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Climax Control Archives / The lollipop kid Pt 1
« on: June 03, 2022, 08:10:02 PM »
Chloe rubs her tired eyes as they study the brightly lit computer monitor mere inches in front of her short, bulbous nose. Intently she scans a web page dedicated to wrestling gossip containing a serious of hyperlinks stacked vertically. She scrolls pass them, her mind discarding them quickly based off the header one after another until spying the magic acronym of SCW. Yawning under her breath she clicks the link and the screen blinks briefly before bringing up the requested content. The headline assaults her weary eyes with a huge, bright yellow font on a dark background. Blinking in response Chloe reaches to the side of her bed to grab a plush doll resembling Toy Story’s lead character Woody sporting the familiar cowboy hat, gun belt and sheriff’s badge and holds it to her chest. She starts to browse but abruptly stops, reaching out again to grab a Tootsie pop from the edge of the cluttered desk. Unwrapping the sweet treat she slides it into her mouth, her taste buds appreciative of the chocolatey flavor, and resumes reading.
CHRISTIAN UNDERWOOD ON THE WARPATH!
The sensationalistic headline blasts her face with its neon yellow font prompting her to scroll it up and out of view and allowing her vision to return. With another deep chested yawn, she resumes reading the dirt sheet which goes on to tell the grim tale of wrestler’s ‘fired’ by the co-owner of SCW and providing a list of names, none of which rings a bell, leaving her to assume they belong to enhancement talent. It proceeds to spin the yarn of a wrestler ‘indefinitely’ suspended, finally adding a name to the list she recognizes, her own. The hit piece goes on to tell unsubstantiated stories of wrestlers and other backstage personnel falling afoul of the dictatorial boss. Although the article offers very little in the way of verifiable proof it nonetheless strikes a chord within her. Stifling another, stronger yawn she leans back in the frayed, black leather executive chair which offers a light squeak in protest ruminating over her own situation.
She had been suspended for defending herself online, responding to a perceived insult in kind, albeit with a few more colorful metaphors added for good measure. She was the one injured by his careless booking. She had spent the night in the hospital in Greece for observation and it was her who suffered a seizure, even after being checked out by a medical professional. So why the suspension, why call her a dumbass publicly? Not a hint of compassion and not a shred of remorse. Feeling her eyelids growing heavier Chloe reaches out to pull down the monitor of the black, Acer laptop, shutting it off and pushes away from the desk with her mind offering a few more choice terms for her boss as she slides into bed with her doll clutched tightly, turning the lamp off and enveloping the room in darkness.
Dictator…
Tyrant…
Overlord…
Despot…
Asshole…
Dickhead…
Frothy faced, dimple dicked, sewer sniffing, cock craving, puss peddling, tick turd tasting, frog fucking, naked mole rat…
“I bet you would stand up to him, wouldn’t you Woody?”
A smatter of thinned out clouds waft lazily across a weary grey sky as the sun prepares the tuck itself in for the evening. Down below athwart the broad desert landscape a small cloud of dust trails a lone traveler bounds along a trail winding through an expansive cluster of sage brush, rocks and assorted sticks and cacti. The dust trail slowly settles with the rider coming to a stop. Wiping the remaining vestiges of the afternoon heat from her brow, Chloe Benton draws a deep breath of dried air. Her long chestnut tresses cascade down and past her sinewy shoulders, tapering off at the small of her back while her bright chestnut orbs survey the scene from beneath the brim of a black cowboy hat. Far and wide the landscape is deserted save for a small owl floating overhead ready to begin the evening hunt. Briefly her eyes follow the bird as it glides ahead and treats her to a glimpse of a settlement in the distance. Bringing her hand up to shield her gaze from the yawning sun she studies the flicker of light at the edge of her purview.
“Hmm…” she wonders aloud while her mind attempts to wrangle the distance. “About a 30-minute ride”. Reaching down she takes the thin plastic reigns into her small hands and resumes her trek, “Yeagh!” and bounds off, her orange-colored inflated rubber bouncy horse hopping along the heat hardened clay soil. “Let’s go Mango!” She cries, bounding off into the setting sun.
The sign protrudes from the ground, a dilapidated collection of weather-beaten wood planks and faded white paint held together by rusted nails, glue and sporting a small assortment of bullet holes. Writing on the piece reads ‘Welcome to SCW, population Mr. Christian. With a somewhat ominous tag underlying – ‘Guns MANDATORY! The post to which it is lazily affixed bears numerous scratch marks up and down its three-foot spine. Chloe slows to a upon arrival to the most notorious town in the wild west, her eyes on alert while attentively scanning the whistle-stop consisting of a single street flanked on each side by a row of plank-built structures. Most are in as dilapidated a condition as the sign posted at the city limits; faded paint, weather-beaten façades and creaky porches stationed beneath wind battered awnings. The dusty main street is bare save for a pair of meandering drunks who amble across the way towards the three-story ‘Big Dick’s’ hotel on the left side, sandwiched between a run-down bank no bigger than a waiting room and ‘Grubby Paul’s’ general goods store. Slightly further ahead on the right a slow-moving old man plods towards the edge of the porch to the town’s only bar, the Hoss Shaft saloon, his bare feet sliding against the venerable wood planks to light the lanterns intended to guide weary travelers towards the establishment. She resumes her trek towards the saloon, guiding her bouncy horse at a slow, deliberate hop. Closing in on her destination she can readily tell that the bar is packed with rowdy patrons, hooting and hollering with gleeful abandon. Piano music adds to the lively chatter inside to paint a mosaic of drunken misbehavior as she comes to a stop at the hitching post beside the porch. Parking her bouncy horse next to a Pinto with several rifles protruding from the sack draped over its sturdy back and an Arabian stallion draped in Kevlar lapping up water from the trough in front of them. Affixing the reigns to the post, Chloe offers a gentle pat to her unarmed… horse whispering,
“Be good Mango”, before stepping onto the rickety porch as ‘Mango’ rolls over onto its side.
Pushing against the thick, ornately carved batwing doors Chloe enters the saloon, her tanned leather boots with gleaming metal spurs stop with a thud, and she pauses to quietly survey the scene, planting her dainty hands on an identical pair of custom pink revolvers secured to her waist by a matching pink gun belt. The bar is stationed against the opposing wall, lined with wooden stools, a huge wood framed mirror provides a backdrop to the white-haired bartender, armed with twin six shooters holstered to his side. The silver haired senior is doing his best to keep up with the demand of several rowdy patrons who slap the bar top with grubby mitts clamoring for attention. They too are armed with glistening chrome revolvers strapped on the sides of their thick leather belts. Despite his years, the blue-eyed man with leathery skin hustles to and from, pouring shots of whiskey, giving directions and even managing to engage in chit chat. To the left a pair of round tables are occupied by four burly looking men per, their rumpled dirty clothes and scraggly appearances suggesting a change in priorities may be in order. The men, also armed, one with a twelve-gauge strapped to his back, chug beer and trade insults, slapping their cards on the table. To the right, a well-polished pianola chimes out the tune of one of the most popular songs of the time, ‘The Entertainer’. To the device’s right another round table is occupied by a pair of women. Both are young and tall. One sports a dazzling red mane crashing onto bare shoulders and spilling down the woman’s back providing partial camouflage for the bandolier draped over her shoulder – spare ammunition for the black nickel plated .44 revolver at her side. Her partner looks slightly younger, boasting jet black strands of lustrous hair cascading down the back of a matching silk dress. Her lavish red lips widen into a broad smile upon looking up and recognizing Chloe, excitedly gesturing for her to join them.
Chloe glides through the rambunctious crowd, weaving through a pair of drunkards engaged in a play fight, and past another pair arm wrestling on the creaky, dusty floor until being greeted with open arms by both women who offer up a warm embrace.
“Auntie Ms. Amber and Auntie Ms. Kat!” Burying her head in their arms she reciprocates the welcoming gesture. “I-I’m sorry I’m l-l-late. Mango g-got tired and n-needed to rest”.
“Tired?” Kat frowns in puzzlement, her alabaster complexion clashing with the subdued lighting. Setting her Colt .45 on the table she continues. “But Mango’s a…
“Never mind that”, her bronzed counterpart interrupts signaling the others to take their seat. “Let’s just enjoy the moment, our girl is here!” Pursing her lips, Amber cuts a sharp whistle, alerting the bartender. The frail, elderly man nods slowly, and finishes loading his gun as she turns her attention back to Chloe who is beaming from ear to ear. “So, what have you been doing in your free time?” she asks.
