“What can I do for you on this fine day?” he says as he peers at me over the counter.
“I’d like to buy every gold mine in town, please.”
He pulls out a large, old map that looks like something Ponce de León used to jizz into on long voyages. You can actually hear it crack as he opens it. He slams it down on the counter in front of him, staring at it carefully.
“Sorry, sir, but they’re all bought up!” he says.
“By who?”
“The Schläger Brothers. They bought up every mine in town, except yours, of course. Next!”
“Hang on, you old bag of dicks, I want to buy some more shit.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“How about some of the other mines?” I say in a lower register.
“I told you all the other gold mines are all bought up.”
I lean across the counter and whisper quietly, “How about the silver or copper mines?”
“What’s that you say? I can’t hear you!”
“Do you have any silver or copper mines for sale?” I ask, slightly raising my voice.
“You say you want to buy silver or copper mines!”
Everyone in the entire deed office stops and stares. After a long pause, they begin laughing at me uncontrollably. A dirty-looking Mexican man starts pointing at me, turning to the line.
“Copper and silver? That’s what us poor people buy!” he laughs.
I unholster my pistol and shoot him right in the heart. He hits the ground dead as shit. Everyone quickly averts their eyes from me as the dead man is dragged out. Mr. Monopoly leans across the counter and motions me toward him with his index finger.
“Mr. Street James, if you want my friendly advice, I’d start saving some of your money.” An audible gasp can be heard from the patrons behind me.
“Did you just try to ‘son’ me by spewing out financial advice?” I ask.
Mr. Monopoly immediately tries to backtrack. “I . . . I didn’t . . .”
“Too late.”
I stand up from the desk, calmly pull out my gun, and blow this motherfucker away. To emphasize my point, I pull out my other gun, unleashing the entire cylinder into him after he is already dead.
I jump up onto the counter and yell, “Let’s get one thing straight! Saint James Street James is still the richest motherfucker in this town, and for your troubles, here’s some gold.”
Digging into my pockets, I take out handfuls of gold chunks and throw them on the floor just to watch these grimy bastards dive on the ground to fight over them like the peasants they are. I smile to myself as I walk out. It’s been a long fucking day, and I need a drink, maybe a prosty or two. I deserve it.
* * *
I. Yeah, I invented dynamite, not that other dickbag who has a peace prize named after him. It wasn’t that fucking hard to figure out how to dump a bunch of gunpowder in something and light it.
II. Years later his grandson created a board game named after him to make his name synonymous with families arguing over shitty deeds. That kid even named a property after me.
Chapter Five
THE WILD WEST WAS RAD, BECAUSE YOU COULD JUST KILL PEOPLE
Over the next six months, the Schläger brothers slowly integrate into society and spend their gold throughout town. I see these assholes every day. It is jolting looking at these rednecks riding down Main Street hollering weird incestuous innuendo toward one another.
“I’m gonna suck your dick!” one of them screams out.
“Not if I suck yours first!” another one laughs. “Just kidding, but not if it’s dark, then you’ll never know it was me!”
After a long day, I don’t need to hear that shit, I just want a drink and ten sets of tits in my face. When I hop down from my steed, I see my favorite sleepy little whorehouse going off like electricity has just been invented. I walk in and see a midget dressed in only a tuxedo shirt and jacket, naked from the waist down, playing the piano like a tiny little Chopin. All the whores are topless, dancing on top of the tables.
Two of them are making out with each other on a makeshift stage that has been set up in the back of the saloon. The Schläger brothers are front and center throwing tiny chunks of gold onto the stage. They raise mason jars full of liquor and toast each other, laughing like animals. My blood begins to boil. Behind the bar, I see Manuel serving as many drinks as he can. I have to fight my way through the crowd to get to him.
“Manny, what the shit is happening in here?”
“The Schläger brothers came in this morning and have been giving out free liquor all day,” he screams back over the madness.
“So what? I buy drinks for the entire place all the time.”
