holes."  He made a negligent gesture. 

Fire stroked my guts and ribs.  I tried to scream and emitted a girly squeal.  Hot irons probed parts inside me that weren't intended for that sort of thing.  Something clunked against the back of my head.  It was the floor. 

A century or two later the pain slid out of my sniveling hide and dribbled through cracks between the floorboards.  It took several minutes of struggle and pig-like grunting to lever myself back up to the bar.  I was still holding the cigarette. 

Two drinks and as many smokes later, I felt more like my old self -- prior to the infusion of lead and that little trip off the dock.

Death tossed something on the bar.  Five bloody, deformed slugs rattled to a stop beside my whiskey glass.  Five.  The gunsel who shot me had a revolver.  He must have missed once.

"I can always put those back," said Death.  I began to sweat.

The Reaper laughed.  I was surprised.  It was a wheezing kind of laugh -- with not a single cackle or menacing tone.  In fact, it sounded kind of asthmatic.  He nodded toward the bartender.  "Old Guy runs this place.  He'll help you with the case."

My detective paranoia returned -- a few hours too late.  Whatever possessed me to meet crime lord and arch fiend Danjanou down on the docks?  "What case?"

Death was not to be hurried.  "Old Guy, this clown is -- was -- a busted-down private detective and drunk named Mike."

I stuck out my hand and smiled at the barkeep.  "Mike . . ."  My tongue clove to the roof of my mouth.  No lie.  I never knew what 'clove to the roof of' meant until it happened.  Not a sound escaped.  Nor did any air come in.  When the room started to spin, all thoughts of my last name vanished.  My tongue unstuck.  I stood there gasping like a fish on a flat rock. 

"You don't have a last name anymore," said Death.  "Forget it."

And just like that, I forgot it.

Death produced his creaky old man wheeze.  "See how easy it is?"

Easy for him.  I knocked back another shot -- to clear my head.  Then I noticed the bimbo on Death's arm.  How did I know she was a bimbo?  Easy.  The lady was blonde, had boobs the size of grapefruit and wore a dress consisting of at least two ounces of fabric.  Bimbo.

My old smooth self came to life.  "You gonna introduce me to the tomato?"

"This is Pookie," said Death, with another wheezy chuckle.  I could get damn tired of that noise.  The blonde winced, as if in pain.

"Never mind about Pookie."  Death glanced at the woman.  She gave him a quick smile -- the kind of lip spasm a woman gives a guy who ain't been nice to her.  Ordinarily the sight of a damsel in distress brings out the palooka in shining armor in me -- but not this time.  I mean, this was Death, not some wimpy shipping clerk who likes to punch his old lady.  Too bad for Pookie.  I didn't want to collect any more bullets.

"So -- you mentioned a case?"  I avoided looking at the blonde, which was damn difficult.

"Murder," said Death.  "A murder right here in Purgatory."

Now I know Purgatory is a place in Utah, but that gravel and sand outside didn't look much like Utah.  I was cool.  "Pu -- Pu -- Pu -- "

"Pur-ga-tor-y," said Old Guy.  He spelled it out.  "The place where sinners go to expiate less serious sins before they are wafted up to Heaven."  The way he said it confused me, mostly because I had no idea what 'expiate' meant.  But it didn't matter.  The nuns in grade school had pounded enough religion into me that I got the drift of the situation.

Panic threatened to overwhelm me.  I barely managed to keep from bolting.  Two things kept me there by the bar.  I squeal like a girl when I run off in a panic and, as near as I could tell, there was no place to go.  A calming mantra helped a little.  Oshit-Oshit-Oshit-Oshit.

Might as well play detective.  A quick swallow of booze and a long drag on my cigarette and I was ready.  "S-so -- t-tell m-me about this mu-murder?  Who got wh-wh-whacked?" 

"Guy named Duey," said Old Guy.  "Petty thief, grifter, card shark, second story man.  Not very good at anything, except in his own mind."

I shook my head.  The whole Purgatory/Hell thing was still kinda murky.  "So what do you care that he got bumped off?  Sounds like he was headed for the Lower Forty anyway."

"No," said Death.  "His chances for Paradise were slim, to be sure, but he could have redeemed himself."  The Reaper smiled.  "If Duey were truly evil, he would have gone direct to where he could learn plate tectonics from the bottom up."

Old Guy and Pookie must of heard that one before, but they laughed anyway.  So did I.  Death's sense of humor was like mine -- best appreciated by a group half in the bag.

"Well," I asked, "why not just get Duey back?  Start the lad's Purgatory servitude all over again."  I liked the sound of that phrase.  Purgatory servitude.  It would impress my friends.  Too bad I didn't have any.