“N-not much really”, she replies, her gaze is downturned as she unwraps a Tootsie Pop. “P-p-practicing m-mostly a-and being b-bored”, a forced chuckle is followed by an elongated sigh. “It k-kinda sucks r-really”. Turning her attention back to the pair her tone picks up, “B-but what about you?” She asks. “H-how was G-Greece?”
“Greece was fine”, Kat answers after taking a swig of beer from the heavy mug in front of her. “We both got something out of it, especially Amber”.
“L-like what?” She asks, re-directing her curious gaze onto Amber. “What d-d-did you g-get?”
“Well…” she begins with a playful smirk. “I won Queen for a day.”
“Really?” The younger girl cries excitedly, clapping her hands and thrusting her arms around her. “Th-that’s great! W-what d-d-do you g-get for it?”
“It means…” she pipes up proudly, “that I am exempt from Mr. Christian’s Termination Tournament this year”.
“I also earned an exemption”, Kat adds with a grin of her own. “Neither one of us will have to fight for our jobs this year”.
Before Chloe can reply, the bat wing doors are flung open once more, making way for the arrival of SCW Owner, Mayor, Resident deity and self-appointed executioner, Mr. Christian. Decked out in a flowing, yellow flower print dress with an ankle length hem, matching heels and daisy print holsters which harbor a pair of painstakingly polished Colt Pythons in .357 magnum. A lustrous lemon summer hat sporting sunflower decoration completes the ensemble. The rowdy room promptly falls to silence as he steps over the threshold struggling to heave a huge, 120-pound Persian cat with a custom crafted satin gun belt strapped around its ample abdomen. A collective gaze of nervousness is firmly trained onto his steely grey eyes and scowling demeanor. Paying the gawkers no mind he resumes his impromptu parade towards the bar, while his four, scruffy looking, shotgun toting henchmen take up station in each corner of the room. Commandeering a stool, pushing an inebriated patron to the floor Christian takes a seat setting the paunchy Persian, affectionately nicknamed ‘kitty kitty bang bang’ down at his feet where she flops onto her side with a muted thud. Catching his breath he gestures with his index finger, summoning the barman, who ducks behind the bar, emerging a moment later with a handheld chalkboard which is then set up on the bar top. Grabbing a beer mug the man taps the side with a metal spoon, the hollow clanging alerting the uneasy crowd to an incoming announcement…
“Ladies and gentlemen of SCW, it is my honor to announce that at dawn tomorrow the annual SCW tournament of termination will officially begin! If anyone wants to volunteer to fight for their jobs, raise your hand and state your name”.
Apart from a handful of uneasy gulps only silence impregnates the tense blanket of apprehension with the assemblage locking bemused glares with one another, careful to avoid the tense gaze of their employer. A knowing smirk cracks the man’s hardened features as he studies the absent reaction of his patronage. Reaching down to scratch behind the ears of the corpulent cat and pushing aside a bird’s nest meticulously assembled, likely over a period of several days on the back of the lazy behemoth, and offers a few more moments despite his own suspicions.
“No volunteers huh?” he muses, unsnapping his holster. “I wish I could say I was disappointed, but in my case…” a chuckle slithers through pursed lips. “You get what you pay for… a bunch of chicken shit weasels without a single pair of balls between them. I guess I’ll just have to name the participants myself again”.
Studying the frightened expressions of the crowd, Chloe looks on in perplexity. Each man and woman are qualified, trained professionals with many victories, so why back down from a challenge? A single match, no different from the dozens and hundreds of others, save for the opponent… a man in a dress with the biggest, laziest cat she’d ever seen.
‘Damn that fucker’s fat’.
She blinks, her mind unable to process the bird’s nest on the back of a beast which would usually be considered a natural enemy, not to mention the other unusual events unfolding before her chocolate frosted orbs. An entire town petrified of a man wearing a dress and makeup. Reaching over she taps Kat on the arm and leans forward whispering,
“I- don’t g-get it Ms. Auntie Kat, w-why is everyone afraid of M-Mr. C-Christian? L-l-look at him! H-he makes Naomi Watts l-l-look like J-John Wayne”.
“Shhh!” Kat admonishes her, gripping her hand tightly. “Don’t let him hear you, he might suspend you indefinitely!”
“What’s that?” she questions innocently.
“He suspended someone indefinitely at last year’s tournament”, Amber replies in a hushed tone. “You don’t want that sweetie, trust us”.
“Put a hole the size of a silver dollar right through his head”, Kat adds solemnly. “He’s the fastest gun in the world”.
Retreating to her thoughts Chloe quietly considers their words. While she remains uncertain exactly what an indefinite suspension is she nevertheless places high value on the words of her Aunties. Still, his physical presence does not exactly strike fear into her heart, unlike everyone else. It’s probably a typical over reaction of parental figures. While she considers their words further, Kat and Amber slowly loosen their grip on the youngster’s arm which is unexpectedly and abruptly shot into the air.
“I – I wanna p-play!” She announces with an incandescent smile.
Directing his attention onto Chloe Christian flashes a toothy grin at the youngster. Kat and Amber quickly reach for the girl, pulling her back down into her chair, but not before he asks,
“And who might you be little girl?”
She tries to respond but is prevented from doing so by a pair of hands clamped tightly over her mouth.
“My apologies Mr. Christian”, Kat offers. “This is our niece Chloe, she thinks it’s a game, like marbles”.
“Mmh mphf mmhmmph!”
Her words are unintelligible under Kat’s hands. She tries to stand but Amber holds her in place Locking eyes with the boss, Chloe’s flame headed guardian nods in agreement bringing a subtle frown to the man’s face.
“That’s a shame,” he says. “I was hoping to have our first volunteer in six years”. Fastening his holster he sighs, “No biggie I guess, I’ll just started adding names, starting with Belinda Simone. Oh, and by the way, I want Chloe to be present for every fight in this tournament.” He growls. “It’s about time she learns how we do things around here”.
Curious heads bob up and down in search of the first named victim though she is nowhere to be found among the crowd of ruffians. Upon conducting his own scan of the room Christian comes to the same conclusion and gestures one of his men to his side.
“Assemble the boys”, he commands. “I want Simone found and brought back here by sunup. Since she declined to grace us with her presence, perhaps she won’t mind being the first fight of the day?”
The man nods curtly, leaving his post to attend the matter at hand, cocking his lever action rifle before heading outside. Chloe looks on, her gaze a muddled quagmire of puzzlement. Blinking, she taps Kat’s hand securely clamped over her mouth, drawing her auntie’s attention and directing it with a subtle nod and some opaque mumbling to the Tootsie pop on the scratched surface of the tabletop. With a smile, Kat grabs the sucker and spreads her fingers just enough to allow the hard candy shell to slide through into her mouth.
“I’m sorry we have to do this sweety”, she says softly gently patting her on the head with her free hand. “But we don’t want you to get in trouble here. Not here, not now”.
“Christian is the fastest gun alive”, Amber offers uneasily. “He’ll fire you without a thought”. Her warning however fails to draw the desired reaction. Rather than the expected dread her warning is instead answered with muted mutterings prompting her and Kat to exchange matching flustered grimaces. “Chloe, behave, this is very serious!”
“Maybe we should get her to bed,” Kat suggests. “She’s had a long ride and is probably tired.”
Amber nods in agreement as the pair rise, taking hold of their young charge, Kat’s hand still clamped over her maundering chops and the pair begins to make their way towards the door. Chloe’s half-hearted struggles prove pointless in dealing with the bigger, stronger women who maintain a firm grasp of the lass who eventually acquiesces to their physical demands and resigns to her fate, clamping her jaws around the lollipop. Christian looks on with a smirk, his right hand scratching the portly Persian behind the ears as the young girl starts to murmur on the way out…
“Mmmahnhoo…”
“Mango will be fine”, Amber says in reassurance. “I promise”.
“Listen up shitheads,” Christian barks, the girl’s pleas not lost on his acute ears. “Nobody touches the little brat’s bouncy horse… she’s gonna need it when she sees me fight in the morning and wants to hightail it out of town.”
The girl’s murmuring and mumbling grows more urgent, but her struggling utterances are lost to the wind, disappearing into the night leaving only the slightest hint of… laughter? Though he blinks in bewilderment, Christian quickly casts the thought aside in favor of filling the bracket.
