by Adam Millard
“You mean Big Bob?” Duke said, a little louder than he anticipated. How was he to know that the pianist had a dodgy stomach, and would choose that exact moment to rush for the latrine?
“Ssssshhhhh,” Murphy said, glancing across the bar to check they hadn’t been heard. Big Bob was punching a toothless guy in the face, repeatedly, and was therefore otherwise occupied. Murphy sighed and relaxed. “Goddamn, that mouth of yours sure does like to put itself in danger.”
Duke sipped cautiously from his whiskey; he had a knack for missing his mouth. “Look, I just need a place to stay tonight,” he said, coughing and spluttering, drooling and making a general gimp of himself. “I might be stupid, but I can take care of myself if I have to.”
Murphy saw something in the fool’s eyes that suggested he wasn’t lying. “Do you have a gun?” he asked.
Duke shook his head. “I do, back in Fort Griffin. My memory ain’t too good; I left my Peacemaker in the toilet.”
“Well, that’s about as useful as a used stick of dynamite,” Murphy said, lighting his pipe. “But you can shoot?”
“When I’ve got a gun,” Duke smiled, dopily.
Exhaling a plume of smoke that covered his face entirely, Murphy said, “I’ve got a proposition for you, boy. It ain’t gonna be easy, but it’ll get you out of here in one piece, and I’ve been waiting for someone like you to come along for quite some time.”
“Someone like me?” asked Duke, intrigued.
“What I like to refer to as a gen-u-ine re-tard,” Murphy said. His face had taken on a dark expression; it was the kind of look someone gave you just before the stench of a rogue fart hit your nose.
“What do I have to do?” Duke said.
“Come with me,” Murphy said, standing and finishing his whiskey in one swallow. “You’re gonna love this.”
*
Duke couldn’t believe they’d killed his horse; while he and Murphy had been conversing at the back of the bar, Big Bob and two of his men had taken it upon themselves to teach Duke a lesson. They had untied the horse – whatsisname – and used the rope to make a rudimentary noose, which they’d then…well, the rest is pretty simple, and far too graphic for description. Needless to say, Duke was mightily pissed off.
Back at Doc Murphy’s office, he paced back and forth, angry, spewing vitriolic diatribes, pledging vengeance against those responsible.
If only, he thought, I’d brought my gun.
“Now, now, there’s no point in letting it get to you,” Murphy calmly said. “What’s done is done, and karma has a way of levelling things around here. They’ll get what’s coming to ‘em. I don’t doubt it.”
For the first time since Duke had arrived at the Doc’s office, he wondered what the fuck he was doing there. He should have been rustling up a horse and heading for the hills, not admiring some guy’s chemistry set.
“Just through here,” Murphy said, stepping into an adjoining room. “Don’t be touching anything you don’t understand.” For Duke, that meant not touching anything at all.
He followed the doctor into the neighbouring room, and the first thing he saw was the trestle table. It sat proudly in the middle of the room, a gruesome centrepiece, as if the rest of the chamber had been built around it. The second thing he noticed was the walls; each was plastered with illustrations of brains. There were so many pictures of brains that Duke began to hallucinate, watching as they morphed into one giant organism. He blinked the illusion away, and turned to the doctor, who was leaning against the trestle table, looking incredibly pleased with himself.
“What is this?” Duke asked, gesturing to the pictures on the wall, the table upon which the doctor was now perched, the jars of bubbling luminosity lining the shelves of an ancient bookcase.
“This, my dear boy, is where the magic happens; figuratively speaking, of course.” He smiled, once again the smile of his favourite uncle, not the one who stroked his leg when his mother was out of the room. “You hate being stupid, don’t you? You wish you could talk properly to people that mattered, instead of being ridiculed and bullied by fools scarcely brighter than yourself.”
Duke nodded. “Hate being dumb,” he said. “Momma said it’s because I almost hung myself in the womb, but Momma dumb too. Why would there be rope in Momma’s womb?”