Old Guy answered.  He seemed to know all the angles, that old fart did.  "The lawyers are working on it.  We will surely get him back, but that could take decades -- centuries.  Duey's probably chipping furnace clinkers.  A little time in Hell might improve his outlook, but we ought to get him back as soon as we can.  If we find the killer we can make a straight swap."

I tried a joke.  "Lawyers?  Where did you get lawyers?  I figured them all for Hell."

Nobody laughed, except me. 

"The good ones are all in Hell," admitted Death.  "That's why it takes so long to get any action out of the court system."

For the first time, I noticed the other men in the room.  There were five -- three playing cards at a beige-topped table, one asleep on a bench in the back, and one slouched at the far end of the bar.  None were paying the slightest attention to Death, Old Guy, me or Pookie.

Now I ain't much to look at and Old Guy was an ordinary sort, but Death's getup should have attracted attention.  His black Raiders cap wasn't unusual, nor would anyone look twice at the black boots and jeans.  I gotta tell you though, his long black duster and well-worn scythe marked him as unusual, to say the least.  That paraphernalia, taken with his pale skin and glowing red eyes made old Death stand out in any size gathering.

Then, of course, there was Pookie.  No red-blooded guy could avoid running appreciative eyes over that figure -- not if he was still breathing.  No sirree.  There was magic at work in that room.  Death had 'em all under a spell -- no doubt about it.  My suspicions were hardly formed when things changed.

Old Guy glanced at Death and received a slight nod.  An instant later, one of the card players called for two cards, the sleeper in the back farted, and the guy at the end of the bar raised his empty glass.  "Hit me again."

The bartender eased down that way, bottle in hand.  "Von Garvin, meet Mike.  He's going to look into Duey's murder.  Mike, this here's von Garvin.  He fancies himself a gunfighter."

Von Garvin nodded, but kept silent.  He didn't look much like a gunslinger, in spite of the Colt hanging at his hip.  I've known a couple of bald, pudgy shooters, so that wasn't the problem.  No, it was the light pink shirt embroidered with purple daisies.  A shirt like that just don't look right on a cold-eyed killer. 

Old Guy went on with the introductions.  "The drunk in the back is Inch.  He only wakes up to drink, so he's not a likely suspect."

"I'll be the judge of that," I said.  After all, if Old Guy was a detective they wouldn't have brought me in on the case, right?

"That's Doc Majoor sitting at the far side of the table.  The gent with his back to us is Sapper."  Majoor nodded in response and Sapper turned around and touched his hat.  The other player slapped his cards down and sat back, pouting.

"The sniveling card player is Colin," said Old Guy.  "He's just learning to play five card draw.  So far the lessons have been expensive."

"This can't be all that's in Purgatory," I said.

Death glanced at Old Guy.  "Quick, ain't he?"

The old fart laughed.  I could easily get to dislike Old Guy.

"What's so funny?"

The Reaper lit a slim black cigar.  "Your reputation precedes you, Mike.  As a detective, your skills amounted to skirt chasing and draining whiskey bottles.  I'm amazed you figured out that Purgatory must contain multitudes."

I felt my face grow red.  It's always embarrassing when someone praises your abilities.

"The dead drift in and out," said Old Guy.  "And Purgatory is everywhere and nowhere, all at once.  There are other small towns," he made a vague gesture, "somewhere out there.  The thousands and millions of ordinary sinners are paying for their pedestrian sins in whatever way their own brand of religion prescribed."

"True," said Death.  "But irrelevant.  Mike only need worry about those who were here at the time of Duey's -- ah -- murder -- death -- second death."  He wheezed again.  "Obviously, we have a problem with definitions.  Duey was dead when he got here."

I slapped a quick rhythm on the bar.  "Duey was de-e-ead when he got here.  Sounds like a good beginning for a country song."  Nobody laughed.  Pookie winced.

"That is a problem," agreed Old Guy.  He looked at von Garvin.  "What do you think?  Is it murder to kill a dead guy?"

"A philosophical conundrum for sure," mused von Garvin.  "Can one be deader than dead?  Is death a wave or particle?  If a dead man gets killed in a forest . . ."  The gunfighter sighed and shook his head.  "We need a semantics guide."

"Never mind that crap!" snapped Death.  "I exist outside of space and time.  'Neither wave nor particle be', as a famous minion once said.  I am but a doorway . . ."  He glared at von Garvin.  "Now you've got me doing it!"

Old Guy held up both hands.  "Let's just state, for the record, that Duey was murdered."

"I so state," said Death.

The only sound for a minute or so was the slap of cards.

I broke first.  "Okay.  Duey is dead.  I guess the next step is for me to interview the witnesses and then talk to everyone else who could be involved.  Do you have a list?"