The sun yawns and stretches on the windless morning behind a broken cloud screen offering intermittent rays of light over the town of SCW. To the east, at the end of the road a large Victorian manor bathes in the available light. Three stories in height the charcoal manor with purple appointments boasts numerous rooms with a second-floor walkway facing the main street of the town. Armed guards patrol the walkway, their long guns cocked and ready as they scan for any signs of disturbance. The west end of the well-kept home boasts an obelisk where another guard takes station. At ground level the main door swings open as Mr. Christian, flanked by two more guards, he steps over the threshold onto the balcony. Strapping his gun belt around his waist the man gently adjusts the hem of a lavender chiffon dress and glances up into the sky, taking note of the sun struggling to deliver its tithing to the town. Shrugging, he walks over the balcony, his matching heels clacking against the varnished wood finish and steps onto the street followed by a snappily dressed butler, a balding man perhaps in his mid-50s sporting a ring of thin white hair atop his tanned dome. He struggles to carry the hefty housecat ‘Genie’ who lies limp in his trembling arms as they struggle holding the load steady so as not to disturb the sleeping feline or the bird’s nest atop her back with the pair of Sparrow’s chirping their displeasure at his efforts. Taking station along the left side of the road in front of the general goods store, he sets the grimalkin down onto a padded cat bed and takes station beside her, clasping his white gloved hands in front.
The townsfolk have already emerged from their more modest dwelling, mostly apartment and hotel rooms and are lined up beneath the awnings of the Horse shaft bar and the three-story apartment opposing it. They quietly chat among themselves, eager for the day’s festivities to commence. Chloe and Amber are seated in front of the bank, both women’s feet propped on a rickety old table. Chloe appears disinterested, her attention squarely focused on the lollipop in her mouth. She draws her cheeks in, savoring the sweet cherry flavor of the candy while Amber quietly scans the crowd, her green eyes prudently scanning the mob packed in front of the saloon. Noting nothing out of the ordinary she quietly maintains her vigil, leaving Chloe to her thoughts. The girl unobtrusively studies Christian, taking note of his unusual attire. Who would wear a full-length formal gown and high heels to a gunfight on a dirt road? Removing the sucker from her mouth she taps Amber on the arm but both women’s attention is quickly claimed by the noisy arrival of Belinda Simone. The commentator, bound by shackles to her wrists and feet is escorted down the road by another pair of Christian’s hired guns. She struggles in their grasp, her words making her feelings known to the duo.
“Get your grubby hands off me!” She shouts, shrugging off their half-hearted attempt to calm the woman down. “Sweaty, dirty and… Jesus Christ, when was the last time you assholes had a bath anyway?”
They stop her in the middle of the street, quietly awaiting Christian’s arrival. The honcho slowly makes his way towards them, expertly managing the soft dirt beneath the spiked heels of his Burberry shoes. Belinda glares angrily at him, her brown eyes seething with laser-like intensity. Tiny beads of perspiration form off the woman’s cinnamon brow, as he closes in, her jaw tightly clenched, ready to snap.
“Why did you bring me here?” She demands.
Stopping just out of arm’s reach of his prey, Christian regards hers her cynically.
“I don’t like your commentary,” he says.
“What?”
“Your commentary,” he reiterates, adjusting his gun belt. “You always harp on the faces, law and order, justice and doing what’s right”. With a nod his men unlock the rusted iron shackles, freeing her hands and then her feet. “Give her the gun”, he instructs. “One bullet.” The man on her left produces an old Remington armory revolver with a dull matte finish and a scuffed wooden handle. He continues as the man inspects the weapon and prepares to load it. “You see, SCW is a heel town, and I’m the lead heel. We deserve every bit the praise and adulation you heap on those bastard faces, and today I intend to remedy the situation.”
The bartender of the Horse shaft saloon slowly ambles towards the middle of the street, joining them. Reaching into the pocket of his red suede vest he produces a silver dollar which he holds up for the crowd to see.
“I will flip this coin into the air,” he announces. “The moment this coin hits the ground the contestants will draw and fire their weapons. Anyone who fires before the coin hits the ground will be disqualified.” He glances at Christian for approval, who offers a curt nod allowing him to carry on. “The last man or woman left standing will be declared the winner.” Taking a cursory glance around to see if there are any questions or objection and seeing none he nods in satisfaction. “Alright, clear the street!”
Stepping off to the side he carefully positions himself between the two combatants and grips the coin calling out his intention…
“Flipping it… now!”
The coin twirls high into the air, the eyes of both combatants trained on its every twist. The onlookers on both side of the road go silent, their collective hearts gridlocked with the pirouetting silver coin as it reaches its apex and begin tumbling back down to earth. A collective gasp is evicted from their lips by bated breath as the coin lands, kicking up dust and a single shot cracks loudly, piercing the thin, morning air
Belinda Simone lies writhing on the dirt; a bullet having pierced her abdomen. Several onlookers openly weep for the fallen announcer while others turn their heads. Slowly Christian approaches his latest victim, looking down on her indifferently and planting his foot across her chest allowing the ‘referee’ to count to three.
“Ms. Simone,” he says evenly, replacing his gun in the holster. “You’re fired”.
“Mr. Christian is the winner.” The barman announces somberly. “The next contest will be after lunch”.
Amber shakes her head in dismay, looking on as Belinda is removed from the ‘ring’. Glancing at Chloe the girl appears more interested in her lollipop than the events having taken place. Though she recognizes this as a teaching moment for her young niece, Amber elects to leave it as it is, not wanting to perturb the youngster’s peaceable demeanor. The opportunity quickly vanishes however as Kat arrives, joining them at the table. The redhead looks at her expectantly while Chloe tends to her candy.
“Good news”, she says, taking a seat between them. “He’s going to take the fight.”
“That’s great!” Amber exclaims, careful not to raise her voice too much to draw unwanted attention. “Did he say when?”
Kat nods.
“He’s going to issue the challenge after lunch”.
“Who?” Chloe asks, her mind drawn away from the sucker. “Wh-what’s going on?”
“I suppose we can tell you”, Kat whispers, leaning into Chloe. “We’ve hired a professional wrestler to take out Mr. Christian, but not just any wrestler… we hired the man who trained him”.
“B-but why? I-I d-don’t get it”.
“Because Mr. Christian has turned this fed into a cesspool of violence”, Amber offers, her voice laced with venom. “Ever since he and his gang of hired thugs ran off Mr. Mark, he’s had the run of the place, making everyone’s lives miserable.”
“Mmhmm,” Nodding in affirmation Kat adds, “So we’re going to suspend that bastard indefinitely and reinstate Mark Ward as sheriff”.
Confused, Chloe shakes her head absently, not sure what to think or say on a subject which does not interest her. Instead, the kid elects to change the subject,
“C-can I h-have an ice-cream, please?”
“I guess so,” Amber agrees. “We have a couple hours before our man makes the challenge”.
The sun hovers almost directly overhead signaling the arrival on lunch hour. Most of the people are split between the hotel and the saloon, trading tales of Christian’s prowess with a gun, playing card, drinking and laughing or simply relaxing as noticed with a single, bulky figure off in the distance, laid out in a hammock between a pair of pillars supporting the awning to the stables on the west end of town. His hat rests atop his face, concealing his identity though Kat and Amber eye the big man knowingly while trying to keep a listless Chloe entertained. Fortunately, they are aided by a timely arrival, barked out by the bartender cum emcee…
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he bellows to be heard over the chatter, his gravelly voice carried by a westerly breeze. “Allow me to introduce the mid-morning’s entertainment, courtesy of our friend, Mr. Christian, Fox Riley!”
Raising her hand to perhaps one or two members of the crowd actively engaged in applause, the blue-eyed blonde trots out to the middle of the street, the spurs affixed to a pair of black leather boots kicking up dust behind her feet. The young woman tugs at the hem of a lavender blouse draped over a sinewy torso and slaps her faded blue jean laden thighs.
“Thank you,” she offers a congenial smile, her bulbous cheeks lighting up a rosy complexion. “Ok, so a few weeks ago an Indian walked into a bar with a shotgun in one hand and pulling a male buffalo with the other.
He says to the counter guy, "Want coffee."
"Coming right up," is the reply, and he gets the Indian a tall mug of coffee. The Indian drinks the coffee down in one gulp, turns and blasts the buffalo with the shotgun, causing parts of the animal to splatter everywhere, tosses down a coin for the coffee, and walks out....
The next morning the Indian returns. He has his shotgun in one hand pulling another male buffalo with the other. He walks up to the counter and says again, "Want coffee." This time the barkeep is ready. "Whoa there, fella!" he says. "We're still cleaning up your mess from yesterday! What was all that about, anyway?"
