Strange Dominion

by Lyons, Amanda M.

  “No shit.”

  “None at all, old chap. You were lucky though. Another few hours and you would have been as dead as disco.”

  “Disco?”

  “Never mind. You are here now, and better than recovered. You have been modified.”

  “Modified?”

  “Yes, old boy. Cyberneticly augmented. We replaced all the damaged or infected areas of your body with state of the art robotic prosthetics. We also gave the remaining vital organs and living tissue a complete overhaul using macrobiotic cellular refurbishment.”

  “Sounds like nothing a glass of whisky couldn’t fix?”

  “Better than a band-aid, old boy.”

  “So, friend, here’s the real question. Why didn’t you let me die?”

  “Well, old chap, it’s complicated, and I haven’t the time now to explain. Here . . .”

  The thin man reached into his pocket and produced a small black chip.

  “Now, if you feel along the back of your skull, you will feel a small opening. If you slide this card inside it will fill you in.”

  The dark man said nothing, he sat staring, confused.

  “It will tell you all you need to know about the times, the places, and hopefully then you will be able to grasp the situation better than I can explain it.”

  “As you like, Doc . . . those for me?”

  The killer pointed toward a table over by the wall. On top of it rested a brown duster, a stove pipe hat, a shirt, pants, and a gun belt. The holstering point for a pair of pistols that said don’t argue with me in any language.

  “They are indeed, old boy.”

  The killer rose and walked over to the table. He picked up the guns and felt their weight in his hands pleasing.

  “You are a dangerous man, Badlands Meredith, but I believe we’ll get along famously.”

  “As you say, Doc.”

  “Hawking, my name is Hawking.”

  Badlands Meredith suited up, saving the gun belt and the hat till the last. The stove pipe sat nicely upon his steel skull and he turned and smiled briefly at Hawking.

  “So all dressed up and nowhere to go, hey, Doc?”

  “Not quite, old chap. There is somewhere that a man like you would be most at home.”

  “Where’s that, Doc?”

  “Well . . . to put it simply. Do you like Westerns?”

  The Doctor Comes to Bee Sting, Or, Good Vibrations

  Charie D. La Marr

  The children playing on the dusty main street of Bee Sting, Oklahoma heard it first. They took off running toward the sound of the wagons, anxious to see what they held—who in town had ordered something new, who might be arriving to bring new adventure and excitement to the dreary little town just before the turn of the century. One thing was obvious from the dust the wagons kicked up in the distance. Something was in the air.

  By the time the two large covered gypsy wagons pulled up in front of the general store, pretty much everyone in town had come outside to see what all the fuss was about. Three local children jumped off the back of the first one. The man driving the wagon gave each of them a penny and they began distributing papers to the adult males on the street. The two boys and one girl fanned out, handing out the flyers and explaining what it said to those who couldn’t read.

  “Meeting for the men of the town only! Tonight at six! Leave your wives and children at home! Men only! Spread the word! Every man should attend! Look for the tent!”

  The young boy even went into the saloon and brothel, handing out flyers until he was kicked out of both places by the seat of his pants. His sisters hit the general store, the hotel and the barbershop. It wasn’t long before they were escorted to the street as well.

  But the message got through. Soon, all the men in town had gathered in small groups talking about it. What could the meeting be about? It was obviously important if only men were to attend. Clearly it was something women wouldn’t understand. That meant they had to attend. It was man talk. And before long, it was clear that no man in town would dare miss such a gathering. To do so would make them seem weak and womanly. And so at suppertime, each man firmly announced to his wife there was a meeting in town he was to attend and she was to stay home, tend to the dishes and the children and keep her nose out of men’s matters.

  By five-thirty, the tent that had been set up on the outskirts of town was nearly full of men, hitching their pants up and talking in that deep voice that only an extra boost of testosterone can create. The gypsy wagons were inside the tent in the front, and a wooden platform had been set up in front of them. A banner was hanging from the side announcing Dr. Chauncey Lumpkin and his trusted assistant Mr. Quincey Waterstockle.