Death nodded.  "Good.  Good.  Mike's ready to play detective."  He wheezed again.  Pookie and I both cringed.  Again a wheeze.  Pookie dumped her handbag on the bar.  The Reaper grabbed an inhaler and took a shot.  I was amazed.  Death had asthma.

It took two shots to get him back to normal -- normal for him, I mean.

He handed me a list of names written in fancy cursive.  "These are the souls who were here when Duey met his -- ah -- his end.  None have left and I have blocked this section of Purgatory to new arrivals.  One of those is the killer.  Unless . . ."  Death hesitated.  "Nah, that ain't very likely.  Start with the list."

It was a short list.  Besides the six men in the bar, there were only four other names.  Pookie's name wasn't on the list.  Neither was Death's.  I pointed that out.

"I wasn't here.  And Pookie had no motive."

I opened my mouth, then shut it.  If Death wanted someone dead, he took care of it and nobody asked any questions.  Pookie, on the other hand.  Oooooo, I'd like to get her on my hands!  I decided to interview her later, when Death might be off on errands.

He may have read my mind.  "I'll be here until you catch the killer.  I have minions to run things until I get back."  Thoughts of me and Pookie evaporated.

I changed the subject.  "Where did the killing take place?"

Old Guy pointed toward the batwing doors.  "There.  Just inside the doors.  Duey was coming in for his nightly dozen."

Well, jeez.  This ought to be simple.  "Who was here?"

"I was.  Inch was sleeping in the back -- where he is now.  von Garvin was playing cards with Doc Majoor and Sapper."

"That's all?  Where was -- ah, what's his name? -- Colin?"

Old Guy frowned.  "I don't know.  You'll have to ask him."

"What about Pookie?"

"She was with me," snarled Death.  "I told you -- she has no motive."

"Pookie didn't know the -- uh, the deceased?"

"Oh, she knew him.  He'd been in Purgatory a long time.  But she had no reason to kill him."  Death gave me a nasty look.  "I think I've said that several times now."

"Okay.  Okay.  I get your drift.  Where can I interview folks?"

Old Guy nodded toward the back of the room.  "That hallway leads to the rear door.  We have a store room on the right and a small office on the left.  Use the office."

I waved the list.  "What about the others -- the ones who ain't here?"

"You'll have to run them down.  They won't be far away.  Who do you want first?"

"How about you?  Were you here when the murder took place?"

"Sure.  I was behind the bar -- as usual."  Old Guy looked around.  "Who wants to tend bar for a few minutes?"

"I'll do it," said Death.  Old Guy reluctantly handed over his wiping rag and followed me to the back.

"Some problem with Death minding the bar?" I asked.

"Oh -- he does all right.  It's mostly a beer and shot crowd.  We seldom have to mix anything more complex than a rum and coke."  Old Guy glanced back.  "He has a hell of a time making change, though."

"That's funny.  You'd think Death would have a good head for figures."

"Oh, he has a head for figures.  Just not the numerical kind."


To Die in Purgatory

Old Guy settled in behind his desk and lit a cigar.  He didn't offer me one.  I examined the office as I fished for a cigarette.

It was a cozy place, with book shelves lining the wall behind his desk.  In one corner a set of deeper shelves jutted into the room.  Those were piled with scrolls.  Yellow and tattered, the scrolls looked very old.  In fact, everything in the office bore the stamp of time.

Tall filing cabinets occupied the wall opposite his desk -- wooden cabinets dark with stain and age.  Each file drawer face sported a faded yellow label with neat, printed script I couldn't read.  I blinked.  The letters seemed to crawl into slightly different configurations.  My stomach lurched.  Probably it was the booze.

Paintings and photographs crowded the wall above the cabinets.  Some were old.  Some were very, very old.  Various people crowded the images, yet one face seemed to be present in each one.  Old Guy.  I looked around.  He was watching me, a bored expression on his face.

"Relatives?" I asked, indicating the pictures.

He nodded.  "A few of the folks you see are related.  Some to me."

His answer told me nothing.  I stepped closer to the cabinets and studied a painting.  A single armored man stood in the center of forest scene, one foot propped on a pile of obviously dead men.  Whiskey has rotted a lot of my brain cells, but I recognized the plumed helmet and armor of a Roman soldier -- a centurion I supposed.  Some of the bodies bore hacked scale armor -- others appeared to have depended on over-lapping layers of riveted leather for protection.  The central figure brandished a bloody short sword and held a plain shield at his side.  Old Guy's stern visage glared out of the painting, his gaze directed over my left shoulder, as if more enemies were in view.

"The artist took certain liberties," said Old Guy.  He blew a smoke ring at the ceiling.  "I can't remember ever propping my foot on a pile of dead Germans.  Not at that time anyway."  He waved me to an antique chair.  "Take a load off.  Tell me what you need to know."