“The Indian smiles and proudly says, "Training for upper management position."
“Not surprisingly, "Huh?" came the reply.”
"Yuh," he says. "Come in, drink coffee, shoot the bull, leave mess for others to clean up, disappear for rest of day."
“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how modern Management Theory began.”
A smattered round of groans can be heard emanating from the crowd, less than pleased with the joke, save for one… unexpectedly Chloe bursts into a rolling laughter, her eyes clenched shut, face red and tears streaming down her puffy cheeks as she leans against Amber for support.
“T-T-Tell us a-another one” she cries hysterically much to the chagrin of her aunties who rolls their eyes and groan under their collective breath.
“You got it,” Fox replies cheerfully. “A preacher rides into SCW,” she begins. As he's riding into town, his horse keeps stumbling around the street. The reins are finally grabbed by the Sheriff, who says, "This stallion okay?"
The preacher says, "Yes. We passed through a patch of peyote and he ate some. But that aside, I come to tell you of God's good word, to help you worthless, sinful heathens to-"
The Sheriff shakes his head interrupting him, struggling to hold the animal still, and says "Now before you go preaching to us, why don't you get off your high horse."
“More,” Chloe demands gleefully, “M-More!”
“Oh God no, I can’t take this,” Kat mutters through clenched teeth. Thinking quickly, she tosses one of Chloe’s spare Tootsie pops onto the ground and taps her on the shoulder as Fox begins…
“I lost my job as an Old West saloon piano player when a mysterious stranger walked in the door… and I just kept playing.”
More groaning, except from Chloe who smiles brightly, clapping her hands together eagerly. After a few moments the jovial juvenile finally notices Kat’s hand tapping her shoulder. Turning to glare quizzically at the elder woman who points to the ground.
“Sweety, I accidentally dropped one of your lollipops on the ground under your chair, would you be a sweet pea and get it for me?”
Nodding, Chloe pulls her chair out and leans under the table in search of the elusive sucker and giving Kat time to pull her .44 magnum revolver and fire at the source of her ire. The two projectiles slam into Fox’s chest, dropping her in a heap in the center of the road prompting nearly everyone to break into a spontaneous applause. Chloe, having retrieved to object hands it to Kat, though her face droops into a dejected pout upon seeing Fox lying, unmoving.
“N-Nooo!” she whines pitifully. “I liked her! W-What h-h-happened?”
“Not sure”, Kat replies, discreetly holstering her sidearm. “I think Mr. Christian shot her.”
“B-B-But why?” the girl wails, her tiny voice rising to a high-pitched carp. “S-She was s-s-so funny!”
“Not funny enough it seems,” Amber observes dryly, backing up her sister.
“I-I-I hate M-Mr. Christian!” the lass pouts, kicking at the nearest table leg testily. “He’s mean!”
“Not for much longer.”
Glaring out into the distance, Amber notes the bulky figure emerging from the makeshift hammock. Rising to his feet the thickly muscled man stretches and yawns, pulling his black denim pants up by a leather belt tucked between the loops. A gleaming buckle, ornately carved in the image of a steer sparkles under the rays of the emerging sun. Reaching down the man grabs a gun belt and holster, fastening it around his waist. Pulling out his gun, a chrome plated .44 magnum revolver, he opens the chamber, by clicking the slide release and casually begins to load it with ammunition from his belt. One by one he loads the chambers until all slots are accounted for and then spins the cylinder, ensuring smooth rotation. Finally, adjusting his black hat, matching his button-down shirt he strides purposefully towards the center of town. Callously kicking the body of Fox Riley aside he remarks in a guttural inflection,
“I guess the joke’s on you this time, Fox”.
“W-Who is th-that guy?” A wide-eyed Chloe asks. “He l-looks tough.”
“The one man on this Earth who may be even faster than Mr. Christian,” Kat offers, her face illuminated under the rays of hope. “Goldenboy Gene Banton, the man who taught Mr. Christian how to wrestle…”
“… and the man who is going to get rid of him for us,” Amber adds, finishing her sister’s sentence.
Planting his beefy hands along lean, muscular hips, the wrestler known as ‘The Goldenboy’ clears his throat, oblivious to the legion of eyeballs trained on him. The hushed whispers fall on deaf ears as he stares, his icy glare cutting a hole through them, focused intently on the last house on the left, the three-story manor of Christian Underwood.
“Christian!” he bellows, his throaty cacophony carried well past the town and out into the distance. “It’s time to face the music!”
Kat and Amber clasp hands, anxiously looking on towards Christian’s not so humble abode, their combined gazes anxiously watching the door, which opens slowly. Christian, fresh from his daily bubble bath steps onto the porch, his butler two steps behind, straining to hold the SCW honcho’s pet cat ‘Genie’. The leviathan lies limp in his arms, lazily blinking as she is carried into the street behind her master. On her back, the bird nest, freshly repaired from the jostling earlier by the inhabiting Sparrows benefits from the upgrade, remaining in place. A smirk crosses Christian’s lips as he strides purposefully down the street stopping a few paces from his would-be adversary. He stops, adjusting the black, ruffled skirt and leans over to inspect the matching nylons and heels. Gene regards him with a critical eye while his contemporary insures the fit and appearance of the black bodice with gold piping adorning his torso. With a final adjustment made to his feather laden French Victorian style derby hat he smiles, planting his hands along his gun belt.
“Been a long time Geno”, he remarks. “What brings you out this way?”
“Cut the shit,” Geno snaps in annoyance, gesturing at the audacious ensemble. “Jesus Christ, you give gunfighters a bad name.” He spits on the ground in disgust. “And you know why I’m here, to put an end to this madness.”
“Hunh,” reacting coyly Christian’s smirk broadens. “Here I thought it was to catch up on old times.” Looking down in front of his antagonist he notes to still body of Fox Riley off to the other man’s side. “Your handiwork?” He asks, to which Geno shakes his head. “Ah well, whoever shot Fox did me a huge favor, now I don’t have to pay the noisy bitch. So, whoever is responsible, thank you for saving me a few bucks”.
“You’re welcome!” Kat replies cheerfully, raising her hand and drawing Christian’s attention… as well as Chloe’s. Seeing the snarling, tear choked visage of her niece and realizing her mistake, Kat shrinks down behind the table. “Oh shit!”
“Why?” The youngster demands simpering. “W-Why Fox? I-I l-liked her, she was f-funny!” Before her Auntie can reply Chloe kicks the table and folds her arms petulantly across her chest.
“Nice going knucklehead,” Amber scorns, elbowing her in the side. “Forget it for now,” she advises, pointing to the street. “It’s about to go down.”
“I must congratulate you Geno,” Christian offers sliding on a pair of arm length satin gloves. “You’re the first person to challenge me openly in six years.”
“And the last.” He sneers, resting his right hand on the wooden butt of his gun. “You may think you’re some kind of big shot, but you’re going to remember that while I taught you everything that you know, I did not teach you everything that I know.”
“We’ll see about that,” he replies having finished with his gloves. “You see old chum, you interrupted me right as I was about to start my manicure… I hate being pulled away from doing my nails.”
“So do something about it,” the big man challenges and with a nod the pair step slowly away from each other, though their eyes remain locked as they create suitable distance for the coming fight.
The bartender turned referee steps between them holding the silver dollar high for everyone to see. “Ladies and gentlemen, by now you know the rules,” he announces. “The last…”
“Cut the shit and flip the coin,” Gene snaps. “I got things to do”.
Bowing acquiescently the elderly man backs away and flips the coin. The hearts of the bystanders, particularly Kat and Amber leap into their collective throats, halting their breath, their gazes burning their hopes onto violently twisting and turning silver dollar as it reaches its pinnacle and begins its downward trajectory. Many of the townsfolk have taken to embracing while others, unable to withstand the suspense, bury their heads into the chests of spouses and loved ones. The two combatant’s fingers twitch, drumming the handles of their respective weapons while their eyes follow the coin to the ground. They draw, both guns clearing their holsters but only one bullet is fired, its shrieking report echoing across the land as Gene falls face first into the street.
Christian casually spins his gun returning it to the holster as the onlookers break down into mournful withdrawal. Turning his scrutinizing review onto the crowd the victor regards them critically. His hardened face scowling in contempt.
“I don’t get it,” he says gruffly. “You people complain about how little I pay you, yet somehow you manage to find the money to pay a professional wrestler to shoot me. If you have the money to do that… I’m gonna have to pay you less!” His voice, quaking with pent up rage rises to a squall. “This is my fed! And the only reason you wrestle here is because I allow it!”