“Er, indeed,” Murphy said, trying not to laugh. “Well, what if I said I was on the verge of a major breakthrough, one that would change history, and make you the smartest man in Nevada? What if you were able to work things out, write memoirs and plays, beat even the best poker players and become—“
“I don’t know how to play poker,” Duke interjected. “Only Snap! Will I get better at Snap! ‘cos I always come second, even when I’m playing on my own.”
“You’ll be better at everything,” Murphy said, practically leaping from the table. His enthusiasm unsettled Duke, who was trying to remember which door was the way out in case he had to make a quick exit. There was only one door; after a minute or so of calculations, Duke decided it must be the way out.
“How?” he asked. “I ain’t got time to start reading books. I ain’t got time to start learning how to read. I ain’t got time to start figuring out how to learn stuff. It’s too hard. Momma was right; I should just stick to buryin’ my bone in the back garden, leave all the thinkin’ to everyone else.”
Murphy was astounded, and also on the verge of calling Social Services. “Son, your Momma don’t know shit. I can make you smart. So smart, you’ll make Aristotle sound like he didn’t go to school. So smart, Thomas Edison will be coming to you for advice on energy-saving light bulbs. Boy, you’ll even make me sound like I don’t know a damn thing I’m talking about.”
Truth be told, Duke had no idea what Murphy was talking about, and was therefore unable to determine whether he did himself.
“But best of all, you’ll be able to make people do whatever the hell you want ‘em to.” Murphy finished his sentence so abruptly that Duke suspected he’d had a stroke.
“What do you mean, ‘make people do what I want them to’?” Duke asked. For a doctor—a highly-respected and intelligent man; you had to be to earn your stethoscope—he was really starting to sound like a lunatic. Maybe he wasn’t the doctor; maybe he was a madman, masquerading as a doctor. Maybe he’d done away with the doctor completely, donned his smock—after giving it a quick bleach, of course—and was now firmly settled into his new overly-polished boots as the doctor of Delamar. Of course, Duke didn’t think any of this; he was too busy watching a moth continuously pepper the wall with headbutts.
And so Murphy began: a story so bizarre that, if he hadn’t lived through it, he would have called bullshit. It was the story of the last sheriff, a man by the name of Joe McGinty. McGinty had ruled Delamar with an iron fist, and people respected him for it. It was a time of relative peace; if anyone stepped out of line…well, Sheriff McGinty would deal with it in the only way he knew how.
Extreme violence.
He didn’t even have to pull the trigger; he made the bandits, the corrupt gaolers, the overpriced whores, and anyone else stupid enough to step out of line shoot themselves. It was part of what made Joe special. His mind was capable of exploding things just by looking at them. “I once watched him take down an entire herd of buffalo with nary a twitch of the eye,” Murphy said. “We ate well that night, I can tell you.”
Sheriff McGinty was a smart man. So smart that he made a deal with the bank, that when he died, they were to take custody of his brain and lock it up safe in their least-accessible vault until such time that he could be brought back to life or placed in the head of another.
“Is that possible?” Duke asked. “That can’t be possible.”
“Oh, it is,” Murphy said. “At least, it is now. I’ve figured it all out. The only goddamn thing is, I can’t put that brain in my own box, so I’ve been waiting for a drifter to come along—a willing participant, if you will. It’s taken me twenty long years to work it out, and te
n more for you to come along. This whole town is corrupt to hell, and I’m just about done here. If I could just put that brain inside your hea…” He trailed off as he realised he was talking to himself. The idiot – The Man with no Name – had scarpered, and was currently lost in the adjoining room which, unfortunately for him, had two doors. “Now, don’t go panicking,” Murphy said, catching up to Duke and holding out placatory arms. “The procedure is simple, and I’m sixty-two percent confident it will be a success.”
“Sixty-two percent?” Duke said, calming a little. “That doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“Okay...it’s fail-safe,” Murphy lied; the kid didn’t have to hear about the possibility of a lobotomy, or worse. “And when it’s done, you’ll be unstoppable. One of the greatest minds ever to walk this earth.”
“That would make Momma proud,” Duke said, staring up at a dream-bubble that only he could see. Snapping from his reverie, he said, “But you said this brain is in a safe at the bank. How are you going to get it?”
“I’m not,” Murphy said, grinning so wide it looked as if his face had been axed in half. “You are.”