He wasn't going to explain about the old photographs and paintings.  I sank into the chair and took out a notebook.  "Who the hell are you?"

"It doesn't matter.  Shall I describe what I saw the night Duey was -- ah, murdered?"

"Okay.  I'll play along.  But you'll have to tell me what your -- um, something about who you are -- what you do.  It's standard procedure."

"Very little is standard around this place, Mike."  He shrugged.  "Suffice it to say that I run the bar -- the Symbiotic Saloon.  I also live here.  Everyone has to have a place to store the inevitable junk one accumulates over time.  This is my place."

I wasn't going to get much more -- not on purpose.  "So tell me what happened to Duey."

Old Guy leaned on his elbows, eyes focused on nothing -- at least on nothing I could see.  "It was strange.  He came through the batwing doors and stopped -- as if he'd run into a wall or something.  Then he started dancing and hollering."

"Dancing?  What kind of dancing?"

"Not ballroom dancing.  Not like anything I've seen before.  Legs flying, arms flailing and such wailing!  Kind of like he was being electrocuted, bitten by serpents and calling hogs -- all at the same time."

"How long did this display go on?"

"Hmm.  Ten -- fifteen seconds.  Seemed longer.  Duey has -- had -- an awful voice.  Not over twenty seconds, I think.  Then he collapsed.  By the time I got to him, he was dead."

I paused, tapping my pencil on the notebook.  "Dead?  How does a dead man become a murder victim?  I'm having problems with Death and Purgatory and -- well, all of it."

"This is no time to get into the religious aspects of the Afterlife, Mike.  Your own experience will enlighten you -- have no fear of that.  You and Duey are a lot alike."

Ice crawled into my gut.  I began to sweat again.  "How am I like this Duey guy?"  My words came out in a squeak.

Old Guy smiled tolerantly.  I hated him.  "Duey committed no murder.  Nor did he do any of the few other things that earn one a trip direct to the furnaces of Hell.  His crimes involved too much strong drink and a weakness for the embraces of his neighbor's wife."  Old Guy grinned.  "There were many entries in his records concerning quarts of cooking oil, plastic sheeting and several females of bad repute."

I swallowed, trying to clear the dust in my throat.  Certain memories flooded back.  After a fit of coughing, I managed to speak again.  "How do you know all this?  What records?"

He laughed and handed me a cold beer.  "Here.  Drink up.  And don't worry.  A few hundred years in Purgatory will clear your slate."

I guzzled half the bottle at one go.  "But -- how do you know?"

"Mike, the business of the Afterlife requires a sizeable bureaucracy.  You didn't think the whole affair could run on the wave of a righteous hand or flick of a forked tail, did you?"

"Well -- I don't think -- I mean . . ."  My mind darted around like a trapped rat.

"Some, like me, are servants of the Afterlife Corporation.  We've been around since -- well, since the Beginning.  Others are contract workers.  We bid out some services."

I nodded slowly.  It was too much to take in all at once.  "You actually request bids for -- ah -- for services?"

"Of course.  Major companies bid on the work.  The Afterlife pays well -- and on time."

"Right.  Right."  A horrible feeling rose up in my chest.  "Who?  I mean -- what company has the contracts now?"

"Halliburton, of course.  Who else?"

I cackled with glee.  "God.  I know some Democrats who would love to know that."

He laughed again.  "Let's get on with the murder investigation.  Okay?"

Yes, we were back to that.  I clamped my jaws shut, closing in a wave of panic and maniacal laughter.  I had to investigate the killing of a dead man.  A thought occurred to me.  "What about the body?  I'll need to see the body."

Old Guy shook his head mournfully.  "No body.  When folks die in Purgatory their -- ah, remains vanish away -- cease to exist.  Even a corpse steeped in booze, as Duey's was, simply wafts into the empty places between planes of existence."

I thrust away a sudden vision of bodies being sucked into black voids.  My mind was in bad enough shape without the intrusion of stark insanity.  I stared at my notes.  "So -- so this Duey fellow danced and sang and dropped down dead -- then disappeared?"

"That's about it, though it stretches the imagination to call his gyrations 'dancing', or to label that hellish caterwauling 'singing', but there it is."  Old Guy stood up walked to the door.  "Who shall I send in next?"

"Um -- I -- ah, send in that von Garvin guy.  The gunfighter."

"I know who von Garvin is."  He went out, thankfully leaving the door part way open.  I didn't want to be closed up inside that ancient horror of a room, even though the elderly bureaucrat was no longer in it with me.  On impulse, I slipped around the desk and sat in Old Guy's chair.  At Gumshoe School they taught us to take control of the situation, especially when interviewing suspects.  I hadn't been much in control so far.  It was time to let these dead bozos know who was boss.  The chair was identical to the other one.