“Yeah, but this new liquor is fucking crazy, man. Everyone is going banana-dick over it! People take a shot of it and lose their mind!”
“What is it?”
Manuel grabs a bottle from behind the bar and hands it to me. The label reads “Goldschläger.” I feel like he has just handed me the first breast implant. I’ve never seen anything like it.
“It’s some crazy hybrid liquor from Europe and West Virginia. It’s got real chunks of gold in it, man! How fucking crazy is that? Here, have a shot. Everything is on the house today, courtesy of the Schlägers.”
Manuel pours me a shot and slides it down the bar. He holds up his own shot and we “air cheers,” drinking it together. Goddamn it, this shit is smooth. Manuel looks at me, and his eyes start rolling into the back of his head. I’m confused, until I see a woman pop up and wipe the side of her mouth. He was getting blown the whole time we were talking. Jesus, man, that guy never gets blown, either. People really are going bug-fuck over this shit. He pours another shot and slings it to me.
“This is the greatest day of my life!” Manuel screams. “It’s like people forgot that I’m an Indian and they’re treating me like a real person!”
He rips his leather vest off and throws it out into the crowd. Staring into the clear liquor, I see the gold flakes floating around in a trancelike motion, as if they are dancing along with the music from the piano. Clear liquor doesn’t exist in these parts, let alone liquor with chunks of gold in it. All I can think about is how rich the Schläger brothers keep getting. They’ve almost taken over the entire town in just a little over half a year, and now they’re so rich that they will make other people shit gold after drinking their liquor.
Does this mean poor people will be digging into their own shit so they can turn a profit? Will this change the balance of power between the classes? Are people going to be holding guns to each other’s heads and asking them to shit their pants so they can get a score? Why am I thinking about this? I snap out of it, take the shot, and slam it on the table. A man’s hand slaps me on the shoulder from behind.
“That drink is the shit, ain’t it?”
I quick-draw and fire a shot into his stomach, then re-holster without even turning around. The entire bar grinds to a halt and stares at me. Even the half-nude midget pianist stops playing and runs out of the bar. I glance down at the man I just shot, recognizing his face. It’s one of the Schläger brothers from the bukkake line. He looks up at me in disbelief as he coughs up blood.
“Why did you do that?” he asks.
“No one asks me to drink and shit, you hear me?”
“I said this drink is the shit. Now I’m dead.”
He closes his eyes and dies on the floor. The other Schläger brothers get up from their chairs and rush me, forming a half-circle. I do my best to keep my back pressed against the bar, so they can’t surround me. The half-nude midget runs back in and quickly grabs his bowler hat from on top of the piano, before running back out. Where the fuck is he going that he needs his hat? Sven, the beefy Schläger brother from earlier, steps out in front of the half-circle.
“You killed my brother.”
“You got fifteen more.”
“You think I’m going to let you drink my free liquor, kill one of my brothers, and I�
�m just going to be cool with it?”
“If you want to go against the hand of God, may peace be with you,” I say, as I point to my gun.
Manuel pipes up in the background, “Don’t do it! Saint James Street James is the fastest gun I’ve ever seen. He’ll kill all of you.”
“Is that so?” Sven says.
“He’s full of shit, Sven!” one of the youngest brothers screams. Another brother suddenly gets brave and pulls out his pistol. Before he can even raise it past his belt line, I shoot him three times in the head, dropping him to the floor like a wet turd from a man on stilts. The Schlägers howl in rage.
“That’s two of my brothers! You’re a goddamn dead man, Saint James,” Sven seethes.
“I’d hate to kill another one; I don’t think you can count that high.”
As Sven begins to do a silent count staring at his fingers, I shoot the two bottles of Goldschläger that Manuel is holding, and the contents explode all over the floor. Every whore in the joint hits the ground and tries to scoop up the gold flakes before they disappear beneath the floorboards. Amidst the frenzy, I tip my hat to Sven and walk out.
Once outside, I see my Chinaman running toward me. He’s out of breath and thirsty as shit, per usual. He’s trying to speak but doesn’t have enough saliva to physically get the words out. I pull out a canteen from my saddlebag and give it to my horse to drink.