Down but not out Geno struggles against the bullet lodged in his chest. Rising on trembling legs he grips the revolver, cocking the hammer, determined to finish the job. But the metallic click carries through the rapidly thinning air and to Christian’s ears. Drawing his gun, the Fed boss expertly spins on the point if his high heel drawing his weapon and firing. Geno falls the ground one final time as the towns people openly weep in melancholy.
“Geno, old buddy old pal...” He says, turning to begin his trek back to his manor. "You are suspended indefinitely."
CHRISTIAN UNDERWOOD ON THE WARPATH!
The sensationalistic headline blasts her face with its neon yellow font prompting her to scroll it up and out of view and allowing her vision to return. With another deep chested yawn, she resumes reading the dirt sheet which goes on to tell the grim tale of wrestler’s ‘fired’ by the co-owner of SCW and providing a list of names, none of which rings a bell, leaving her to assume they belong to enhancement talent. It proceeds to spin the yarn of a wrestler ‘indefinitely’ suspended, finally adding a name to the list she recognizes, her own. The hit piece goes on to tell unsubstantiated stories of wrestlers and other backstage personnel falling afoul of the dictatorial boss. Although the article offers very little in the way of verifiable proof it nonetheless strikes a chord within her. Stifling another, stronger yawn she leans back in the frayed, black leather executive chair which offers a light squeak in protest ruminating over her own situation.
She had been suspended for defending herself online, responding to a perceived insult in kind, albeit with a few more colorful metaphors added for good measure. She was the one injured by his careless booking. She had spent the night in the hospital in Greece for observation and it was her who suffered a seizure, even after being checked out by a medical professional. So why the suspension, why call her a dumbass publicly? Not a hint of compassion and not a shred of remorse. Feeling her eyelids growing heavier Chloe reaches out to pull down the monitor of the black, Acer laptop, shutting it off and pushes away from the desk with her mind offering a few more choice terms for her boss as she slides into bed with her doll clutched tightly, turning the lamp off and enveloping the room in darkness.
Dictator…
Tyrant…
Overlord…
Despot…
Asshole…
Dickhead…
Frothy faced, dimple dicked, sewer sniffing, cock craving, puss peddling, tick turd tasting, frog fucking, naked mole rat…
“I bet you would stand up to him, wouldn’t you Woody?”
A smatter of thinned out clouds waft lazily across a weary grey sky as the sun prepares the tuck itself in for the evening. Down below athwart the broad desert landscape a small cloud of dust trails a lone traveler bounds along a trail winding through an expansive cluster of sage brush, rocks and assorted sticks and cacti. The dust trail slowly settles with the rider coming to a stop. Wiping the remaining vestiges of the afternoon heat from her brow, Chloe Benton draws a deep breath of dried air. Her long chestnut tresses cascade down and past her sinewy shoulders, tapering off at the small of her back while her bright chestnut orbs survey the scene from beneath the brim of a black cowboy hat. Far and wide the landscape is deserted save for a small owl floating overhead ready to begin the evening hunt. Briefly her eyes follow the bird as it glides ahead and treats her to a glimpse of a settlement in the distance. Bringing her hand up to shield her gaze from the yawning sun she studies the flicker of light at the edge of her purview.
“Hmm…” she wonders aloud while her mind attempts to wrangle the distance. “About a 30-minute ride”. Reaching down she takes the thin plastic reigns into her small hands and resumes her trek, “Yeagh!” and bounds off, her orange-colored inflated rubber bouncy horse hopping along the heat hardened clay soil. “Let’s go Mango!” She cries, bounding off into the setting sun.
The sign protrudes from the ground, a dilapidated collection of weather-beaten wood planks and faded white paint held together by rusted nails, glue and sporting a small assortment of bullet holes. Writing on the piece reads ‘Welcome to SCW, population Mr. Christian. With a somewhat ominous tag underlying – ‘Guns MANDATORY! The post to which it is lazily affixed bears numerous scratch marks up and down its three-foot spine. Chloe slows to a upon arrival to the most notorious town in the wild west, her eyes on alert while attentively scanning the whistle-stop consisting of a single street flanked on each side by a row of plank-built structures. Most are in as dilapidated a condition as the sign posted at the city limits; faded paint, weather-beaten façades and creaky porches stationed beneath wind battered awnings. The dusty main street is bare save for a pair of meandering drunks who amble across the way towards the three-story ‘Big Dick’s’ hotel on the left side, sandwiched between a run-down bank no bigger than a waiting room and ‘Grubby Paul’s’ general goods store. Slightly further ahead on the right a slow-moving old man plods towards the edge of the porch to the town’s only bar, the Hoss Shaft saloon, his bare feet sliding against the venerable wood planks to light the lanterns intended to guide weary travelers towards the establishment. She resumes her trek towards the saloon, guiding her bouncy horse at a slow, deliberate hop. Closing in on her destination she can readily tell that the bar is packed with rowdy patrons, hooting and hollering with gleeful abandon. Piano music adds to the lively chatter inside to paint a mosaic of drunken misbehavior as she comes to a stop at the hitching post beside the porch. Parking her bouncy horse next to a Pinto with several rifles protruding from the sack draped over its sturdy back and an Arabian stallion draped in Kevlar lapping up water from the trough in front of them. Affixing the reigns to the post, Chloe offers a gentle pat to her unarmed… horse whispering,
“Be good Mango”, before stepping onto the rickety porch as ‘Mango’ rolls over onto its side.
Pushing against the thick, ornately carved batwing doors Chloe enters the saloon, her tanned leather boots with gleaming metal spurs stop with a thud, and she pauses to quietly survey the scene, planting her dainty hands on an identical pair of custom pink revolvers secured to her waist by a matching pink gun belt. The bar is stationed against the opposing wall, lined with wooden stools, a huge wood framed mirror provides a backdrop to the white-haired bartender, armed with twin six shooters holstered to his side. The silver haired senior is doing his best to keep up with the demand of several rowdy patrons who slap the bar top with grubby mitts clamoring for attention. They too are armed with glistening chrome revolvers strapped on the sides of their thick leather belts. Despite his years, the blue-eyed man with leathery skin hustles to and from, pouring shots of whiskey, giving directions and even managing to engage in chit chat. To the left a pair of round tables are occupied by four burly looking men per, their rumpled dirty clothes and scraggly appearances suggesting a change in priorities may be in order. The men, also armed, one with a twelve-gauge strapped to his back, chug beer and trade insults, slapping their cards on the table. To the right, a well-polished pianola chimes out the tune of one of the most popular songs of the time, ‘The Entertainer’. To the device’s right another round table is occupied by a pair of women. Both are young and tall. One sports a dazzling red mane crashing onto bare shoulders and spilling down the woman’s back providing partial camouflage for the bandolier draped over her shoulder – spare ammunition for the black nickel plated .44 revolver at her side. Her partner looks slightly younger, boasting jet black strands of lustrous hair cascading down the back of a matching silk dress. Her lavish red lips widen into a broad smile upon looking up and recognizing Chloe, excitedly gesturing for her to join them.
Chloe glides through the rambunctious crowd, weaving through a pair of drunkards engaged in a play fight, and past another pair arm wrestling on the creaky, dusty floor until being greeted with open arms by both women who offer up a warm embrace.
“Auntie Ms. Amber and Auntie Ms. Kat!” Burying her head in their arms she reciprocates the welcoming gesture. “I-I’m sorry I’m l-l-late. Mango g-got tired and n-needed to rest”.
“Tired?” Kat frowns in puzzlement, her alabaster complexion clashing with the subdued lighting. Setting her Colt .45 on the table she continues. “But Mango’s a…
“Never mind that”, her bronzed counterpart interrupts signaling the others to take their seat. “Let’s just enjoy the moment, our girl is here!” Pursing her lips, Amber cuts a sharp whistle, alerting the bartender. The frail, elderly man nods slowly, and finishes loading his gun as she turns her attention back to Chloe who is beaming from ear to ear. “So, what have you been doing in your free time?” she asks.
“N-not much really”, she replies, her gaze is downturned as she unwraps a Tootsie Pop. “P-p-practicing m-mostly a-and being b-bored”, a forced chuckle is followed by an elongated sigh. “It k-kinda sucks r-really”. Turning her attention back to the pair her tone picks up, “B-but what about you?” She asks. “H-how was G-Greece?”
“Greece was fine”, Kat answers after taking a swig of beer from the heavy mug in front of her. “We both got something out of it, especially Amber”.