I opened the right hand drawer, hoping to find a cache of cigars.  Instead, two bottles of Old Stump Blower lay cradled in a riot of papers, gum wrappers, and empty cartridge boxes.  A delighted squeak escaped me as I reached for a bottle.

Something popped.  Pain shot up my arm.  A tiny horned demon hopped out of the dark recesses of the drawer and pointed a pitchfork at me.  "'ands orf!" he cried.  "Keeps yer bleedin' 'ands off this 'ere booze!"

"Sorry," I mumbled, sucking on my sore fingers.  "Sorry."  I used a knee to push the drawer shut.  von Garvin walked in just then.

"Been at the old bastard's booze, eh?"  He chuckled and displayed a series of scars on his hands.  "Won't do you any good.  I've tried.  That damned guardian never sleeps."  von Garvin sat down in the chair I'd recently vacated, laughing all the while.

So much for showing the bozos who was boss.  I flipped my notebook open and gripped a pencil in my throbbing hand.  "You were in the bar the night Duey was killed?"

"I was playing cards with Majoor and Sapper."  He described events leading up to Duey's death in much the same terms as Old Guy had.  I wondered if they'd discussed the case.  Most certainly they had.  Death would have gone over the same ground before realizing he needed a professional and called me in on the case.  A sudden spasm of anger washed over me.  What if my foolish trip down to the docks to meet Skipper Thrift was instigated by the Reaper, all because he required a detective in Purgatory?  I took a deep breath and shoved the anger aside.  Nothing I could do about my demise, even if my suspicions were correct.

Besides, I hadn't been doing all that well as a gumshoe.  My office was a rat's nest at the back of an old warehouse.  I had no secretary.  Such clients as came my way were all too often fat harridans looking to squeeze a few more dollars out of an ex-husband.  I had yet to encounter the fabled big-breasted blonde with easy morals and too much money.

Fantasy waned.  I had a murder to solve.  "Any idea who might have killed Duey?"

Von Garvin shrugged.  "He was a decent sort, for a drunk.  Duey had been here a long, long time.  Death is a way out of Purgatory.  Perhaps it was a mercy killing."

I hadn't considered that angle.  "That's in interesting thought.  How long was he in for?"

"An indeterminate stretch, just like the rest of us.  Certain conditions have to be met.  Regret, you know, and admission of guilt.  That sort of thing."  The purported gunfighter smiled.  "I never knew exactly what his crimes were.  It's considered bad manners to ask."

So only Old Guy knew what brought folks to Purgatory -- at least, he claimed to know.  "All right," I said.  "I won't ask what brought you here.  I'll probably have more questions, once I've talked to everyone."

"You won't find answers at the bottom of a bottle," he said, sneering.  "As for me -- my so-called crimes were those of pride and ambition.  Jealousy brought me here.  Pure jealously."

Jealousy?  I had a sudden feeling that old von Garvin was going to be in Purgatory a good while.  As for his attitude toward drinking, I'd seen that oh-so-superior expression on countless faces before.  Doctors, wives, friends, cops.  Perfect strangers lifting my sodden carcass out of an ice choked gutter.  Same wry look, same inane comment.  "Are you sick, or just drunk?"

Both, I'd always say.  Except I usually couldn't talk.

I shook off the pleasant memories.  "Send in Sapper."

He was back before I had time to explore any other desk drawers.

"You probably better come out here," he said.  "Colin's been murdered."

"Colin!  The bad card player?"

"The same."  He gave me a malicious grin.  "He was a jerk.  Everyone here hated him -- except maybe Old Guy -- and Inch, of course.  I'm not sure Inch even knows he's in Purgatory.  A kindred spirit to you, sir.  Stays drunk all the time."

I followed von Garvin back out to the bar room.  My mind was in turmoil.  Colin, dead?  Was it another singing, dancing death?  Why had he been such a bad card player?  How can I get even with von Garvin for his sneering comments?  And what about Pookie?  Death insists she had no motive to kill Duey.  Did she harbor any grudges against Colin?  More important -- did she have plenty of dough and round heels?

Is she the fabled blonde?

(tbc)

 

[navymich]

Well, folks are visiting the post, so I assume this stuff is of interest.  Somebody say something!

I didn't want to say anything here and disrupt the tale which is why I had sent you a PM a few days ago, lavishing praise for your writing!  I am enjoying it immensely.

 

[Old Guy]

Navymich,

Comments don't disrupt anything unless someone pulls a thread-jacking.  It's nice to know how people react to seeing how I characterize them in these little tales.  No one has ever threatened bodily harm.  I've had several people swear I must have a video camera hidden in their home. 

No video cameras, nothing up my sleeve, no smoke and mirrors.  Just plain old baloney.

Jim

 

[Old Guy]

Bar Hound

The first thing I noticed was the stink.  Burned jock straps smell like that.  Don't ask me how I know.

