10 Gallon Hats O’ Blood

A Novel by Tom Miller

CHAPTER 3

            In the meantime, the Goobeldeesnarkoos were circling the earth in their fancy space craft made from a metal alloy that has never been heard of. They looked like small deer. The leader, Gorp-Da, drove the craft. But there's always a back-seat driver that thinks she knows better.

            "Watch where your going, Gorp-Da." She kept saying it over and over again. Gorp-Da had just about had enough. "Watch out," she continued. "Slow down. You're going too fast."

            "Bitch," said Gorp-Da to himself.

            "Look out. You drive like a maniac."

            "Shut your mouth, Gorp-Tic. Just shut your damn mouth."

            "But you drive like a Bork-Bah."

            "Tic-Ta with your Bork-Bah," he shouted back. And in Goobledeesnarkooese, this meant trouble.

            "Gacky spoon-krill," she shouted. "And a torky ghack smah to you also."

            "Jesus Christ, Konka-bahn. Your gestures and articulations agitate me!" And with that, he pulled the pork-pa lever which ejected the horrid snark-da into space. Her body imploded and then there was blood. Gorp-da was pleased.

            "Serves her right!" he said to Sniff-snacky, a glob of inert jelly. "Always trying to tell me what to do! Always muking and muking her gorbula. Sticking her pang into every cranky and cracky." He blew air through his enlarged lips and made a funny sound. He kicked his back hoof as if he was angry, and he was. The ship was closing in on earth, and there was going to be a big celebration when Gorp-da would subdue the leader of the monkey men.

            "Quickly!" said Gorp-da to Sniff-snacky. "Apply the shank-bork so we can bend space and bring the earth to us."

            "Geep-Crank-Gurp-Tink!" replied the excited Sniff-snacky, and he undulated in his jello-like manner.

            The giant craft slowly descended upon the barren desert and landed in a patch of plink-pla. A tumble weed blew past the silent menace-of-a ship, but this was no ordinary tumble weed. This was a tumble weed that would change the course of history forever.

            It blew by the spacecraft, by the bunny, by the cactus, by the Wooden Indian, by the town of Flatsacks, and into a hut. The hut was occupied by a lone stranger known only as Old Smokey.

            "What do you want?" asked Old Smokey. The tumble weed did not reply. "That's okay," he continued. "Don't get many visitors around these parts. Sit down. Make yourself at home." The tumble weed didn't move. There was no wind.

            "I made some stew. Want some stew?" The tumble weed didn't answer. "What's the matter with you. Don't you talk?" The tumble weed didn't reply. "Well, suit yourself." Old Smokey tended the fire and stirred the stew. It was good stew, but the tumble weed would never know. Old Smokey was an old fellow. He had seen the best and worst of the West. Once, he had killed a man. Walked right up to him and shot him in the back.

            The man turned around and said, "Shoot me in the back, will you? That's the act of a coward!" And then, he died. Ever since that day, Old Smokey became a sort of hermit, living off the land. Eating sand. Drinking water from the insides of cactus plants. Seeing groups of tiny dwarves carrying off his soul. Watching his tent walls turn into breasts. Feeling them and kissing them, and then discovering that they were only tent walls. Looking at the ants and listening to their silent farts. Making love with the wind. Sticking his finger up his ass, and then smelling it.

            Smelling it.

            "Are you a good tumble weed?" he asked. The tumble weed did not respond. "Yeah, I shot him." Old Smokey continued. "I shot him in the back because he killed my best friend. You ever had a best friend, tumble weed?" The tumble weed sat there and sat there. "Well, a best friend is all you'll ever have in the world. Could be a man, but could be a woman. Mine was both." The tumble weed moved a little. "He/she was everything I ever wanted in a man and a woman. She was a good housewife, a good lover, and he was a good builder of wood. He built this tent here. He build this stove and this bucket over here, and he built this magazine rack. Never had a magazine to put in the rack, but he built it and I keep it over here, in case I get a magazine. Sometimes, I look at that magazine rack and think of him/her. Of his equipment, of his courage, and of his sacrifice. When that man killed him, he made a blood pact. I had no choice." A tear formed in his eye and ran slowly down his face to his chin, where it dropped into the stew, adding that special extra spice. "I had no choice," Old Smokey repeated for dramatic emphasis.

            He looked at the tumble weed and the tumble weed sat there. Then, he took a leap. He hadn't been with a woman or a man for twenty-seven years. The pain he had caused himself with his retribution ached in his cock. He was yearning for some action.

            "Tumble weed," he said, "You come into my home. You treat me with kindness, the likes of which I have never seen in the world. You ask for no food or shelter. You're as kind as anyone I have ever had the occasion to meet. So I'm going to be direct with you. I'm a direct man."

            The tumble weed did nothing. It was a tumble weed. There was no wind.

            "Tumble weed," Old Smokey said, "I'd like to take you into my arms, and make sweet love to you." There was no resistance. Old Smokey, even at seventy, even having never felt the caress of another man/woman in twenty seven years, even with a bullet in his balls, reached over and hugged the tumble weed, and then began to unzip his Western jeans. Tonight was going to be sticky.