Seth MacFarlane's A Million Ways to Die in the West: A Novel

by Macfarlane, Seth

  Albert thought back to that night. It seemed like a year ago. In reality, it had been … what, two weeks? Not even. He felt as though he’d known Anna Barnes so much longer. He could trust her. And yet, paradoxically …

  “Anna, I have to ask you something. I feel as close to you as any friend I’ve ever had. Which is fucked up, because the glaring fact is, I still don’t really know anything about you. And every time I ask, you change the subject.”

  Anna sighed and lowered her head. Usually, her acute mind would quickly arm her with a sharp, confident response to any question, but this time she did not speak.

  Albert got the distinct sense that he was about to get the real story. In a way, he did.

  “I know it seems like I’ve been secretive with you,” she said, “and … look, to be honest, here’s how it is: I don’t much like where I come from. I don’t like it at all. It’s a rotten place, and as far as I’m concerned, I’d just as soon erase it from my life. And it’s not who I am today. I know it’s asking a lot, but … don’t ask me about it. Okay?”

  Albert’s curiosity was now twice as piqued; he desperately wanted to pry deeper. Instead, he offered his best sympathetic smile. “Okay.”

  “Thanks,” she said with visible relief. The playfulness immediately returned to her tone. “Now, how ’bout a toast to something we both have in common: our hatred of this terrible part of the country.” She raised the whiskey bottle. “Fuck the West!” She took a sizable pull and passed it to Albert.

  “Fuck the West!” he echoed, and tossed back a swig of his own.

  There were only a couple more shots left in the bottle. “If you want to kill it, go ahead,” she offered.

  “No, I can’t,” he said. “I’ve had enough already, and when I drink too much, it doesn’t shit well.”

  “Doesn’t sit well.” She laughed, raising the bottle to her lips.

  “No, shit. It causes horrible shits. The morning after I drink too much, when I sit down to go to the bathroom, it feels like a madman trying to punch his way out of my asshole.”

  Anna laughed so hard, the whiskey came squirting out of her nostrils.

  “See, that’s what happens, right there,” Albert said, laughing along with her. “I need at least half the Old Testament in the john with me, that’s how long it takes. Ironically, it usually settles down by the time I get to the part in Leviticus where it says, No butt stuff.”

  “Okay, stop! You’re gonna make me drown!” She coughed, shoving him coltishly.

  Albert straightened. “Ooh, I almost forgot,” he said with excitement. He called toward the corral. “Bridget! Come here, Bridget! Baaaa! Baaaa!”

  Bridget emerged from the flock of sheep and hurried over toward the fence, bleating back at Albert. She had something strapped to her back, Anna noticed. As Bridget came to a stop next to the fence, Anna saw that it was a wooden tray with a small wrapped gift sitting on top.

  “What’s this?” she asked with amusement.

  “Ah, it’s not much. Just a little something to say thanks.”

  She looked at Albert with suspicious but affectionate eyes and carefully unwrapped the paper. Inside, she found a picture frame with a photograph in it. It was a young, scruffy-looking cowboy leaning against a barn—

  —with a big grin on his face.

  Her eyes snapped wide open. “Holy shit!!”

  “I know, right?!” Albert said giddily.

  “He’s smiling! In the picture!”

  “I know! I bought it off a peddler who was coming through town a few days ago.”

  “This is the guy I heard about! I can’t even believe this exists!”

  “Yeah, and apparently he’s not insane.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “That’s what the guy told me.”

  “It takes thirty seconds to take a photograph. He would’ve had to smile for thirty sustained seconds.”

  “I know. I’ve never been happy for thirty seconds in a row in my life.”

  “It’s the West—no one has. He’s gotta be insane.”

  “Yeah, probably.”

  She turned to him with a look of enormous gratitude. “Albert, this was really kind of you.”

  “Oh, please, I owe you. A lot more than this, actually.”

  She kissed him on the cheek. Her touch was warm, and her scent was a fragrant sweetness that stood in glaring incongruity with the malodorous stink of the surrounding frontier.

  Albert kissed her.

  She did not pull away. For several moments, they both allowed the world around them to melt into nonexistence.

