“Goddamn it, Saint James, this is some serious shit!”
Manny shakes his head and picks up a hollowed-out armadillo shell. He dips it inside the cauldron and hands me a bowl of ayahuasca tea as I join the circle with the rest of the Indians. We all look at one another and drink in unison. As soon as the bitter tea hits my throat, I can feel it slowly racing through my veins. The Indians feel it as well, and stare at each other intensely. I look over at Manuel, who pours a shellful into the buffalo’s mouth.
“Is that thing going to be cool on that?” I ask.
“Are we?” he retorts as both of us laugh. This special bond between a white man and a magical Indian is interrupted by a marshal screaming outside.
“Saint James! We got your boy! You have two minutes to come out with your hands up, or we burn the place down!”
What the fuck? This can’t be, it’s only been like an hour or so. I run up the stairs and peek out the curtain. The marshals pry open a coffin and begin to pull the top of his gold statue out, trying to stand it upright. Shit, man, these marshals are playing for keeps. I walk back down the stairs and salute everyone farewell.
“This is the end of the line, boys. I appreciate your hospitality.”
“No,” says the eldest Indian stirring the cauldron. Everyone turns and looks at him. “I am the acting chief of this tribe, and if you burn, we burn with you.”
He holds up his hand and sticks it into the flames underneath the cauldron, palm-side down. That motherfucker never breaks eye contact with me as his skin melts. I’m not going to do that shit, but it is awesome to see someone else do it. With the smell of burning flesh resonating through the air, he smiles and says, “Are you ready to fly with the sea of wingless birds?”
Without hesitation, or knowing what the fuck he is talking about, I reply, “I am.”
He closes his eyes and begins chanting in a deep, low, resonating voice. The other Indians close their eyes and join in as well. The old chief then pulls a battered wooden box from behind him. He carefully lifts the top, revealing twenty live rattlesnakes. He motions for me to grab a snake with my bare hands. I’m so fucking high on ayahuasca that I don’t even flinch as I stick my hand in.
“Now, slowly apply pressure to the neck of the snake with four fingers and ease your thumb upward. When he exposes his fangs, squeeze your thumb down on his head, closing his mouth gently.”
I do exactly as told. The rattlesnake shakes his tail wildly as milky white venom begins to slowly seep from his mouth. Holy shit, this is intense.
“I want each of you to turn to the man next to you and draw a spirit animal on each other’s face in rattlesnake venom,” the chief says in a stern voice.
Manuel turns to me, and I close my eyes. He begins rubbing the closed mouth of the rattlesnake against my face in a controlled manner. I can feel the warm venom slowly sinking into my cheeks. It burns like a motherfucker with an intensity that makes you want to kill someone. When he finishes, I open my eyes and do the same to him.
The old chief smiles and says, “On the count of three, I want you to tell the other person what you drew. One. Two. Three.”
“A bald eagle,” Manuel and I say in unison.
The chief nods and says, “You are ready. Let’s go kill some white people.”
Suddenly, we hear the sounds of Goldschläger bottles crashing through the windows of my opium den, followed by the unmistakable smell of smoke. The den immediately goes up in flames. I hear my steed upstairs neighing loudly, and I know it’s go time. The old chief takes our rattlesnakes and puts them back in the box.
With my face burning, I instinctively take off my shirt to become one of the Indians. One by one we head up the stairs as the flames grow higher. I hop up on my steed and look down at Manuel, who is now riding the white buffalo up from the cellar.
The Indians fall in behind him, pulling out hatchets attached to their calves. They give the go-ahead signal to Manuel, who slaps the buffalo hard on the ass. It takes off like a rocket, crashing through the front door and out into the street. The marshals are paralyzed with fear as it knocks a few of them down off their horses. That guy with the rakes tied to his arms tries to spin into the animal, swinging at it wildly. Obviously, the buffalo tramples him to death in brutal fashion. That really is the first guy I wanted to see die, just because of his own stupidity.
In a state of bewilderment, the other marshals pivot hard on their horses in mass confusion, unable to get a clean shot off at him. An albino buffalo sighting is a rarity anyway, let alone one busting out of a fake hostage situation after you set an opium den on fire. I whip the reins of my steed, and he takes off running through the whorehouse at full speed, shattering through the window, out onto Main Street. The Indians immediately sprint out behind us and start throwing hatchets at the marshals.
There’s so much chaos going on that the marshals fumble with their weapons, not knowing where to shoot. I draw my guns and start blasting the shit out of people. One by one, marshals begin to hit the ground, splattered in blood, dead as fuck.
Amidst the confusion, I hear a loud war cry from the roof, where I see the old chief standing. He throws the wooden box full of rattlesnakes high in the air down toward the marshals. The snakes spill out everywhere when the box crashes to the ground, spooking the marshals’ horses, causing them to buck them off. Some of their horses fall on top of them on the ground, crushing their legs. The rest of the Indians pounce and begin scalping them one by one. Blood flies everywhere. It’s graphic as shit, even more so when you’re on drugs.