  At precisely six, a man in a fancy pinstriped suit and a bowler hat stepped onto the platform. The crowd hushed and crowded forward, eager to hear what he had to say.

  The man bowed and tipped his hat before speaking in an English accent. “G’ud evening, gentlemen. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Dr. Quincy Lumpkin of the famous London Academy of Medicine. And soon you’ll meet my partner, Mr. Quincey Waterstockle, apothecary and creator of many potions and elixirs that have helped patients in our own country. Now, we’re bringing our cures to America. So, gentlemen, I hope your wives have all given you a good supper tonight.” There was some rumbling and mumbling in the crowd.

  “Well, it’s your wives and their attitudes that I’m here to talk with you about tonight. Is your wife disagreeable at times? Try to be the boss in your house? Does she suffer from faintness? Muscle spasms? Loss of memory? Occasional heaviness in the stomach?”

  “She’s always got heaviness in the stomach. And when she turns around, she’s got heaviness on the backside, too!” someone yelled out. The men laughed.

  The man on the stage chuckled. “I know what you mean, sir. But she could be suffering from water retention.”

  “She could also be pregnant!” someone shouted.

  “Or just fat!” someone else called out.

  “That’s true. But what about temporary loss or increase in appetite?”

  “Nothing wrong with her appetite,” the first man said. “She eats me out of house and home!”

  “Does she sometimes deny you her wifely favors? Or demand too much of you in the bedroom, if you know what I mean? Does she sometimes have troubling fantasies? Is she often irritable? Does she have difficulty sleeping at night and then trouble staying awake during the day? Are her chores not getting done because of afternoon naps that leave your little ones alone to fend for themselves? Does she cry a lot for no reason? Has she ever experienced shortness of breath?”

  “We all experience shortness of breath once in a while, Limey. Did you take a good whiff of downtown Bee Sting? Visit us on a really hot day and tell me you aren’t short of breath, too!” Another man yelled from the crowd. There was more laughter.

  “Does your wife have a tendency to cause trouble? Do you have to sit and wait for your dinner because your wife spent half the day gossiping over the back fence?”

  “So, they’s wimmenfolk. What are we gonna do? You know what the ratio of men to women is out here? About ten to one. We’re lucky if we got wives. Not like Justin here, who’s married to his right hand!”

  The crowd laughed more. Justin took his hat off and hit the man standing next to him.

  “All that may be true, sir. My condolences to you, Justin. However, perhaps it isn’t just because they’re “wimmenfolk”. Have you ever heard of a disease called “Female Hysteria”, gentlemen? A famous doctor here in America who has done studies on it has stated that as many as one out of four women suffer from it. So look around you. Look at three of your friends. If their wives seem all right, it could be yours who suffers from the ailment. Of course, with such low numbers of women in the area, many more could be afflicted. It can affect them in many ways. This American doctor has compiled a list of seventy-five symptoms, and he thinks this might be just scratching the surface. Edginess, crabbiness, hives, itchines
s, thirst, hair loss, flushing of the cheeks, coughing, sneezing . . . the list goes on and on. Any of your wives experiencing excessive hair on their chins?”

  “If she was, I’d check under her skirt and make sure she was really a woman,” someone shouted.

  There was much discussion among the men in the crowd.

  “I can see some of you recognize some of these symptoms in the little woman. And you’re starting to wonder. Not the same sweet young thing you married, is she? The bloom is off the lily as they say? You’re starting to think about it, aren’t you? Well, you should. Now, at the Academy in London, I studied the disease with fervor. My own dear wife, bless her soul, suffered from the affliction. With intense treatment, within six months, she was once again my blushing bride—at night my dinner was ready and then she was kneeling beside me with my pipe and slippers. She became the perfect wife.”

  “So how’d you do it?” someone asked. “Mine has it, I’m sure of it. I ain’t seen a decent meal in months.”