  When the kiss ended, Albert was acutely aware that his cheeks were bright red. He felt stimulated, alive, and supremely confused. He opened his mouth to speak, with no clue as to what was going to come out. “Oh,” he said.

  She looked at him with seemingly new eyes. “What?” she said softly.

  “I’m … I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I—you’ve just … you’ve been a good friend to me, that’s all.”

  “It’s really okay,” she said, putting a gentle hand on his.

  “Plus, I’ve had a shitload of whiskey.”

  She laughed. “Me too. I know, it’s fine. I should probably go anyway.”

  Albert looked down self-consciously at his shoes. “I’ll take you home.”

  The desert night had chilled somewhat as they walked side by side up to the door of the Old Stump Hotel. They paused in the entryway.

  “Good luck tomorrow,” she said with warm reassurance. “I’ll be there.”

  “Thanks,” he said. They stood there under the lamplight for what seemed like an eternity, and then she kissed him back.

  Where their first encounter had been sweet, gentle, and delicate, this one was passionate. He returned it in kind. What the hell am I doing? he thought. I’m about to risk my life to win back the woman I love. I love Louise.

  But he stayed.

  For several minutes they allowed the moment to take its own shape as they held each other, relishing the shared body heat that warmed them in the brisk air.

  Then at last Albert stepped back and released his hands from hers. He could feel his smile touching his eyes, something he had not felt in a conspicuously long time. “Good night,” he said, and turned to walk away. He strode off toward the hitching post as Anna closed the hotel door behind her.

  Neither of them noticed the murky figure of Lewis watching from the shadows of the alley across the street.

  “You can’t call it off?” Louise asked Foy, making a swirling motion against his bare chest with her pale, petite finger.

  “Of course not!” he said sharply. “I’d be branded a coward.”

  “But, baby, if you fight him tomorrow, you’re gonna kill him.”

  “Yes, that’s what happens in a gunfight,” he said with condescension.

  They lay side by side in Foy’s generously proportioned brass bed. His home was easily the most well appointed in Old Stump and the only house that contained any polished wood.

  “Look, he’s not a bad guy, Foy. I mean, yeah, he’s kind of a loser and he always smells like sheep, but he doesn’t deserve to be shot.”

  “Louise, my decision is final. Now do it.”

  She pouted. “But I’m tired.”

  “Louise,” he said sternly. She sighed, leaned in toward his face, and began to dutifully suck on one tip of his moustache.

  He closed his eyes as he shifted his body in arousal. “Mmm …” he moaned, his brow moist and his lips parted. “My social stature is significant. I’m an important man. I have my own business. People envy me.” Then suddenly his eyes snapped open. He sat up rigidly, leapt out of bed, and dashed out of the room.

  “Foy?” Louise called after him. “What’s wrong? Foy?”

  She heard him race out the front door. She opened the window and looked out. It was dark, but she could make out his bare-assed naked form sprinting across the
yard to the outhouse. He slammed the wooden door with the crescent moon carved in its surface and swore loudly as explosive diarrhea claimed him for the next half hour.

  The morning of the gunfight was bright and clear, the air mild. Anna brushed her hair in preparation as she stared at herself in the hotel room’s full-length mirror. She had more on her mind than she cared to contend with, as she had not expected events to play out the way they had. Albert had been a project: a fun sort of diversion while she bided her time in the sleepy town of Old Stump, pending the inevitable return of Clinch. Albert had been a toy, one she’d become extremely fond of. But now things had changed. She had changed.

  Anna wasn’t worried about the gunfight. Albert would be fine. He would never be a crack shot, of course, but he wouldn’t need to be. Foy would be too sick to hold a gun, let alone shoot straight, assuming he showed up at all. But she was worried about herself. What had happened could not be undone. And yet how could it be faced, given what her life was?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. She set her hairbrush down on the side table and went to answer it. It was probably Albert, wanting a last-minute pep talk before he went out to confront his opponent. But when she opened the door, the eyes that greeted her were cold and reptilian.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” said Clinch.