Old Guy must have noticed my odd look.  "It's brimstone."  I was glad I hadn't blurted out anything concerning torched jock straps.  He handed over a slim, black cigarillo.  "Light up one of these.  It kills the smell."

"What happened?  Von Garvin said Colin had been whacked."

"Something like that.  Anyway, he's gone.  And he may not be the only one."  He nodded toward the front of the room.  Death sat at a corner table, Pookie at his side.  He was talking on a cell phone and the conversation wasn't a happy one.

"We were gathering everyone here," said Old Guy.  "You know -- so they'd be handy for your questioning.  Colin was right here at the bar, complaining that the beer was too warm."

I took a shallow drag off the little cigar.  The things were vile, but they did eliminate the brimstone odor.  "Was Colin always complaining?"

"Oh, yeah.  But that was just his nature.  A natural born whiner."

"So . . ."  I noticed there were extra folks in the room.  "I don't know all these people."

"Right."  Old Guy waved three rogues in our direction.  He made introductions.  "Ruxpin, Monk and Gunner.  Three good lads, save for some minor problems with the commandments, especially in reference to coveting of various things.  This here is Mike.  He's been brought in to figure out who rubbed out Duey.  And now Colin."

The three lowbrows murmured the usual insincere pleasantries and retired to the card table, where Doc Majoor and Sapper had a game going.

"Tell me what happened to Colin," I said.

"He didn't sing or dance, that's for sure.  Just stopped -- in mid-complaint -- and said, quite plainly, 'Running Dog Imperialist Warmonger'.  Then he collapsed, like a cartoon character.  As if someone let the air out of him."

I stubbed out the horrid cigar.  "I think my taste buds are dead now.  Did Colin habitually spout such nonsensical phrases?"

"Naw.  At least -- I don't think so.  We could seldom really understand what he was saying beyond the usual 'beer too cold' and stuff like that.  I never heard him speak that way before."

"He said that line then collapsed?"

Old Guy nodded.  "And that's when the room began to stink of brimstone."  He frowned.  "I think I caught a whiff of that after Duey did his thing too.  But he was right in front of the doors.  If there was a puff of brimstone smell, a lot of it might have drifted outside."

"You spoke of another possible victim?"

"Shep.  You ain't met him either.  Couple guys looked in all his usual hidey holes and found nothing.  Nada.  Not a trace." 

I looked around.  Two men killed in plain sight.  One probably rubbed out elsewhere.  None of it made sense.  I looked at Old Guy.  "What should I do?"

"Interview the rest of the guys.  I don't think you're going to find anything, but you might as well go through the motions.  Death is calling in some markers.  He may find something -- or he may not."

I set up at a table in the back and interviewed each man in turn.  The results were exactly as Old Guy foretold.  Nada.  Every witness told the same tale.  They saw nothing much and knew nothing at all about murder and brimstone.  Whatever was going on had them spooked, but their response was to put on a truculent attitude and order more beer.  Task completed, I went back to the bar, intending to puzzle over my notes and take on a load of booze.

Death upset my plans -- as he does with most folks.

Old Guy saw him coming and put a fresh beer on the bar.  The Reaper drank off a goodly quantity before he spoke.

"I found 'em.  O'Leary and Colin are shoveling magma down in Hell Nine.  The admin staff down there admit they can find no record of the transfers -- just like when Duey went down the chute.  But they won't release them without a court order."  He twisted gnarled hands together.  "I wish I knew what this was all about."

I put my notebook away and essayed a joke.  "I can't help you with motive and method, but I can tell you what it isn't about."  I paused for dramatic effect.  Old Guy and Death waited.  A smidgen of common sense tried to curb my tongue -- and failed.  "Well," I continued, grand hand gesture and all, "it ain't about oil."

Old Guy said something filthy.

Death smiled.  It was not a pleasant sight.  He wheezed his wheezy laugh.  "A sense of humor can be a deadly thing.  You're not out of this case.  Not yet."

"But -- what can I do?"

"Legwork.  You and Old Guy.  We still don't know what happened to our guys.  Something or someone snatched them down to Hell for no reason."  Death turned his mad red eyes in my direction.  "Who's next?"

Old Guy wiped at a spot on the bar.  He was not happy with the situation.  I could tell.  He'd already polished that same spot at least five times.  "What do you want us to do?"

"Everyone stays in the bar," said Death.  "I've put a dissonance field in place.  Anything comes in or out of this room will be visible -- regardless of it's normal state."

I looked at Old Guy.  "He lost me.  I mean, he was speaking English and all -- but he left me back at the post."

He tossed his bar rag aside.  "Hell creatures are normally out of phase with us.  That's a fancy term that means they're invisible to our eyes.  And not just invisible.  We can't hear, taste or smell them either."  He tapped his nose.  "Though they sometimes leave a small essence -- in the form of brimstone stink."