  “Using a treatment that was given to her weekly. In addition, that’s how I met Quincey. He was working on it, too, as an apothecary. With my treatments and his elixirs, I got my Elizabeth back. However, a year and a half later, I lost her to the consumption. Such a tragedy. But our time together after her treatments was like a miracle. And that’s why I’m here in Bee Sting today, gentlemen. I intend to set up a practice here to treat Female Hysteria. It will be the first such clinic in Oklahoma. Maybe anywhere. Gentlemen, I’m here to cure your wives. And now, without further ado, let me introduce you to Mr. Quincey Waterstockle, who will tell you about our program.”

  The men applauded politely. A funny little man came out of the second wagon and joined Chauncey onstage. He was about five feet tall, dressed in a baggy brown suit. His thick round glasses made his round head look even rounder. He was completely bald except for a long pointed goatee.

  “If you’re an apothecary, why don’t you discover an elixir that cures baldness?” someone yelled at him.

  “Don’t think I haven’t tried,” he replied in a thin, squeaky voice. “I’ve covered my head with more unguents and creams than I care to remember. I guess the good Lord just wanted me to be bald. It’s not so bad. I save money on haircuts.” He chuckled.

  “But let me tell you this, my elixirs can cure Female Hysteria. Of that I’m sure. Our treatments will change your lives. Let me explain how it works. You’ll get this chart to maintain. On it you’ll record the days when your wife has her monthly complaint. Also every time you have relations. There are two bottles of elixir. A large one and a smaller one. As her husband, it will be your responsibility to see to it she takes two doses of the large one each day—one with breakfast and one at dinner. The smaller one is taken twice a day when she has her monthly. It contains extra iron to prevent anemia. It’s your responsibility to give them to her. One of the symptoms of Female Hysteria is forgetfulness. In addition, your wife will come in for a treatment with the doctor once a week.

  “You should start seeing an improvement in her mood almost immediately. It usually takes two or three months of treatments to relieve the symptoms completely. Occasionally, you may see some regression and you’ll have to bring her back.”

  “And how much does this all cost?” someone asked.

  “Can you put a price on a patient, obedient wife?” Dr. Chauncey asked. “Well, to answer your question, it’s one dollar per treatment, fifty cents for the large bottle and twenty-five cents for the small one. Less than two dollars a week for peace and happiness in your home. How many of you spend that much in the local saloon? Or in the local bordello? I won’t ask you to answer that question. But my friends, why pay for the milk when you have the cow at home?”

  There was a lot more discussion in the crowd. “Where do I sign up?” someone called out.

  “Me, too! Mine’s got it for sure!”

  Dr. Chauncey held up his hands. “Slow down, boys, there’s room for everyone. If you’ll form a line to the right, Quincey will take care of you. You pay him seventy-five cents now for the elixirs and make an appointment. The first week you bring your wife and one dollar. After that, you bring one dollar and fifty cents for the treatment and a new bottle. And an extra twenty-five cents a month for the small bottle. There’s no treatment the week your wife is having her monthly. If you don’t see any improvement, you can stop at any time.”

  By the time they were finished, they’d signed up twenty-three men, including the mayor and the local sheriff. By the following morning, the tent was down. Later that afternoon, the first man arrived with his wife in tow. He waited outside while his wife went inside for her treatment. From outside, the man listened to his wife’s sighs and moans increase until she broke into loud screams. The wagon shook.

  He felt badly. The treatment sounded painful. When she left the wagon, she looked disheveled and flush. At home, he would discuss it with her. If it upset her that much, he’d stop the treatments immediately. However, when he asked his wife if she wished to stop the treatments, she blushed and insisted that there had been no pain at all. The screams were from the hysteria leaving her body. She wanted to continue.

  Each of the twenty-three men asked their wives the same question, and each got the same answer. They wanted the treatments to continue. They took their doses of elixir willingly. And it seemed to be working. Dinners were on time. Wives were more attentive, less argumentative. Houses and children were spotless clean. And things in the bedroom were vastly improved.