  Albert stood at one end of the thoroughfare, overcome by déjà vu. This was precisely where he’d stood not so long ago as he prepared to face off against Charlie Blanche. The crowd lined both edges of the thoroughfare, just as they had for every gunfight since Old Stump’s birth. Edward and Ruth gave Albert supportive looks as they watched from one side of the street, squeezing each other’s hands. And there, looking on from the rows of assembled townsfolk, in almost the exact same spot she’d occupied on the day of the Charlie Blanche encounter, was Louise. On that day she’d been part of his life—an extension of himself that he’d considered as constant as the seasons, as vital as a limb.

  And now? She was somebody else’s constant. But as much as that hurt, it was a very different strain of hurt than it had been before. It cut deep, to be sure, but the pain was dull, the wound scabbing.

  With Charlie Blanche, Albert had faced an opponent who was sharp, tough, and ready for action. However, the man who stumbled into position at the other end of the street today looked ready for nothing short of the grave. The crowd murmured with uncertainty as Foy shuffled out into the street, looking sweaty and sunken-eyed. Nonetheless, he managed to muster up a passably cocky grin. “Well, now. I didn’t think you’d show, sheepie.”

  Albert sized him up as he tried to determine exactly what was happening with the man. It didn’t matter, he supposed. “Um, yeah,” he said. “Listen, Foy, you—”

  Albert was cut short by a sharp hand gesture with clear meaning: Dear God, hold on a second. Foy clutched his stomach in obvious pain and staggered over to the edge of the street, grasping the top of a hitching post to steady himself. Suddenly his eyes widened as a look of panic crossed his face. One arm reached out feebly for a black bowler hat sitting atop the head of a very surprised-looking bearded man observing from the street’s periphery. Foy snatched the hat off the man’s head, threw it on the ground with the inside facing upward, yanked down his trousers, and squatted on top of it. A blast of diarrhea issued forth with the pressure of a burst steam engine, completely filling the hat. Foy straightened and started to pull up his trousers in a pitiful attempt to salvage some measure of dignity. But before he could get the trousers to his waistline, a second wave overtook him. He turned to the opposite side of the thoroughfare and reached flaccidly for another man’s hat. The second man flinched and backed away, having no desire to submit his hat to the fate that would surely befall it should he relinquish possession. Foy persisted, matching the man’s retreat with weak, stumbling advances. With a final burst of energy, Foy’s arm struck out and seized the hat, throwing it to the ground as before. He unloaded a second shipment of watery shit.

  Albert watched uncomfortably as Foy stood up, winded and wheezing. Foy refastened his trousers (Albert did not want to think about the conspicuous absence of post-evacuant hygiene) and took his position once again.

  “All … all done?” asked Albert.

  “I’m ready,” Foy croaked, looking far from done.

  Albert nodded, put both hands on his gun belt …

  … and unclasped it, letting his gun fall to the ground.

  Foy stared at him, utterly baffled despite his condition. The crowd murmured with confusion.

  “Foy,” said Albert, a tone of uncharacteristic confidence in his voice, “she’s all yours.”

  The crowd’s murmuring rose as they struggled to assimilate this unusual development. They didn’t have to wait long for an explanation, as Albert turned to face the woman who had driven him to this place on this day.

  “Louise,” he said, “you are … God, you are so beautiful. And I really do care about you. But … I don’t know—I think somewhere along the line I forgot that a relationship is a two-way street. And I’ve been reminded recently of what it’s like to have someone care about me. And you know what? I like it. So if you wanna spend the rest of your life with a pussy full of hair, I say go with God and best of luck to you.”

  Albert gave her a gentlemanly tip of the hat and strode away from the thoroughfare with a lightness and an optimism that he had not felt in a very long time. After a moment, however, he turned around to face the crowd again.

  “I just realized, that joke may not have been clear. I didn’t mean that she has a hairy pussy; I meant that Foy has a moustache, so … she gets hair in her … when he … goes down there. Yeah.” He smiled gamely and walked away once more.

  One cowboy in the crowd spoke up. “I got it.”

  Albert practically sprinted up the steps of the hotel. Maybe Anna was watching from her room, he thought, knowing full well that was absurd. She should have been there to support him. Regardless, whatever her reason for being absent, he knew he would forgive her. He felt too good today. Too intoxicated with liberation.