“L-like what?” She asks, re-directing her curious gaze onto Amber. “What d-d-did you g-get?”
“Well…” she begins with a playful smirk. “I won Queen for a day.”
“Really?” The younger girl cries excitedly, clapping her hands and thrusting her arms around her. “Th-that’s great! W-what d-d-do you g-get for it?”
“It means…” she pipes up proudly, “that I am exempt from Mr. Christian’s Termination Tournament this year”.
“I also earned an exemption”, Kat adds with a grin of her own. “Neither one of us will have to fight for our jobs this year”.
Before Chloe can reply, the bat wing doors are flung open once more, making way for the arrival of SCW Owner, Mayor, Resident deity and self-appointed executioner, Mr. Christian. Decked out in a flowing, yellow flower print dress with an ankle length hem, matching heels and daisy print holsters which harbor a pair of painstakingly polished Colt Pythons in .357 magnum. A lustrous lemon summer hat sporting sunflower decoration completes the ensemble. The rowdy room promptly falls to silence as he steps over the threshold struggling to heave a huge, 120-pound Persian cat with a custom crafted satin gun belt strapped around its ample abdomen. A collective gaze of nervousness is firmly trained onto his steely grey eyes and scowling demeanor. Paying the gawkers no mind he resumes his impromptu parade towards the bar, while his four, scruffy looking, shotgun toting henchmen take up station in each corner of the room. Commandeering a stool, pushing an inebriated patron to the floor Christian takes a seat setting the paunchy Persian, affectionately nicknamed ‘kitty kitty bang bang’ down at his feet where she flops onto her side with a muted thud. Catching his breath he gestures with his index finger, summoning the barman, who ducks behind the bar, emerging a moment later with a handheld chalkboard which is then set up on the bar top. Grabbing a beer mug the man taps the side with a metal spoon, the hollow clanging alerting the uneasy crowd to an incoming announcement…
“Ladies and gentlemen of SCW, it is my honor to announce that at dawn tomorrow the annual SCW tournament of termination will officially begin! If anyone wants to volunteer to fight for their jobs, raise your hand and state your name”.
Apart from a handful of uneasy gulps only silence impregnates the tense blanket of apprehension with the assemblage locking bemused glares with one another, careful to avoid the tense gaze of their employer. A knowing smirk cracks the man’s hardened features as he studies the absent reaction of his patronage. Reaching down to scratch behind the ears of the corpulent cat and pushing aside a bird’s nest meticulously assembled, likely over a period of several days on the back of the lazy behemoth, and offers a few more moments despite his own suspicions.
“No volunteers huh?” he muses, unsnapping his holster. “I wish I could say I was disappointed, but in my case…” a chuckle slithers through pursed lips. “You get what you pay for… a bunch of chicken shit weasels without a single pair of balls between them. I guess I’ll just have to name the participants myself again”.
Studying the frightened expressions of the crowd, Chloe looks on in perplexity. Each man and woman are qualified, trained professionals with many victories, so why back down from a challenge? A single match, no different from the dozens and hundreds of others, save for the opponent… a man in a dress with the biggest, laziest cat she’d ever seen.
‘Damn that fucker’s fat’.
She blinks, her mind unable to process the bird’s nest on the back of a beast which would usually be considered a natural enemy, not to mention the other unusual events unfolding before her chocolate frosted orbs. An entire town petrified of a man wearing a dress and makeup. Reaching over she taps Kat on the arm and leans forward whispering,
“I- don’t g-get it Ms. Auntie Kat, w-why is everyone afraid of M-Mr. C-Christian? L-l-look at him! H-he makes Naomi Watts l-l-look like J-John Wayne”.
“Shhh!” Kat admonishes her, gripping her hand tightly. “Don’t let him hear you, he might suspend you indefinitely!”
“What’s that?” she questions innocently.
“He suspended someone indefinitely at last year’s tournament”, Amber replies in a hushed tone. “You don’t want that sweetie, trust us”.
“Put a hole the size of a silver dollar right through his head”, Kat adds solemnly. “He’s the fastest gun in the world”.
Retreating to her thoughts Chloe quietly considers their words. While she remains uncertain exactly what an indefinite suspension is she nevertheless places high value on the words of her Aunties. Still, his physical presence does not exactly strike fear into her heart, unlike everyone else. It’s probably a typical over reaction of parental figures. While she considers their words further, Kat and Amber slowly loosen their grip on the youngster’s arm which is unexpectedly and abruptly shot into the air.
“I – I wanna p-play!” She announces with an incandescent smile.
Directing his attention onto Chloe Christian flashes a toothy grin at the youngster. Kat and Amber quickly reach for the girl, pulling her back down into her chair, but not before he asks,
“And who might you be little girl?”
She tries to respond but is prevented from doing so by a pair of hands clamped tightly over her mouth.
“My apologies Mr. Christian”, Kat offers. “This is our niece Chloe, she thinks it’s a game, like marbles”.
“Mmh mphf mmhmmph!”
Her words are unintelligible under Kat’s hands. She tries to stand but Amber holds her in place Locking eyes with the boss, Chloe’s flame headed guardian nods in agreement bringing a subtle frown to the man’s face.
“That’s a shame,” he says. “I was hoping to have our first volunteer in six years”. Fastening his holster he sighs, “No biggie I guess, I’ll just started adding names, starting with Belinda Simone. Oh, and by the way, I want Chloe to be present for every fight in this tournament.” He growls. “It’s about time she learns how we do things around here”.
Curious heads bob up and down in search of the first named victim though she is nowhere to be found among the crowd of ruffians. Upon conducting his own scan of the room Christian comes to the same conclusion and gestures one of his men to his side.
“Assemble the boys”, he commands. “I want Simone found and brought back here by sunup. Since she declined to grace us with her presence, perhaps she won’t mind being the first fight of the day?”
The man nods curtly, leaving his post to attend the matter at hand, cocking his lever action rifle before heading outside. Chloe looks on, her gaze a muddled quagmire of puzzlement. Blinking, she taps Kat’s hand securely clamped over her mouth, drawing her auntie’s attention and directing it with a subtle nod and some opaque mumbling to the Tootsie pop on the scratched surface of the tabletop. With a smile, Kat grabs the sucker and spreads her fingers just enough to allow the hard candy shell to slide through into her mouth.
“I’m sorry we have to do this sweety”, she says softly gently patting her on the head with her free hand. “But we don’t want you to get in trouble here. Not here, not now”.
“Christian is the fastest gun alive”, Amber offers uneasily. “He’ll fire you without a thought”. Her warning however fails to draw the desired reaction. Rather than the expected dread her warning is instead answered with muted mutterings prompting her and Kat to exchange matching flustered grimaces. “Chloe, behave, this is very serious!”
“Maybe we should get her to bed,” Kat suggests. “She’s had a long ride and is probably tired.”
Amber nods in agreement as the pair rise, taking hold of their young charge, Kat’s hand still clamped over her maundering chops and the pair begins to make their way towards the door. Chloe’s half-hearted struggles prove pointless in dealing with the bigger, stronger women who maintain a firm grasp of the lass who eventually acquiesces to their physical demands and resigns to her fate, clamping her jaws around the lollipop. Christian looks on with a smirk, his right hand scratching the portly Persian behind the ears as the young girl starts to murmur on the way out…
“Mmmahnhoo…”
“Mango will be fine”, Amber says in reassurance. “I promise”.
“Listen up shitheads,” Christian barks, the girl’s pleas not lost on his acute ears. “Nobody touches the little brat’s bouncy horse… she’s gonna need it when she sees me fight in the morning and wants to hightail it out of town.”
The girl’s murmuring and mumbling grows more urgent, but her struggling utterances are lost to the wind, disappearing into the night leaving only the slightest hint of… laughter? Though he blinks in bewilderment, Christian quickly casts the thought aside in favor of filling the bracket.
The sun yawns and stretches on the windless morning behind a broken cloud screen offering intermittent rays of light over the town of SCW. To the east, at the end of the road a large Victorian manor bathes in the available light. Three stories in height the charcoal manor with purple appointments boasts numerous rooms with a second-floor walkway facing the main street of the town. Armed guards patrol the walkway, their long guns cocked and ready as they scan for any signs of disturbance. The west end of the well-kept home boasts an obelisk where another guard takes station. At ground level the main door swings open as Mr. Christian, flanked by two more guards, he steps over the threshold onto the balcony. Strapping his gun belt around his waist the man gently adjusts the hem of a lavender chiffon dress and glances up into the sky, taking note of the sun struggling to deliver its tithing to the town. Shrugging, he walks over the balcony, his matching heels clacking against the varnished wood finish and steps onto the street followed by a snappily dressed butler, a balding man perhaps in his mid-50s sporting a ring of thin white hair atop his tanned dome. He struggles to carry the hefty housecat ‘Genie’ who lies limp in his trembling arms as they struggle holding the load steady so as not to disturb the sleeping feline or the bird’s nest atop her back with the pair of Sparrow’s chirping their displeasure at his efforts. Taking station along the left side of the road in front of the general goods store, he sets the grimalkin down onto a padded cat bed and takes station beside her, clasping his white gloved hands in front.