“Spit it out, man, I don’t have all fucking day.”
He licks his lips and finally musters up the words, “Boss . . . no more gold.”
“What did you say? Because it sounded like you said ‘no more gold’!”
He nods his head yes and then passes out from dehydration. I examine his hands and notice that he has all ten fingers. It’s definitely my Asian. I throw his unconscious body up on the back of my steed, and we ride out toward my gold mine.
It’s a ten-mile ride, which is even longer when you have a foul-smelling half-dead Chinaman bouncing back and forth against you from behind. When we finally reach the mine, I pull another canteen out of my saddlebag and pour a small amount of water on my Chinaman’s lips. He licks it softly and stirs to life, bowing appreciatively toward me.
“Thank you, boss, thank you.”
“No problem,” I say as I then proceed to dump the rest of the canteen all over my face, neck, and hands to wash off the trip. “Take me inside the mine.”
We fire up two lanterns and walk into the filthy mine. Soon I am further inside than I’ve ever been. I shine my lantern toward the walls, and I’m in awe of what I see. From ceiling to floor are elaborate drawings of people hardcore fucking. There are also drawings of a guy getting killed over and over again in different, horrendous ways. The closer I study them, it appears to be the same guy who is getting killed, and the guy in the drawings resembles me. I mean, they look exactly like me.
“How old do you think these drawings are?”
“Probably a few hours ago? I started to think I was going to die of thirst in this mine.”
“Is this me, the guy who keeps getting killed over and over?”
The Chinaman sheepishly looks away. “Nope. Different guy. Old boss. You guys were the same height, that’s all.”
The further we go, all I see are rocks, without a speck of gold to be found. The Chinaman picks up a hammer and pick, banging against a wall of solid rock. After a few hits, chunks of rock fall from the wall to the ground. I pick them up and examine them with my lantern. Nothing. Panic and desperation set in, and I sit down inside the mine. For a brief second, I wonder if I can just paint the rocks yellow and pass them off—maybe no one will know. My Chinaman slinks down next to me.
“What are we going to do, boss?”
“Well, I have a ton of gold that you’ve dug up for me over the last couple years. I suppose I can live off that. You?”
“Not sure. You’ve only paid me one cent a day the entire time I’ve been working for you, which has only afforded me rice and water for my family. Most days, I usually give my ration of water to my children, and I go thirsty.”
“Have you been thirsty? I hadn’t noticed. Sorry about that. Here you go.” I pull yet another canteen out of my jacket and hand it to him.
He smiles, genuinely touched. “Thank you.”
“No problem. Good luck with everything.”
When I pat him on the shoulder and walk out, I don’t even have to turn back around to know that he appreciated the old “empty canteen trick.” As I finally make my way out, I ride off into the forest in silence. Usually I sing Negro spirituals aloud when I ride home from work, but today my sadness has overtaken me.
Making my way out of the trees, I can see my property from the top of the hill. I hear a loud scream that I would recognize anywhere echo from the low land. It’s Louretta. In a panic, I ride hard down the hill toward the house. A scream like that can only mean one thing . . . someone is dead.
As I get closer, I see my kids outside crying next to her. She’s lying on the ground screaming and pointing to the top of the barn, where I see what appears to be a large, gold statue swinging from a noose. I run toward her, confused.
“What the hell is going on? Why are you crying?”
“I can’t—it’s just—it’s Totally Fucking Mexico out there!” she wails.
“Shit got that wild?”
“No, it’s our third-youngest son, Totally Fucking Mexico. He’s dead.”
“Sorry, I always forget we named him on vacation. Where’s his body?”
She points up to the golden statue and screams, “That’s him right there! They dipped him in a pot of melted gold!”
I look up at Totally Fucking Mexico hanging there, frozen in solid gold. The rage inside me begins to boil. I’m barely able to get out the words, “Who did this?”