  It was the mayor who first suspected that something was awry. His wife Clementine came to him and asked if there was enough money in the household budget for her to see Dr. Lumpkin twice a week, perhaps three. She’d discussed it with the doctor and he thought it might ease her symptoms more.

  “Come and sit with me, dearest,” Mayor Askew said. “Let’s talk about this. I surely want what’s best for you. And I do see a tremendous improvement in you since you started your Feminine Hysteria treatments. If Dr. Lumpkin believes that additional treatments will be in your best interest, then I’m all for it. I’ll go and see him first thing tomorrow and discuss it with him some more. I’d like to hear more about exactly what these treatments involve.”

  “No!” Clementine protested. “Please don’t talk to him. It would be too embarrassing to know the two of you were discussing my personal health. I’d prefer it if this remained between me and my physician. I trust Dr. Lumpkin, Thaddeus. And I want you to trust him, too. When I see him next I’ll give him your answer. Could I have three treatments a week? At least two?”

  Thaddeus eyed her suspiciously. “I think we’ll give two a try for now. Let’s see how that works. Then if he still thinks three might be beneficial, we can add another.”

  She threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you, my darling husband!” she said. Then she padded off down the hall to get his pipe and slippers.

  The following day, while Clementine was having her treatment, Thaddeus stopped in to the Honey Bee Saloon to have a quick beer. He sat between Sherriff Marian Bickerson and Frederick Prabble, one of his councilmen. They seemed upset by something.

  “Afternoon, gentlemen. What seems to be troubling the two of you? I could see it as soon as I walked in the door. Something I should know about?”

  “It’s that Dr. Lumpkin,” the sheriff whispered. “Both of our wives are now seeing him three times a week.”

  “It isn’t the money,” Prabble said. “Well, not entirely the money. I just don’t see how two more treatments a week will help. Emeline seemed to be doing quite well with one treatment.”

  “Same with Roxanne,” the sheriff replied. “And yet when I asked her to tell me exactly what the treatments involved, she said it was wimmenfolk things and I ought not know about them. I should pay the three dollars, but I ought not know what I’m getting for my money?”

  The mayor shrugged. “Well, you’re getting a better wife, aren’t you? I’ve seen a great reduction in the Feminine Hysteria sympto
ms with Clementine. But come to think of it, she wasn’t very forthcoming with the details of her treatments either. I allowed her to have two a week. She asked for three.”

  Edward Kubatz, the bartender and town treasurer, overheard the conversation. “Three treatments with Dr. Lumpkin? My wife Mazie asked me this morning if she could go three times a week. I told her I’d think on it.”

  “I don’t understand,” Prabble said. “When I take her there and sit outside, it sounds terrible. She moans and whimpers and then she screams something awful. So hard that the whole wagon shakes. It seems mighty painful. When I take her home, she seems all glassy eyed and tired and goes straight to bed and sleeps for hours. Why would she want to go three times a week if it was causing her so much pain and discomfort?

  “Maybe I should write a letter to this fancy medical school in London, England and ask some questions about the good doctor,” Mayor Askew said. “In fact, maybe it’s damn well past time we asked some questions about those two. Marion, why don’t you have the telegraph office send off a message to some lawmen in the area? Maybe these two have turned up in other cities.”

  “As a councilman, I’d be happy to assist you, Mayor Askew,” Prabble said. “Maybe we need to send out several letters, see what we can find out. And soon. Before Emeline starts asking to go every day!”

  A few days later, the sheriff went to see the mayor. “I got a couple telegraphs back. Took a while because the guy down at the telegraph office doesn’t know Morse Code very well. We really need to get that boy a book to read. But from what I can see, these guys have been in a couple of different towns. Seems like they’re working their way west. They show up in a town, stay a few months and then disappear in the night.”

  “Hmm,” said the mayor. “Interesting. Let’s see what Prabble comes up with from the fancy college. If it turns out they’re fakes and treating our wimmenfolk, I’ll let you string ‘em up.”