The townsfolk have already emerged from their more modest dwelling, mostly apartment and hotel rooms and are lined up beneath the awnings of the Horse shaft bar and the three-story apartment opposing it. They quietly chat among themselves, eager for the day’s festivities to commence. Chloe and Amber are seated in front of the bank, both women’s feet propped on a rickety old table. Chloe appears disinterested, her attention squarely focused on the lollipop in her mouth. She draws her cheeks in, savoring the sweet cherry flavor of the candy while Amber quietly scans the crowd, her green eyes prudently scanning the mob packed in front of the saloon. Noting nothing out of the ordinary she quietly maintains her vigil, leaving Chloe to her thoughts. The girl unobtrusively studies Christian, taking note of his unusual attire. Who would wear a full-length formal gown and high heels to a gunfight on a dirt road? Removing the sucker from her mouth she taps Amber on the arm but both women’s attention is quickly claimed by the noisy arrival of Belinda Simone. The commentator, bound by shackles to her wrists and feet is escorted down the road by another pair of Christian’s hired guns. She struggles in their grasp, her words making her feelings known to the duo.
“Get your grubby hands off me!” She shouts, shrugging off their half-hearted attempt to calm the woman down. “Sweaty, dirty and… Jesus Christ, when was the last time you assholes had a bath anyway?”
They stop her in the middle of the street, quietly awaiting Christian’s arrival. The honcho slowly makes his way towards them, expertly managing the soft dirt beneath the spiked heels of his Burberry shoes. Belinda glares angrily at him, her brown eyes seething with laser-like intensity. Tiny beads of perspiration form off the woman’s cinnamon brow, as he closes in, her jaw tightly clenched, ready to snap.
“Why did you bring me here?” She demands.
Stopping just out of arm’s reach of his prey, Christian regards hers her cynically.
“I don’t like your commentary,” he says.
“What?”
“Your commentary,” he reiterates, adjusting his gun belt. “You always harp on the faces, law and order, justice and doing what’s right”. With a nod his men unlock the rusted iron shackles, freeing her hands and then her feet. “Give her the gun”, he instructs. “One bullet.” The man on her left produces an old Remington armory revolver with a dull matte finish and a scuffed wooden handle. He continues as the man inspects the weapon and prepares to load it. “You see, SCW is a heel town, and I’m the lead heel. We deserve every bit the praise and adulation you heap on those bastard faces, and today I intend to remedy the situation.”
The bartender of the Horse shaft saloon slowly ambles towards the middle of the street, joining them. Reaching into the pocket of his red suede vest he produces a silver dollar which he holds up for the crowd to see.
“I will flip this coin into the air,” he announces. “The moment this coin hits the ground the contestants will draw and fire their weapons. Anyone who fires before the coin hits the ground will be disqualified.” He glances at Christian for approval, who offers a curt nod allowing him to carry on. “The last man or woman left standing will be declared the winner.” Taking a cursory glance around to see if there are any questions or objection and seeing none he nods in satisfaction. “Alright, clear the street!”
Stepping off to the side he carefully positions himself between the two combatants and grips the coin calling out his intention…
“Flipping it… now!”
The coin twirls high into the air, the eyes of both combatants trained on its every twist. The onlookers on both side of the road go silent, their collective hearts gridlocked with the pirouetting silver coin as it reaches its apex and begin tumbling back down to earth. A collective gasp is evicted from their lips by bated breath as the coin lands, kicking up dust and a single shot cracks loudly, piercing the thin, morning air
Belinda Simone lies writhing on the dirt; a bullet having pierced her abdomen. Several onlookers openly weep for the fallen announcer while others turn their heads. Slowly Christian approaches his latest victim, looking down on her indifferently and planting his foot across her chest allowing the ‘referee’ to count to three.
“Ms. Simone,” he says evenly, replacing his gun in the holster. “You’re fired”.
“Mr. Christian is the winner.” The barman announces somberly. “The next contest will be after lunch”.
Amber shakes her head in dismay, looking on as Belinda is removed from the ‘ring’. Glancing at Chloe the girl appears more interested in her lollipop than the events having taken place. Though she recognizes this as a teaching moment for her young niece, Amber elects to leave it as it is, not wanting to perturb the youngster’s peaceable demeanor. The opportunity quickly vanishes however as Kat arrives, joining them at the table. The redhead looks at her expectantly while Chloe tends to her candy.
“Good news”, she says, taking a seat between them. “He’s going to take the fight.”
“That’s great!” Amber exclaims, careful not to raise her voice too much to draw unwanted attention. “Did he say when?”
Kat nods.
“He’s going to issue the challenge after lunch”.
“Who?” Chloe asks, her mind drawn away from the sucker. “Wh-what’s going on?”
“I suppose we can tell you”, Kat whispers, leaning into Chloe. “We’ve hired a professional wrestler to take out Mr. Christian, but not just any wrestler… we hired the man who trained him”.
“B-but why? I-I d-don’t get it”.
“Because Mr. Christian has turned this fed into a cesspool of violence”, Amber offers, her voice laced with venom. “Ever since he and his gang of hired thugs ran off Mr. Mark, he’s had the run of the place, making everyone’s lives miserable.”
“Mmhmm,” Nodding in affirmation Kat adds, “So we’re going to suspend that bastard indefinitely and reinstate Mark Ward as sheriff”.
Confused, Chloe shakes her head absently, not sure what to think or say on a subject which does not interest her. Instead, the kid elects to change the subject,
“C-can I h-have an ice-cream, please?”
“I guess so,” Amber agrees. “We have a couple hours before our man makes the challenge”.
The sun hovers almost directly overhead signaling the arrival on lunch hour. Most of the people are split between the hotel and the saloon, trading tales of Christian’s prowess with a gun, playing card, drinking and laughing or simply relaxing as noticed with a single, bulky figure off in the distance, laid out in a hammock between a pair of pillars supporting the awning to the stables on the west end of town. His hat rests atop his face, concealing his identity though Kat and Amber eye the big man knowingly while trying to keep a listless Chloe entertained. Fortunately, they are aided by a timely arrival, barked out by the bartender cum emcee…
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he bellows to be heard over the chatter, his gravelly voice carried by a westerly breeze. “Allow me to introduce the mid-morning’s entertainment, courtesy of our friend, Mr. Christian, Fox Riley!”
Raising her hand to perhaps one or two members of the crowd actively engaged in applause, the blue-eyed blonde trots out to the middle of the street, the spurs affixed to a pair of black leather boots kicking up dust behind her feet. The young woman tugs at the hem of a lavender blouse draped over a sinewy torso and slaps her faded blue jean laden thighs.
“Thank you,” she offers a congenial smile, her bulbous cheeks lighting up a rosy complexion. “Ok, so a few weeks ago an Indian walked into a bar with a shotgun in one hand and pulling a male buffalo with the other.
He says to the counter guy, "Want coffee."
"Coming right up," is the reply, and he gets the Indian a tall mug of coffee. The Indian drinks the coffee down in one gulp, turns and blasts the buffalo with the shotgun, causing parts of the animal to splatter everywhere, tosses down a coin for the coffee, and walks out....
The next morning the Indian returns. He has his shotgun in one hand pulling another male buffalo with the other. He walks up to the counter and says again, "Want coffee." This time the barkeep is ready. "Whoa there, fella!" he says. "We're still cleaning up your mess from yesterday! What was all that about, anyway?"
“The Indian smiles and proudly says, "Training for upper management position."
“Not surprisingly, "Huh?" came the reply.”
"Yuh," he says. "Come in, drink coffee, shoot the bull, leave mess for others to clean up, disappear for rest of day."
“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how modern Management Theory began.”
A smattered round of groans can be heard emanating from the crowd, less than pleased with the joke, save for one… unexpectedly Chloe bursts into a rolling laughter, her eyes clenched shut, face red and tears streaming down her puffy cheeks as she leans against Amber for support.