Indians don’t give a fuck, either. Real talk, they would have killed all of us white men if it weren’t for the invention of muskets. Muskets changed the game; we had them, and they didn’t. Simple as that. Watching them kill right now, I realize and appreciate how hard-core these motherfuckers are. Plus, the ayahuasca heightens your awareness, and you’re really able to hone in and take souls. I can’t recommend it enough when you’re in a “kill-or-be-killed” situation.
With the sounds of horses approaching from behind, I spin my steed around in their direction. The marshals who were stationed out back suddenly come flying around the corner on horses with their guns drawn, aimed square at me. I fire my pistols, but they’re out of bullets. As I quickly try and reload, I realize it’s too late. They have the drop on me. All ten marshals smile.
“Good-bye, Saint James Street James,” one of them says.
“I’m about to go Totally Fucking Mexico!” a voice screams out.
The marshals turn toward the voice, where the statue of Totally Fucking Mexico has come to life—but it’s not him. It’s Daniel, who has painted himself gold. The realism is frightening, and Daniel exploits the stunned marshals, who hesitate to fire. He pulls out his pistols and begins shooting at the marshals as he runs out in front of me.
I scream out to him, “Daniel! No!”
He manages to take out four or five marshals before they regain their senses. All at once they fire in unison, peppering him with hot lead. After he’s hit with what seems like more than a hundred rounds, I see massive amounts of blood pouring out of his body. With the few bullets I was able to jam into my guns, I’m able to kill the remaining marshals. I quickly dismount my steed and run over to Daniel, as his near-lifeless body falls to the ground.
“Daniel, why did you do this?”
“I just wanted to prove myself to you, Dad.”
“You’ve proven yourself like three times. More than any father could ever ask of his son. Also, that paint job is un-fucking-believable. You look just like him. He would be proud.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Out of curiosity, how did you know to run home and do this?”
“I’m a Street James. We think alike,” he says as he tries to smile and violently coughs up blood.
“This probably isn’t the time, but this is the last thing I would have thought to do.”
“Yeah, but you probably wouldn’t have thought about doing this either.”
“I think I see Ma.”
“Run to her, Daniel,” I say, realizing there’s nothing I can do. He’s bleeding too much and he’s about to die. As a father, I comfort him as much as I can, as he nods his head gently and closes his eyes. I hold him in my arms and look up toward the sky as the Indians pounce on the dead marshals and scalp the shit out of them. When they finish, the Indians walk over and rub their fingers in Daniel’s blood and wipe them underneath their eyes out of respect for this fallen warrior.
As I sit with his head in my lap, I hear a set of saloon doors swing open behind me from across the street. Before I can turn to see who it is, I’m shot in the other shoulder. What are the fucking chances? I look back and see Mayor Van Buren firing a small derringer at me like a fucking woman. Glancing down at my shoulder, I’m more pissed off than anything. Of course this little motherfucker has a derringer.
With fear in his voice, he screams out at me, “Fuck you, Saint James! I’ll kill you just like I did the rest of your family!”
He empties the last two shots of his little, tiny gun at me, missing wildly. Running like a scorned woman, he jumps on his horse and rides off. When I stand up and cock my pistols, taking aim at him, a hand reaches over and grabs my arm firmly. It’s old-man strength. I don’t even have to look over to know that it’s the chief.
Completely covered in marshals’ blood from neck to nuts, he looks me directly in the eyes and says, “No gun. When a man takes another man’s entire family, that man needs to feel his life being taken from him by the hands of the man he has taken from.”
“Thank you, wise Chief. The word ‘man’ was used a lot in that last sentence, but I understood it.” He gives me two small hatchets, and in return, I hand him my guns.
“Trust your instincts, and the spirit world will guide you into a cloud through time and space, which will in turn lead you to the other world, where you will meet a man with no face who cannot eat—”
“I hate to cut you off, but the mayor is getting away, and I have no idea what the fuck you’re saying right now. I should go.”
The old chief smiles, “Forgive me, the ayahuasca has just taken ahold of me. I have said too much weird shit.”
The fact that it’s now just kicking in is amazing. I’m astonished at the chief’s tolerance for hallucinogens. He takes my hands and squeezes them around the hatchets, before circling the dead marshals, chanting. I tuck the hatchets in the back of my jeans and ride off on my steed like never before. It feels like I’m riding on Pegasus as I trail the mayor along the river.
The moon is now out and full as fuck, no doubt having my back. I’m able to see this chubby little coward’s shadow perfectly bouncing up and down on his horse along the edge of the water. I look up at the big guy, who winks at me again, and I swear to God, the moon mouths the words, “Fuck. That. Dude. Up.”
You bet your ass, moon. With my horse now at top speed, I’m just a few lengths from him. Bearing down hard, I’m finally able to get close to him. I leap from my steed, knocking the mayor off his horse in midair, just as we hit the edge of a cliff and plunge over a waterfall.