  In fact, he realized that he had become accustomed to waking up every morning feeling like shit. There was a normalcy to it that had taken up residence in his body and soul. As he took the stairs two at a time, he thought, I feel great. Is this what I’ve been missing out on? How could I have spent so much of my life being denied this feeling?

  He reached Anna’s room at the top of the stairs and banged excitedly on the door.

  “Anna!”

  There was no answer.

  Albert knocked again and then tried the knob. It was unlocked, and he poked his head inside and looked around. The bed was unmade. A full washbasin sat on the side table. A hairbrush lay on the floor. But the room was empty.

  “Hey, guys, have you seen Anna?” Albert asked as he puffed up the street toward Ruth and Edward. The rest of the crowd had more or less dispersed, grumbling to themselves with dissatisfaction over the lack of bloodshed.

  “No,” said Ruth. “Not since last night at the dance.”

  “Huh,” he said, at a complete loss.

  “Albert … it’s her, isn’t it?”

  Albert smiled. “Yeah. It’s her.”

  “You love her.”

  “Yeah. I do. And what’s even better is, I think she might love me back.”

  Edward grinned. “Oh, that is so great. I think she’s so neat.”

  “So nobody’s seen her, huh?” Albert was now beginning to worry. “I don’t understand. She said she’d be there this morning. She wouldn’t just not show up.”

  Ruth patted his arm. “I’m sure she’s fine, Albert. And she’ll turn up soon. Especially if what you said is true.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.… ”

  “Hey, in the meantime, why don’t we all get outta this heat and go have a beer, huh?” Edward suggested.

  They made their way into the saloon, ordered three glasses of beer, and sat down at their usual corner table.


  “Hey, um, Albert?” said Edward with an awkward expression on his face.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you think you and Anna will have sex?”

  Albert was caught off guard. “I … I dunno. I mean … maybe at some point.”

  “Well, when you do, how about let’s make it like an all-us-friends thing. Like, we all get, like, in sync. Sexually.”

  “Eddie, we’re not having sex,” Ruth said flatly.

  Edward hung his head in shame. “I’m sorry, I know, it was a stupid idea.”

  “Ruth! Let’s fuck!” shouted the dirty cowboy from the stairwell.

  “Coming!” She hurried off to do her job.

  “She keeps my head on straight,” said Edward gratefully.

  Albert was about to question that, when they heard the sound of approaching hooves outside. The saloon was fairly packed with townsfolk who had dragged their asses all the way from home to watch a gunfight that hadn’t occurred, and they’d now turned their attention to drinking and gambling, for lack of anything better to do. They all looked up as two perspiring local farmers hurried into the saloon, wearing expressions of abject terror.

  The hoofbeats came to a halt just outside. Albert and Edward heard the sound of spur-heeled boots ascending the wooden steps. The batwing doors opened …

  … and in stepped the biggest, most sinister-looking man Albert had ever seen. He was cold-eyed, dead-faced, and all too recognizable from the posters in the sheriff’s office.

  “Clinch Leatherwood,” Edward said with horror, almost too softly to be heard.

  Albert rolled his eyes in dismay. “Great. Another thing that can kill us. We should all just wear coffins as clothes.”

  Clinch Leatherwood brought with him a dark, bloody history, even prior to his emergence as a notoriously deadly threat to peace, law, and order on the frontier. He was born in South Carolina in 1836, the son of a poorly compensated overseer on a struggling rice plantation. His mother had died the day she gave birth to him—not as a result of the birth itself, but because a heavy summer rain had caused the roof to collapse immediately following the delivery, crushing her beyond recognition. Miraculously (or not, depending on one’s point of view), Clinch had survived. His relationship with his father had, by adolescence, decayed to the ugly degree that outbreaks of physical violence between father and son were not uncommon. Inevitably, it escalated to such intensity that one night, after a particularly heated argument about which of them disliked Mexicans more, Clinch broke a whiskey bottle in half and stabbed his father in the throat with the sharp end. Having no intention of being tried for murder, the younger Leatherwood fled the scene and roamed aimlessly throughout the South for several years, successfully avoiding blame for the patricide.