by R. E. Vance
A poster is crudely tacked to the wooden beam. On it are the words Wanted Dead or Alive. A hand-drawn picture of the black-hat villain staring out defiantly. Beneath it, the name Hans The German is written in large block letters.
As good a name as any, Jean-Luc thinks.
“So,” Hans the German says, “how do ya reckon this is going to play out?” Hans personally hopes it’ll end with a certain hotelier bleeding out in the dusty road at high noon.
“I reckon …” Jean-Luc stops mid-sentence, his hand reaching up to his lips. He is speaking in a Southern drawl. But as best as he can recall, he doesn’t have a Southern drawl. No time to ponder such things now. Holly is in need of saving and that is exactly what he intends on doing.
“I reckon,” Jean-Luc starts again, “that we settle this the old-fashioned way.”
“A duel?” Hans grins. Perfect …
“Ten paces. Fastest draw wins.”
“You think you can beat me.” It wasn’t a question.
“That is what I am aiming on doing.”
The German tilts the rip on his ten-gallon hat. “Do you know what they called me in Germany, Sheriff?”
“I don’t reckon I do.” Seriously, Jean-Luc thinks, where the hell is this terrible dialogue coming from?
---You wouldn’t know good dialogue if it slapped you in the face.---
“Schnellste unentschieden,” said Hans, and dammit if even his German wasn’t drawled too. That’s German for the fastest draw in the Europe.”
“Well, ain't that nice for you.”
“Humph, indeed. But let me ask you this … do you know why I came to America, Sheriff?”
“I don’t reckon I do.” Again with that word—there’s got to be a better word for “reckon” than reckon.
“ ’Cause there wasn’t no one left in all of Europe who could beat me. Not a one.” Hans hawks a loogie, and a whimper escapes the poor Other bastard beneath him who got German phlegm in the face.
“Is that supposed to scare me?” Jean-Luc says, and he hawks his own loogie, careful to aim away from the hostages. “You may be fast in Europe, but Europe ain’t here. Here … I reckon here yer average at best.” And with that last statement, Jean-Luc swears to never use the word “reckon” again. Once he figures out what’s going on, that is.
“I love Americans. So cocky. But do you know what the cock of the walk thinks?”
“I don’t reck—” Through sheer force of will, Jean-Luc stops himself from finishing the word. Instead, he shakes his head in response.
“The cock of the walk thinks he’s unbeatable until he ain’t. Shall we?” Hans the German stands up, knocking Holly off of his lap and onto the floor. He walks outside, pushing the dual-swing with the arrogance of one who believes he’ll live forever.
Jean-Luc goes to Holly’s side, removing her gag. “You OK, darlin’?”
“Oh, Jean-Luc, don’t follow that scoundrel. He’s fast. I’ve seen him draw.”
“Ma’am—don’t it strike you as odd that only hours ago we were speaking all modern-like, and now I sound like a clichéd hick from a bad Clint Eastwood movie.”
Holly considers this. “I do find it odd indeed.”
“I reck— I mean to say, I believe that we are under the devil’s spell … and out there—win or lose—is the only way to break it.”
“But you mustn’t. Oh, Sheriff … What if you lose?”
“Then at least you’ll be free, Miss Holly, and that will be worth the effort.” And with those last words, Jean-Luc helps Holly to her seat and heads outside, spurs jingling with each step.
“Jean-Luc,” Holly calls, her hand outstretched, but she does not follow him—she is compelled to continue her role as damsel in distress and sit this one out.
↔
Jean-Luc is outside, his boots crunching in the dirt, his hands held out at his sides.
The clock starts to strike high-noon—dong, dong, dong, dong.
They will both fire on the twelfth ring.
Dong.
An impossible sun hits both his and Hans the German’s eyes, forcing them both to squint at each other.
Dong.
How the hell are there two suns? Jean-Luc thinks.
Dong.
His hand touches the hilt of his six-shooter as he prepares to draw.
Dong.
The trick on a pistol duel is not only to be faster than your opponent, but also to have true aim.
Dong.
And true aim can only be achieved when one steels their nerves from what may come.
Dong.
Or—given that the gods are gone—what may not come.
Dong.
Dong—
End of ACT FOUR
“Not bad. Not bad at all,” said Story.
“A little overdramatic for my taste,” Sci-Fi clicked in frustration.
“As it was meant to be,” Western said, lighting a match on the stubble of his cheek. “True Westerns are gritty and dramatic … Unforgiven, Tombstone, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Two-dimensional characters who unapologetically do what must be done.”
“Fair enough,” nodded Story. “One last act to play out—Sci-Fi, you ready?”
Sci-Fi beeped, “01111001 01100101 01110011.”
“How droll. Now, have at it.”
ACT FIVE
FAKE COWBOYS v MUSE-INSPIRED ALIENS
By SCI-FI
and told in First Person Present Tense
BANG!
The shot echoes throughout the dusty valley town—a town that by all logic should not exist, both because it was antiquated to an era long gone and because we are in Paradise Lot, and as best as I know, there isn’t anywhere on the island that looks like this.