“I don’t know who they were! They grabbed me when I was inside cooking dinner, but I didn’t recognize them. All of them had gold teeth.”
“Listen to me, Lou. I want you to know that I will find the motherfuckers who did this, and they will pay with their own lives.”
My wife stares daggers at me as she sobs uncontrollably, knowing full well I already know who killed him. I hold her in my arms as I look down at my children. All of them are crying except for Daniel, my eldest, who has a look of anger in his eyes like he wants to kill. It’s the same look I’ve had my whole life.
“Lou, put the kids in their rooms. I want to talk to Daniel alone.”
“All right,” she says as she wipes away her tears and takes the other kids upstairs.
“What happened here today, boy?” I ask Daniel.
“Mom was cooking dinner while me and the boys were playing hide and never come back. All of the sudden, this group of rowdy redneck men came riding out of the woods and scooped up Totally Fucking Mexico. They said something about you killing their brothers and that this was an eye for an eye. One of the brothers was riding with a wagon towing a cauldron. They put a bunch of gold in it, built a fire, waited for it to melt, then threw him in. And they made Mom watch.”
“Our neighbor, Mr. Paulson, didn’t help out?
“Nope.”
“That motherfucker. I’ll deal with him later. Women are off-limits obviously, but I killed two of theirs—why didn’t they try and kill two of you?”
“I told you, we were hiding . . . and never coming back.”
“Why weren’t you coming back?”
“Because we hate you.” He slowly pulls a Buck knife from behind his back that has blood dripping off of it.
“Good, you’re supposed to hate your father. Why is there blood on your knife?”
“They rode out in the forest past me after they hung Totally Fucking Mexico. I jumped out from behind a tree and got one in the leg. He fell off his horse, but I don’t think they noticed.”
“Is he still out there?”
“I think so. He was bleeding real good.”
“All right, I’m proud of you. Go grab the ladder and cut down your brother
. I’ll see if that man is still out there.”
When he runs off, I well up with fatherly pride. I don’t know if it’s possible for a male’s balls to drop around eight years old, but I’ll be goddamned if that little motherfucker’s didn’t hit the dirt in that moment. He’s growing up to be a badass right before my very eyes.
Looking down, I spot a trail of blood on the ground leading into the woods. As I follow it to the tree line, I can hear a male grunting. It’s either a man dying, or someone in the end stages of a sweet j-off sesh. Up ahead in the trail, I see a half-drunk bottle of Goldschläger with a bloody handprint on it. I stop and pick it up, and the grunting gets louder.
Ahead in the distance, I spot one of the fat little Schläger brothers propped up against a tree, tying a knot around a knife wound in his leg with a ripped-off shirtsleeve. I casually stroll over to him and clear my throat loudly.
“Did your hymen break?” I ask.
The tubby little haunted troll goes to grab his gun, but I quick-draw mine and put a bullet through his hand. His gun flies ten feet backward and he screams in anguish. His face turns pale as I laugh and take a long pull of Goldschläger.
“You want some? Me, I’m not a fan of this shit. There’s just too much fucking ‘gay’ in it. You can have it.”
I pour out all of the contents of the bottle into his open wound. He screams and clutches his leg like a beaten woman. The rest is kind of hazy. I don’t know what proof that Goldschläger is, but that shit has been sneaking up on me all day. The last thing I remember is him begging for his life, crying, and saying he’ll do anything I want, along with the requisite “please don’t kill me” bullshit. Obviously I execute him using every bullet inside my gun, probably starting with non-vital organs first, ending his life really slowly so he feels every single shot fired. The one thing I’m not positive about is if I pissed on his dead body or not afterward.I
With the sun starting to set behind me, I button my pants and walk out of the forest. Through the kitchen window I can see my wife and kids sitting at the dinner table, preparing to eat. Louretta is valiantly trying to hold it together as tears stream down her face. I take off my hat when I walk in and join them at the table. She grabs the hands of our boys sitting on both sides of her and bows her head.
At Night She Cries, While He Rides His Steed Page 4