A bit of light leaked in.  "So if one comes in -- we'll see it?"

"Exactly," said Death.  "Though we won't be able to stop whatever demon or hellion it might be.  I have no dominion over Hell creatures."

"But . . ."  Various scenarios flashed in my mind -- all horrid.  "What's the point?"

"Once we've seen the critter," said Old Guy.  "Then we can follow it back to Hell.  Find out who sent it.  Maybe put a stop to the deaths."

A whole host of objections sprang into being.  "Yeah, but . . ."

Death silenced me with a glance.  "Don't worry.  Chances are pretty good that I can get you back.  Better than even, in fact."

I started to scream then, but my yammering senses froze solid as a gaping hole appeared in the floor.  Flames flickered at the edge of the hole.  A huge black hound rose up into the room, as if riding an elevator.  The beast surveyed the waiting crowd with sad, yellow eyes.

"Uh-oh," the thing rumbled.  "This ain't good." 

Someone shrieked in horror.  I don't think it was me.  The hound moved with blinding speed.  Another shriek.  Old Guy was over the bar.  His hand gripped my arm.  He dragged me toward the hole.  This time I did scream.  A vast dark shape loomed close, then began to drop down.  The edges of the hole started to retreat.

"Come on," cried Old Guy.  "He's getting away!"

I felt Death's bony hand on my back.  He pushed.  Old Guy pulled.

Fire brushed my face.  I spoke several liturgical phrases. 

We fell into blackness.  A pair of yellow eyes peered up at me, then winked out.

"Relax!" yelled Old Guy.  "There's no danger -- until we get to the bottom!"

That was when I pissed myself.


The Rounding Error

"Careful," said Old Guy, guiding me around a bent, twisted wretch scrubbing the floor.

I shuddered as we passed the poor creature.  The thing glanced our way with soulful, suffering eyes, then bent back to its task -- rubbing the heated iron floor plates with a well worn toothbrush. 

"Don't waste any sympathy on that one," snarled Old Guy.

"Why?  What did he do to deserve that kind of punishment?"

For once, the old fart's cool demeanor deserted him.  "Do!?  What did he do!?  Tortured millions of innocent parents -- that's all!  Ooooo!  If I had time I'd go back and kick him a few times."  His hands formed claws encircling an imaginary neck.  "Don't get me started!"

I was at a loss.  "But -- who is he?"

"Only the guy that invented billions of kids' favorite TV character."

Comprehension dawned.  A low growl rose in my throat.  I stopped and glared murder back at the worthless bastard.  "You don't mean the creator of Bar . . ."  Old Guy clamped a hand over my mouth.

"Don't speak that name aloud," he hissed.

I struggled in his grasp.  "Let me go!  He doesn't deserve a toothbrush!  I want him to suffer!  Suffer!"  The foul fiend bent to his work, shivering in spite of the heat. 

"He suffers.  After he cleans a mile or so of floor plates, they lock him in a room for a month of videos, all starring his hideous creation.  Oh -- he suffers."

Old Guy dragged me away from the nasty, misbegotten worm, still busy with his far too lenient punishment.  Sanity slowly returned.  After a few yards I wrenched myself free.

"Where are we going?" I asked.  "How far is it?"

"The Accounting Office.  It's just around the bend."

The black stone walls gave way to windows coated with coal dust and dried sweat and vain hope, all leached into grisly patterns on acid-etched surfaces.  Beyond the glass I glimpsed vast angular shadows, not unlike the saurian shapes of working oil wells.  Interspersed were glowing dynamos and towering cubes lit from within by a leprous glow.

I stared like a yokel in Times Square.  "Cool.  What kinda setup is that?"

"That's the computer room."

"No!  All that machinery is a computer?"

"Of course.  What did you expect in Hell?  A box with IBM stenciled on it?"

"Well . . ."  For all I knew, my office computer might contain gizmos just like those in Hell's computer room -- only smaller.  That would explain a lot about how it frustrated and enraged me.  Not to mention the electricity it consumed.

We stepped into a huge cavern lit by flaring torches set high on the walls.  Old Guy led me around to the right.  "The office is this way.  You don't want to get anywhere near the sorting pens."  He snickered.  "Not yet."

The cavern floor held multitudes of wailing sinners arranged in endless lines, snaking back and forth.  It looked just like the setup at my local theater complex.  In fact, a couple of the goons cracking whips over the sniveling hordes looked familiar.

Old Guy stopped in front of a rusty iron door.  "Here we are.  Let's step inside and see what mischief my old pal Wallace is up to."

I hung back.  "Who is this Wallace?"

"The chief bookkeeper.  Bean counter honcho.  Come on."