---“Can’t be a Western without the West, Sci-Fi, darlin’.”---
One shot fired, and fired by me, so I know I’m not hurt. Hans the German, on the other hand … well, I have always had exceptional aim, and today is no different. My aim is so good that there’s a bullet hole right in the middle of his forehead, and two streams of crimson red blood trickling down from the hole.
Hans the German smiles and the streams of blood catch in the corner of his lips giving him a macabre makeover.
“Ouch,” he says. “I guess you win.”
“Magic, right?” I say. “How much time are you burning to keep this charade up?” I gesture to the town.
“You mean all this?” he says, pulling out what looks like a garage opener. He pushes down hard on the button.
The town shimmers, then crackles as the image of dusty roads and wooden buildings blinks out and, once more, I am standing in the lobby of my hotel. Lain about are the hostages. The Others that randomly showed up for the Christmas party I didn’t know we were throwing, Judith, EightBall, Penemue and Astarte (complete with her feline sphinx companion who is, I’ve noted, still attached). Holly sits on one of the couches; she isn’t bound like the others. I guess that when I freed her in the saloon, I freed her for real.
“No magic. No magic at all,” Hans the German says.
“So what is that … some ancient relic used by the Mu’Hashshashin when they ‘replicated’ Heaven on Earth? Or perhaps one of King Solomon’s talismans, and you just released a thousand jinn who turned everything back to normal? What is it?” I say, getting slightly annoyed at the constant stream of blood pouring out of the hole I made in his head. “And for the love of the GoneGods, will you turn back into whatever kind of Other you are? I’m getting tired of watching you bleed.”
“Oh no, Mr. Matthias. You are mistaken. I am not an Other at all. You see, my gods never left me … nor are they from this world. They are safe at home in a galaxy far, far away.”
“An alien? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I kid you not.” Hans grips his chin and pulls off his face. What remains isn’t the head of some humanoid creature, but a series of vines that dance about like snakes, each one oozing sap that drips down the front of his shirt
.
Four of them shoot out at me and I manage to duck behind my reception desk. Gods, it’s good to be back in my hotel.
I’ve battled plenty of Others in my day … and this thing, Other or alien, didn’t really matter—it was all the same. Find its weakness, exploit it and then take the creature down.
But what could its weakness be? Its body had several vines piling out of its head with a yellow stem in its center much like the stamen of a lily. Bingo. Whatever this thing is, it’s protecting the yellow stem. Its brain maybe, or its eyes. Its genitals? Doesn’t really matter.
I empty my gun at it, first blasting through several stems before one of my bullets finally hits its intended target. The yellow stem explodes in a hundred little dandelion propellers that disperse throughout the room. The dandelion propellers take root wherever they land and from them sprout more bushes of stems.
So much for exploiting their weakness. Turns out all I did was discover it shares certain regeneration traits with friggin’ Hydra.
I look around the room, trying to find a way to stop this thing, but all I see are the hostages. Penemue and EightBall, Holly and Judith, the sirens … the other Others here to attend the Christmas party. Everyone in the hotel is tied up on the lobby floor. Everyone except—
And then I realize this creature’s weakness … the same weakness shared by the saloon and the air ducts and the shattered glass. It is so obvious that I honestly don’t know how I didn’t see it before.
Or rather, didn’t not see it before.
↔↔↔
I kick down the penthouse suite door. “Stop whatever game you’re playing!” I scream. “Now!”
The six muses look up from the poker table, frozen for a moment. Then their leader stands up and says, “I guess this is The End.”
Epilogue
“What the hell is going on here?”
A little creature that looked more gremlin than anything else, spoke in a crackled, grating voice. “The hero, He’s here. Highly unusual.”
“ ‘Hero’?” I repeated.
“Yes—Horror is right. You are our hero,” said Story. “And might I add that in all the centuries we’ve played our little games, you were the only one who has ever—and I mean, ever—interrupted us before the story was done.”
I threw up my hands in exasperation. “Oh, I’m sorry for ruining your little party.”
“No, you’re not,” said the Other who, to my surprise, looked like friggin’ Clint Eastwood. “But yer gonna be.”
“Western—sit down!” said Story. “The story is concluded, either way. You all had enough time to make your case.”
The five muses all nodded in unison.
“And the winner is …” Story started, but before I could hear what she said, a giant gong rang out.
I turned to see where the sonorous gong! came from, but there was nothing that could make a noise like that in sight. When I turned back, all five other muses were nodding up at Story with approval.
Then, without a further word, the six of them stood up and walked right past me, out of the room.
“Excuse me,” I said, “but you owe me an explanation.”
“ ‘Explanation,’ ” Story said. “I fear that would make for bad narrative.”
“Narrative? I don’t understand,” I said. “I’m calling Michael and—”
“Very well,” sighed Story, “just allow me to explain. Every century, several of us muses gather to hold a friendly competition. Who is the best muse? This evening, you were chosen as our protagonist—”
“You!” cried out Holly as she ran up the stairs to confront the muses. “You did this to me!”
Story gestured at Holly. “And she was chosen as our protagonist’s love interest.”