*
So, the premise was simple. Duke was also simple. What could possibly go wrong? He, being the stranger in a town that already distrusted him, was to wander into the bank with a revolver (supplied, of course, by Murphy) and threaten to shoot everyone if they didn’t take him to the safe with Joe McGinty’s brain in it. After that, he was to seal himself in the back room with a hostage (probably Ted Hooper, who usually worked Thursdays) and wait for Doc Murphy, who would offer to negotiate with the poor, dumb boy since he’d put him up the previous night and felt somewhat responsible. The current sheriff, Colmwood, would let Murphy talk to the idiot, and that’s when they would perform the switch.
“How long before the new brain kicks in?” Duke asked Murphy as they sat on his porch, smoking pipes and glancing up at the stars.
“I’ve already thought about that,” Murphy said, staring at three whores as they walked by, teasing him with their long frilly dresses and overzealous makeup. “The hard part will be removing your old one. Can’t rush something like that. Once the new one’s in, you should be up and about pretty darn quick. I reckon two, maybe three hours. They’ll wait as long as it takes for you to come out; especially if you have Ted Hooper hostage. I know for a fact that sonofabitch owes the sheriff fifty dollars; Colmwood won’t do anything to risk sacrificing that money.”
And so it was all set. The next day, as soon as the bank opened, they would make their move. Duke was on his way to getting a new brain, one that didn’t malfunction at the mere mention of quantum physics, carbonaceous compounds, or a saddle that didn’t chafe the inner thigh.
*
“What did you say?” the teller asked, shifting nervously in his seat. Duke didn’t know if he was pointing the revolver at Ted Hooper; this was a time before nametags were compulsory. He looked like a Ted, though, or maybe an Isaac…
“I said stand up, put your hands in the air, and take me to the safe with the brain in it.” Duke had got it right this time. Originally, he’d said, Hand up, put your stands in the air, and take me to the brain with the safe in it. He could see why the teller looked confused.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the teller said, though he forced his hands into the air, anyway. “You’re the stupid drifter, ain’t ya? I thought I recognised your gormless face when you walked in. Got an absent look about ya. Like you lost something.”
Duke didn’t take offence. As far as he was concerned, the guy was just pointing out what he already knew. He sighed. “Look…what’s your name?”
“Ted Hooper,” the teller said.
Oh, so it was Ted. That was good news. He owes the sheriff fifty dollars for something or other, Duke thought.
“Look, Ted. I don’t want to have to shoot you, and this revolver is awfully heavy. Can we just skip the part where you pretend not to know about McGinty’s brain? The sooner you open the safe, the sooner we can get things moving.” He was reading it off the back of his hand, though Murphy’s handwriting was atrocious.
Ted sighed. It was a pity there was nobody around to see the robbery take place, but it was a Thursday, and most people were still in bed sleeping off the Saloon’s Wednesday Night, 2-Cent a Pint promotion. “You don’t have to point that gun at me,” Ted said. “I’ll take you to the safe. To be honest, that thing’s been giving me the creeps since 1872.”
Standing, Ted lowered his arms. Duke didn’t lower the revolver, though perhaps he should have. A lady’s scream from the doorway confirmed it.
“A robbery!” the woman screeched, turning and running from the bank as if chased by a swarm of recalcitrant wasps.
“You’ll want to hurry up to the safe now,” Ted Hooper said, trying his damnedest to avoid the barrel of the gun pointed at him.
Duke nodded. That sounded like a good idea.
*
Outside the bank it was mayhem. The sheriff had arrived and deputised everyone, including the whores. Even Murphy had been given a badge, which he wore with something akin to shame. There were shooters on the roofs opposite and hiding behind carts whose drivers had stopped to rubberneck. Delamar hadn’t seen action like this since the great Miss Kitty Catfight of 1881, in which several prostitutes had been put out of commission thanks to an irate wife and her Remington 582.
“He’ll talk to me,” Murphy said, sidling up to Sheriff Colmwood. “Boy don’t know his ass from his elbow; I can make him come out unarmed. Ain’t no need for anyone to die here today.”