“T-T-Tell us a-another one” she cries hysterically much to the chagrin of her aunties who rolls their eyes and groan under their collective breath.
“You got it,” Fox replies cheerfully. “A preacher rides into SCW,” she begins. As he's riding into town, his horse keeps stumbling around the street. The reins are finally grabbed by the Sheriff, who says, "This stallion okay?"
The preacher says, "Yes. We passed through a patch of peyote and he ate some. But that aside, I come to tell you of God's good word, to help you worthless, sinful heathens to-"
The Sheriff shakes his head interrupting him, struggling to hold the animal still, and says "Now before you go preaching to us, why don't you get off your high horse."
“More,” Chloe demands gleefully, “M-More!”
“Oh God no, I can’t take this,” Kat mutters through clenched teeth. Thinking quickly, she tosses one of Chloe’s spare Tootsie pops onto the ground and taps her on the shoulder as Fox begins…
“I lost my job as an Old West saloon piano player when a mysterious stranger walked in the door… and I just kept playing.”
More groaning, except from Chloe who smiles brightly, clapping her hands together eagerly. After a few moments the jovial juvenile finally notices Kat’s hand tapping her shoulder. Turning to glare quizzically at the elder woman who points to the ground.
“Sweety, I accidentally dropped one of your lollipops on the ground under your chair, would you be a sweet pea and get it for me?”
Nodding, Chloe pulls her chair out and leans under the table in search of the elusive sucker and giving Kat time to pull her .44 magnum revolver and fire at the source of her ire. The two projectiles slam into Fox’s chest, dropping her in a heap in the center of the road prompting nearly everyone to break into a spontaneous applause. Chloe, having retrieved to object hands it to Kat, though her face droops into a dejected pout upon seeing Fox lying, unmoving.
“N-Nooo!” she whines pitifully. “I liked her! W-What h-h-happened?”
“Not sure”, Kat replies, discreetly holstering her sidearm. “I think Mr. Christian shot her.”
“B-B-But why?” the girl wails, her tiny voice rising to a high-pitched carp. “S-She was s-s-so funny!”
“Not funny enough it seems,” Amber observes dryly, backing up her sister.
“I-I-I hate M-Mr. Christian!” the lass pouts, kicking at the nearest table leg testily. “He’s mean!”
“Not for much longer.”
Glaring out into the distance, Amber notes the bulky figure emerging from the makeshift hammock. Rising to his feet the thickly muscled man stretches and yawns, pulling his black denim pants up by a leather belt tucked between the loops. A gleaming buckle, ornately carved in the image of a steer sparkles under the rays of the emerging sun. Reaching down the man grabs a gun belt and holster, fastening it around his waist. Pulling out his gun, a chrome plated .44 magnum revolver, he opens the chamber, by clicking the slide release and casually begins to load it with ammunition from his belt. One by one he loads the chambers until all slots are accounted for and then spins the cylinder, ensuring smooth rotation. Finally, adjusting his black hat, matching his button-down shirt he strides purposefully towards the center of town. Callously kicking the body of Fox Riley aside he remarks in a guttural inflection,
“I guess the joke’s on you this time, Fox”.
“W-Who is th-that guy?” A wide-eyed Chloe asks. “He l-looks tough.”
“The one man on this Earth who may be even faster than Mr. Christian,” Kat offers, her face illuminated under the rays of hope. “Goldenboy Gene Banton, the man who taught Mr. Christian how to wrestle…”
“… and the man who is going to get rid of him for us,” Amber adds, finishing her sister’s sentence.
Planting his beefy hands along lean, muscular hips, the wrestler known as ‘The Goldenboy’ clears his throat, oblivious to the legion of eyeballs trained on him. The hushed whispers fall on deaf ears as he stares, his icy glare cutting a hole through them, focused intently on the last house on the left, the three-story manor of Christian Underwood.
“Christian!” he bellows, his throaty cacophony carried well past the town and out into the distance. “It’s time to face the music!”
Kat and Amber clasp hands, anxiously looking on towards Christian’s not so humble abode, their combined gazes anxiously watching the door, which opens slowly. Christian, fresh from his daily bubble bath steps onto the porch, his butler two steps behind, straining to hold the SCW honcho’s pet cat ‘Genie’. The leviathan lies limp in his arms, lazily blinking as she is carried into the street behind her master. On her back, the bird nest, freshly repaired from the jostling earlier by the inhabiting Sparrows benefits from the upgrade, remaining in place. A smirk crosses Christian’s lips as he strides purposefully down the street stopping a few paces from his would-be adversary. He stops, adjusting the black, ruffled skirt and leans over to inspect the matching nylons and heels. Gene regards him with a critical eye while his contemporary insures the fit and appearance of the black bodice with gold piping adorning his torso. With a final adjustment made to his feather laden French Victorian style derby hat he smiles, planting his hands along his gun belt.
“Been a long time Geno”, he remarks. “What brings you out this way?”
“Cut the shit,” Geno snaps in annoyance, gesturing at the audacious ensemble. “Jesus Christ, you give gunfighters a bad name.” He spits on the ground in disgust. “And you know why I’m here, to put an end to this madness.”
“Hunh,” reacting coyly Christian’s smirk broadens. “Here I thought it was to catch up on old times.” Looking down in front of his antagonist he notes to still body of Fox Riley off to the other man’s side. “Your handiwork?” He asks, to which Geno shakes his head. “Ah well, whoever shot Fox did me a huge favor, now I don’t have to pay the noisy bitch. So, whoever is responsible, thank you for saving me a few bucks”.
“You’re welcome!” Kat replies cheerfully, raising her hand and drawing Christian’s attention… as well as Chloe’s. Seeing the snarling, tear choked visage of her niece and realizing her mistake, Kat shrinks down behind the table. “Oh shit!”
“Why?” The youngster demands simpering. “W-Why Fox? I-I l-liked her, she was f-funny!” Before her Auntie can reply Chloe kicks the table and folds her arms petulantly across her chest.
“Nice going knucklehead,” Amber scorns, elbowing her in the side. “Forget it for now,” she advises, pointing to the street. “It’s about to go down.”
“I must congratulate you Geno,” Christian offers sliding on a pair of arm length satin gloves. “You’re the first person to challenge me openly in six years.”
“And the last.” He sneers, resting his right hand on the wooden butt of his gun. “You may think you’re some kind of big shot, but you’re going to remember that while I taught you everything that you know, I did not teach you everything that I know.”
“We’ll see about that,” he replies having finished with his gloves. “You see old chum, you interrupted me right as I was about to start my manicure… I hate being pulled away from doing my nails.”
“So do something about it,” the big man challenges and with a nod the pair step slowly away from each other, though their eyes remain locked as they create suitable distance for the coming fight.
The bartender turned referee steps between them holding the silver dollar high for everyone to see. “Ladies and gentlemen, by now you know the rules,” he announces. “The last…”
“Cut the shit and flip the coin,” Gene snaps. “I got things to do”.
Bowing acquiescently the elderly man backs away and flips the coin. The hearts of the bystanders, particularly Kat and Amber leap into their collective throats, halting their breath, their gazes burning their hopes onto violently twisting and turning silver dollar as it reaches its pinnacle and begins its downward trajectory. Many of the townsfolk have taken to embracing while others, unable to withstand the suspense, bury their heads into the chests of spouses and loved ones. The two combatant’s fingers twitch, drumming the handles of their respective weapons while their eyes follow the coin to the ground. They draw, both guns clearing their holsters but only one bullet is fired, its shrieking report echoing across the land as Gene falls face first into the street.
Christian casually spins his gun returning it to the holster as the onlookers break down into mournful withdrawal. Turning his scrutinizing review onto the crowd the victor regards them critically. His hardened face scowling in contempt.
“I don’t get it,” he says gruffly. “You people complain about how little I pay you, yet somehow you manage to find the money to pay a professional wrestler to shoot me. If you have the money to do that… I’m gonna have to pay you less!” His voice, quaking with pent up rage rises to a squall. “This is my fed! And the only reason you wrestle here is because I allow it!”
Down but not out Geno struggles against the bullet lodged in his chest. Rising on trembling legs he grips the revolver, cocking the hammer, determined to finish the job. But the metallic click carries through the rapidly thinning air and to Christian’s ears. Drawing his gun, the Fed boss expertly spins on the point if his high heel drawing his weapon and firing. Geno falls the ground one final time as the towns people openly weep in melancholy.
“Geno, old buddy old pal...” He says, turning to begin his trek back to his manor. "You are suspended indefinitely."