Holly snorted. “Not very progressive of you. Male lead, damsel in distress. Catch up with the times, Story.”
“Oh please. Jean-Luc’s hotel. Jean-Luc is the hero. Maybe next year we’ll throw our event at your place of work and you can wear the tank top.” At that, Action snickered and Erotica moaned. “Regardless … we wanted an old story, told anew.”
“Die Hard?” I asked.
“And Alien, and Tombstone and Cowboys & Aliens and … whatever story Erotica told.”
“I told them all,” Erotica giggled.
“And so what?” demanded Holly. “I was kidnapped, tied up and threatened for … what? Your amusement?”
“And yours,” Story said. “Search your feelings. Are you not happy? Moreover, relieved? Same with you, Jean-Luc. Tell me, are you both not joyous with cathartic relief?”
I stopped for a moment and searched my emotions. I had to admit, I did feel pretty darn good. I mean, earlier I was tense and nervous, but now … well, if I was honest, I felt like I just had the best massage of my life after having woken up from the best sleep of my life. I felt great.
And, as was evident from Holly’s smile, still on her face despite her apparent annoyance at the muses, she felt the same way.
“OK,” Holly said. “But you still should have asked first.”
“Perhaps.”
“Not ‘perhaps.’ Absolutely.” Holly turned to me and, with a wink, said, “Thank you for saving me—even though it was all fake.”
“Anytime,” I said.
↔
The muses made it to the ground floor and thanked everyone for participating in their little play. The crowd, much to my surprise, applauded them. Even the oni who played the role of Mr. Takagi (and only moments ago lay dead with a bullet in his head) vigorously danced with glee.
Evidently it was a great honor to be an extra in a muse’s game. At least amongst Others. I, on the other hand (or should I say, non-Other hand), was still unsure how I felt about it.
One by one, the party goers left until all who remained were me and Story.
“So … we’re paid in full, are we not?” she asked with a satisfied sigh.
“We are.”
“Then, if there is nothing else, we’ll be on our way.” Story turned for the door.
“Wait … hold on. You never told me—who won?” I asked.
“Why, Mr. Jean-Luc … isn’t it obvious?”
I gave her a blank look.
She sighed as if I missed something obvious. “No one genre can ever tell a complete story. We need to borrow from each other’s styles, techniques, gravitas to do so—especially if we want to create something that will last. And so to answer your question, Who won? We all did,” mused Story. “Just as we all knew we would.”
And with that Story left, and I was alone.
I looked around the foyer and spotted my shoes and socks, still abandoned on the floor. My feet were no longer bloody. I walked over and put them back on.
I didn’t need to curl my toes anymore.
Lamia
by
Deacon Rayne
They have her strung up like she’s a shark and they the crew fresh off the Orca—rednecks playing Schneider, Shaw and Dryfuss, the conquering heroes off the silver screen. Fresh brewskies in their hands, shotguns at the ready and a “good ol’ boy,” “aw shucks” demeanor that must have won them a lot of free drinks at whatever local watering hole they polluted with their presence even before the article comes out.
Caption reads: Local Heroes Kill Snake Lady, Save Town.
The conquering heroes of the red, white and blue.
No one is looking at the upside-down face of the aforementioned “Snake Lady”—what little remains of her face, that is, not obliterated by buckshot and cowardice. No one can see how wide the eyes are. How human they are.
How afraid they are.
I understand the moment I see it. There are no heroes in this picture. Only gods.
Gods and monsters.
↔
A few nights ago, the sky went supernova. Some people are crying “End of Days,” others that the elusive “them”—enemies of the Land of the Free and the Brave—got their hands on something large and ther
monuclear.
Me? I think God or whoever thought mankind could use a little humility, decided to show the world of the living just how strange and wonderful the “real” world is and how small we are.
If that’s the case, God fucked up.
There may be more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy, Horatio … but who bothers with philosophy any longer? Or Heaven? Or Earth?
With all these thoughts buzzing like hornets in my head, I still can’t get past the fear I saw in that creature’s dead eyes. It died in fear and pain for the crime of being different than the people that killed her.
“Thank you for believing in us, but it’s not enough. We’re leaving. Good luck.”
That’s the message making the rounds online, on the radio, everywhere people care to listen: O’Leary and Hunter S. were right all along—there was someone, or at least some force, guarding the light at the end of the tunnel.
But not anymore.
A few millennia of organized religion is in its death throes right now, and all I can think about is the fear in that woman’s dead eyes. If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine her executioners taking turns pumping shell after shell into her just to watch her bleed in the cold night air, see if her blood looks like theirs, see if she begs like them, cries like them …
… dies like them.
I’ve not slept in several days. I couldn’t give you an exact number, but I know that unless I do something I’ll never sleep again. I’ll just keep seeing that woman die in my head over and over and over again.
The decision to find these men and kill them comes with a surprising swiftness and clarity of thought; there is no white hot inferno of rage, no righteous fury of angels spent—just an acknowledgment that, in my reality, in the geometry of my world and my awareness of both myself and these men within that world, they must die.