Colmwood spat a globule of steaming, black chewing tobacco at Murphy’s foot. Wiping brown drool from his chin, he said, “You tell that simpleton he’s going to gaol for a long time. Ten times as long if he shoots the teller.”
I wonder why that is, Murphy thought but didn’t say.
He made his way to the bank’s entrance, his little bag of tricks clenched tightly in his right hand. “Boy, I’m coming on in. Don’t you go getting trigger-friendly now, you hear me?” And with that, he pushed his way into the bank, leaving behind the hustle and bustle of the gathering throng, who were only hanging around in the hope of seeing blood at some point during the course of the standoff.
Making his way into the back room, where he deduced the safe to be, Murphy deigned to dream, to allow thoughts of a better Delamar into his mind. For the longest time he’d waited, and a chance had finally presented itself in the…
“Ted reckons this is it,” a voice said, startling Murphy. He turned to find the boy, holding McGinty’s brain as if he was about to drop-kick it. “To be quite honest, I don’t think this is much bigger than the one I’ve already got.”
*
“What are we waiting for, Sheriff?” Big Bob said, chewing nervously on a matchstick. “We should be in there shooting shit up, not out here like tits in the breeze.”
Colmwood shook his head. “We wait,” he said. “We don’t know what that coot’s capable of. He’s got Ted Hooper in there. Poor Ted’s probably got the backdoor trots. Hate to be Peggy Hooper when he hands her his chaps.”
“I knew he was trouble when he walked into the goddamn saloon. There was something in his eyes.”
“Sand?” Colmwood said. “From what I heard, that boy is about as dangerous as a five-year-old girl. No, this ain’t right. This whole thing is off.”
As the afternoon wore on, the crowd began to dissipate; they were eager to see a spot of bloodshed, but, unfortunately, the pigs weren’t going to feed themselves. It was around three when Doc Murphy called out from the bank, by which time Big Bob had fallen asleep, Sheriff Colmwood had started a jigsaw puzzle, and the painted ladies had filled their diaries for the next six weeks.
“Colmwood!” Murphy called. “I’m bringing him out. Poor dummy didn’t know what he was doing. Says he’s sorry, and he didn’t mean no offence.”
“Didn’t mean no offence,” Big Bob said sarcastically, readying his rifle
. “Well he ought to have thought of that before he came drooling his way into town!” he called back.
There was a moment of silence, then Murphy said, “Ain’t no reason for a gunfight, you hear me? The boy wants to come quietly.”
Colmwood sighed. “Alright. Come on out. You have my word that none of these here deputised men will shoot him in the face.” At that, Big Bob shot the sheriff (but not the deputy) a disappointed glance. Colmwood winked. “You have my permission to take his head off.”
Big Bob grinned.
Just then, the door to the bank slowly opened. Doc Murphy came out first, his hands reaching for the sky. Behind him, looking sheepish and glistening with sweat, was Ted Hooper. For a guy of only forty-seven, he sure looked ancient. His jaw hung low, like a panting dog, and he was mumbling incoherently, something about the Devil’s work…
And then came the boy. The crowd gasped and whispered as he walked out onto the trail. In his hand, dripping with blood, he carried what looked like a brain. A thin slice around the top of his own head suggested something had taken place inside the bank, something unnatural.
The Devil’s work…
“Shoot him,” Colmwood said.
“Thought you’d never ask,” Big Bob said, raising his rifle. Just as he was about to fire, the gun must have slipped, or…something, for his own head exploded in a mist of red. The shot echoed around town, causing people to fall off their horses, women to burn bread, and – in one case – a whore to bite off her punter’s penis. The sheriff, staring at the headless body of Big Bob, didn’t know what to do. As his deputy crumpled to the ground, he turned to face the boy – the simpleton – standing stock-still in front of the bank.
All around him, heads started to pop like an adolescent’s pimples. Anyone foolish enough to take aim was quickly dispatched. The best thing to do (and most of them had the same idea) was to run as quickly and frantically in the opposite direction. The shot from Big Bob’s rifle was still ringing out when the final body fell; it all happened so quickly that Colmwood didn’t have time to register the heart attack forcing him to his knees.