Wallace proved to be a twisted dwarf, with purple hide and beady orange eyes.  One glance told me he was not born of woman.

"Well, well," he cackled as Old Guy dragged me into the office.  "Is this an offering?"  A dozen or so tattered-looking bats hung along one wall.  They tittered and squeaked whenever the sawed-off purple horror spoke.

My guide laughed immoderately.  "This is Mike.  He's a detective and he helped me track a little problem to your very own doorstep, Wally."

The little monster muttered something I didn't understand.  One of the bats fell dead and I didn't feel so good myself.

Old Guy clotted Wallace on the ear.  "Knock it off!  We ain't working for the IRS."  I felt better right away.  I'm not sure why.  Maybe the dwarf stopped sending a sicky-poo spell in my direction -- or maybe it was because I was so glad not to be mixed up with the IRS.

Before any other witty remarks were passed, a big black hound blundered through the door.  The card player known as Sapper was clamped in his jaws.  The animal gave a kind of doggy shrug and dropped his burden.  "I didn't sign on for no complications," moaned the hound.  "I'm outta here."  He vanished, leaving an eye-watering dose of brimstone behind.

"Blast!" cried Wallace.  "He wasn't supposed to bring that carrion here!  I'll get a couple helpers and have it hauled away."

Old Guy collared the purple ninny and dragged him back.  "This here carrion is one of the reasons I'm down in this flaming paradise instead of drinking a nice cool MGD."

"MGD?  You drink that swill?"  Obviously, old Wallace was anxious to change the subject, though he had a good point there -- about the swill and all.

"Never mind about my beer," grumped Old Guy.  "Let's talk about your accounts and why some of my clientele have been forcibly dragged off to the magma caverns."

"Magma caverns?  Dragged off?"

"Don't play footsie with me, Wally."  Old Guy grinned.  "I think you have a little problem with the books.  Eh?"

Wallace paled.  "The books?" he squeaked.  "What books?"

Old Guy nodded.  "Okay.  Come on, Mike.  Let's go see the Chief Clerk."

"Wait!  Wait!"  The dwarf, now nearly pink, clutched at Old Guy.  "I can explain!"

"So get to explaining."  Old Guy sat down.  I found a chair opposite the now silent bats.  Sapper jerked suddenly and sat up.

"Where in the Hell am I?" he yelled.

"The Accounting Office," said Old Guy.

"The what?"  Sapper looked around.  "The where?"  He caught sight of Wallace and scrambled over next to me.  "The who?"

"Never mind," I said.  "The purple critter is going to explain how you got here."

"It's this new computer system," whined Wallace.  "The numbers don't come out right.  No matter what we do, at the end of each month we're always short a couple sinners."

Sapper tugged at my sleeve.  "It sounds like a rounding error."

"Be quiet.  What do you know about computers?"

"Not much.  But I know the damn things are dumb.  You ever seen a robot assembly line in operation?"

I shook my head.  "Never been near one."  Anything to do with an assembly line looked too much like work.

"Start it doing a bad move and a computer controlled robot will keep doing the same thing over and over and over."  Sapper shook his head.  "Kinda like me and all them wives."

"Forget your wives," said Old Guy.  "Tell me about this rounding error."

"Yeah," agreed Wallace.  "If we can fix this problem, I might move up to Auditor."

"You need tech support," said Sapper.  "I don't know nothing about code."

"Argh!" cried Wallace.  He cursed again in that strange language.  "Tech support!  Those guys are evil!"  Two more bats hit the floor.

Old Guy took out his cell phone.  "Never mind.  I'll get help from the contract outfit."

And that's all it took.  The Halliburton guy fixed Wallace's bad code in a few minutes.  On the way out he swept the floor, organized all the paperwork, and gathered up the dead bats.  Those guys can do anything.

"What about the other victims?" I asked as we headed for the elevator.

"They're already back at the saloon," said Old Guy.  "There are several ways to get there from Hell."  He grinned.  "And vice-versa."

I ignored the jibe.  "We going back the same way we came down?"

"Yeah.  Why?"

I snarled and flexed my hands.  "I wanna work over the fiend scrubbing floor plates."

Sapper looked at me kinda strange.  "What floor plate scrubber?  And why do you want to beat him up?"

So we told him.  He started foaming at the mouth and ran all the way to the elevator.  We never saw the floor plate cleaner.  His month in the video chamber must have started while we was fiddling around in Wallace's office.

I was heartbroke.  Breaking that nitwit's toothbrush would of been good -- real good.


End*

*This is actually the End, end.  I don't have any more Symbiotic Saloon tales in my files.
The next story will be posted separately.  Look for "The Incredible Mr. Bobbit" at a thread near you.

 

[Fishbone Jones]

Cheers Jim