Somehow, I’m able to grab him around the neck as we flail through the air. I put him firmly in a chokehold and punch him in the face with my other arm as we descend. Directly in front of me I see my steed kicking the mayor’s horse in the face on the way down as well. The four of us plunge into the water forty feet below with unspeakable force.
I rise out of the water like a great white sensing a kill. My steed pops up and swims over to land, shaking off the jump like a fucking boss. Down the river fifty yards or so, I see Van Buren’s horse floating facedown, dead. The current washes the massive body downstream, but the mayor is nowhere in sight.
I dive back down underwater, and I’m able to spot him with the bright light of the moon. Miraculously, he’s still alive; his suit jacket is caught on a rock. He flails his arms and legs, struggling for breath. I’m going to go ahead and answer your question, fuck no I’m not going to let him drown, because he deserves worse. He deserves to see my eyes as I kill him. Maybe even my dick. Relax, it’s not gay, it’s just a show of one male being superior to and dominant over another male.
Grabbing the back of his collar, I drag him out of the water and onto shore. As he gasps for breath on land, I pick him up and choke-slam that motherfucker to the ground. He vomits out all of the water in his lungs. Studying my prey, I slowly circle him and pull both hatchets out of the back of my jeans. His eyes widen in terror as I begin to unzip my pants. I just told you I was going to do that, so why the fuck are you shocked? As I pull off my jeans, he tries to squirm away, grabbing at reeds of grass. Now butt-ass naked, I kick him in the ribs and he rolls around weeping, a lot like Ron used to.
“Please don’t kill me! Please don’t kill—why the hell are you naked?”
“Because I want you to know that a man killed you. A real man, not some fucking pussy who burned down someone’s house and killed their entire family while they were helpless. This is how a real man kills another man when he wants to take him out of this world.”
Leaping on top of him, I pin his arms down with my knees, letting my entire dick and balls hang inches from his face. With a mighty force, I swing down hard with both my hatchets, chopping off each of his hands simultaneously. He screams in agony.
I pick his right hand up off the ground and stuff it in his own mouth, muffling his cries. We lock eyes, and I turn him over on his stomach, pulling down his trousers as he tries to scream. I think about raping him, but after what he did to my family, I need to go further. This time I want to do something so fucked up, that it will fuck up whoever finds him as well, knowing that this dead man did something horrific to deserve this.
That’s when I make the decision to reach over and pick up his bloody chopped-off left hand . . . and jam it up his own ass. His eyes almost pop out of his head as he waves his bloody stumps around in violent protest, while kicking his legs wildly. I can hear the crunching of his own bones echoing throughout the land as he bites down on the hand in his mouth. He tries to move, but he can’t do shit, unable to do anything but sit there with his whole goddamn hand up his own ass. Fuck him.
When I finally decide he has had enough and it is time to end his life, I take a hard seat down on his back. I pull his head close to me and look up at the moon for approval to scalp him. The moon nods and gives me the final go-ahead.
I take a deep breath and roar like the old chief as I place my hatchet to his scalp. When my blade pierces through the top of his brain, ending his life, I hear the screams of a thousand wolves howling with delight. A bald eagle flies down and lands in front of me. We make eye contact as the Indian spirit courses through my veins. I have become one of them.
Satisfied with my kill, I stand up and slap Van Buren’s scalp against my dong, before casually tossing it into the river, further asserting my manhood and dominance. After a full ten minutes of staring at my fully flexed physique reflecting off the water, I finally walk over to my steed and ride off butt-ass naked into the moonlight. I don’t know where I am going next, and I don’t fucking care. In this moment, I feel a sense of peace knowing that the only two things I need in this cold, dark world are between my legs: my steed, and my dick and balls.
Congratulations, you’ve just completed the best book you’ve ever read in your entire life. Oh, were you hoping I was going to kill myself now? Like I said, I’ve lived a long life, so that might take a while. In the meantime, go stare at yourself in the mirror and dream about being me until the next one comes out.
Yes, it’s true. You’re staring at a photo of St. James St. James, the famous gonzo filmmaker, author, actor, sexual icon, Iditarod Champion, and amateur child sports psychologist. If you’re a dude, there’s a 98 percent chance he’s already slept with your woman. Don’t take it personally, instead view it as a
gift, nay, something to strive for. Maybe you’ll be able to make love to her someday as passionately as he did. It’s doubtful, but it will at least give you something to shoot for in life.
65 Bleecker Street
New York, NY 10012
Copyright © 2015 by Ross Patterson
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Regan Arts Subsidiary Rights Department, 65 Bleecker Street, New York, NY 10012.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is coincidental.
First Regan Arts hardcover edition, June 2015
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014955548
ISBN 978-1-941393-49-9
eISBN 978-1-941393-87-1
Interior design and background illustrations by Daniel Lagin
Jacket design by Richard Ljoenes
Jacket art and interior illustrations by Tim McDonagh
Author photograph by Jarred Taylor
At Night She Cries, While He Rides His Steed Page 19