“Grandfather, tell us the story about how you learned to shoot an apple off a man’s head from one hundred yards away.” My fat lazy grandchildren crooned. 

“Again children? Well why not, eh?” I said in my kindly old man voice. 

“I was a child when the apples came. I was out goat herding when I saw the smoke from my village far down the mountain. Pausing only to throw aside my favorite goat; I leapt down the hillside.

That my village of Fapdingle upon Croop was crude was without doubt, but the crude, stinking, crude, filthy mud huts that sheltered the equally crude, filthy and grotesquely crude inhabitants were the only home I had known.  I strode into the center of town, notable as such only for having a scintilla less human waste and offal piled around it. The squelch of yesterday’s goat potpies was masked by a familiar moan, one I knew all too well from the endless games of ‘find the sausage in my pocket and tug real hard’ played in the fetid darkness of his hut. Not too neatly torn in two and covered by chamber pot scrapings and his own intestines was my Uncle Raztus.

“You’re standing on my pancreas boy,” He wheezed.

“Whoops”. I gave the organ a gentle nudge with my foot. Unable to determine which half would benefit from the damaged uncle-chunk I kicked it between the two, hopefully to find it’s way home, like a baby bird that is tossed into the river will, by virtue of instinct, swim back to its spawning ground. My uncle rolled his good eye towards the pancreas and fixed me with his bad eye, an act that always filled my heart and my pants with dread and pee, respectively.

“Gnar, you have always been the promise of this village,” he groaned and bubbled “ever since we found you as an infant shipwrecked alone.”

 “But Uncle, I was eight when I was shipwrecked, and I watched the men from the village rape, kill, and subsequently rape post-mortem the other dozen survivors right before my tear-filled eyes” I interrupted.”Also you lit the false signal fires that caused our ship to founder upon the wrecking rocks.”

The dying oldster couldn’t resist a giblet-wobbling chuckle at the fond memories of rape, wrecking, murder and necrophilia. “No matter, my boy. Now is the time you repay your beloved adopted family in the only currency left to you – the moist, hot, sharp, bloody, metal coins of REVENGE!”

I stood uncomprehendingly for a moment while the old man prattled along about something, debt and honor or the like. It was hard enough to pay attention to him when he was whole, much less a half man-half not-man with a lot more leaks than usual on the ragged end. It was hot, and smellier than usual with the smoke and writhing impaled villagers moaning out imprecations and curses.

“Have you been listening boy?” My uncle bubbled through bluish frothy lips.

“Honestly no, you tend to babble under normal circumstances, but by the gods, y’know now, uh, wow” I extemporized. “ I gather I’m to kill the fellows that did this, though, huh.”

My uncle loosed an exasperated sigh and it was another three minutes before I realized that it wasn’t so much of a sigh as a death rattle. I gently closed his eyes and began to search his pockets for loose change. It is what he would have wanted.

After a light supper amidst the ruins, I hiked back up the hill to kill all of my ungrateful fucking goats.

I picked up the marauders’ trail easily as they had dragged the village hetman behind their stout mountain ponies for quite a ways. If there has been one thing I have learned from my seventy summers on this globe it’s this: it’s amazing how much stuff can fall off a human body. When I bent down and found a fragment of ear and scalp still warm, I realized they must be nearby!

In a rough clearing a group of shadows sat around a fire, stinking uncured hides served as their mantles and their keen spears were set near to hand. One of the spearheads still held Mrs. Horgab’s daughter Jenny’s head with as gape mouth and bug-eyed an expression in death as she wore in life.  If you didn’t see the spear, you’d never know. Life’s funny like that sometimes. As I contemplated this fact a throaty chuckle erupted involuntarily from my lips. The bandits, wearing the traditional apples woven into their hair turned to face me.  I knew then, beyond a doubt, that I was boned. Hard. All I could do was rely on my wits and youthful vigor to escape unharmed. I strode boldly forward swirling my goatskin cloak and veep-vip’ing my corduroy dungareed thighs menacingly. “Halloa me bold spearmen, a fine days plunderin’ methinks I see, O’ Ho!” I bellowed towards the bonfire in my best banditese.

“Who seeks grisly death at the hands of MacIntosh and his band of bone gnawers and bowel ticklers?” Growled the largest and no doubt smelliest of the tribe.

“It is I, Gnar, late of the previously less immolated village of Fapdingle upon Croop.” I ventured, calmly polishing my nails on rough homespun and goatskin.

“Seek ye revenge for the bloody murders of your kinsmen?” MacIntosh spat.

“Those guys, no… wait, fuck no. I really hated them. Honestly” I answered. “I was more looking for some travel tips and maybe a little cash…”

“You ask US for money? Red! Crab! Seize him!”

I was faced with a wall of razor sharp spear points, well, except for the one with the toddler head on it, but really that wasn’t much better once I thought about it for a while. My only hope was to offer them a wager, which being inveterate gamblers they would be unable to resist.  “Hold!” I cried. “I offer you a bet, if I can shoot an apple off of your fearsome noggin, chief, would you let me live?”

“You are a sportsman I see!” MacIntosh burbled. “But what do we get when you lose eh? We already hold your meager life and possessions forfeit.” Damn. For a skeevy looking guy, he was pretty smart.

 “Well reasoned old chum.” I winked. “But I happen to have a herd of fine looking and, uh, entirely non-make believe MAGICAL goats upon yon lofty mountain. Were I dead they would all scamper away to more temperate climes, for only I know the secret of keeping them bound by the iron grips of my will! But if I live I shall gladly teach you this secret” That should shut them up.

“A wager for magical goats, eh? I accept! You may use my crossbow” the bandit chief smirked.

“Excellent, for apparently I have left mine at home.” I said, accepting the weapon, which I immediately recognized as my own. “Nice workmanship” I sniped.

The land-pirate shrugged, smiling a coy smile of broken and browned teeth “It does the job”.

Quickly I paced out one hundred yards, MacIntosh remained behind. With trembling hands I held my crossbow, familiar hunting companion of my youth.  I had shot dozens of quail upon the wing with it and taken my first deer with it. The click of the trigger was loud in my ears.

I learned a lot with that wager, namely that you can outrun a bunch of fat hairy bandits on tired ponies with a hundred yard head start, and finally that you should never give a guy who hates you a chance to shoot you in the face from a hundred yards away.

Now fetch me more brandy-spiked mead you ungrateful striplings or I’ll dash your lice ridden inbred skulls to pieces upon the statue of Kreblow, goddess of kindness, that stands in the family shrine!”

Sir,

You have probably forgotten this completely as it occurred nearly thirty (!) years ago. I was drinking at Harry’s Bar, my local watering hole, a place that was rather nice if threadbare. You yourself described it as “Not half bad” rather loudly when you walked in with your girlfriend. While startled by your entrance, nothing seemed particularly amiss & I returned to my grasshopper (I’m a fool for crème de menthe, it’s like drinking an after dinner mint.) No more than five minutes elapsed before there was some sort of brouhaha over at the RockOla. The instigator, again, was you. This time you were complaining about the music selection on the jukebox.

Now there’s something that you may not know about the eponymous Harry, while he is an honest publican, he’s also a very soft touch. So when his nephew Ronald got a job selling jukeboxes, Harry was compelled to buy one, a RockOla 469, if only to help Ron (a renowned ne’er do well) earn a commission check. This jukebox was stocked with primarily popular disco songs, de rigueur for the time of it’s purchase in 1977. Harry’s was never in the best neighborhood and the jukebox represented a significant investment for what was essentially a gin joint. It was a white elephant and everyone knew it. Harry never changed the music selection and we regulars rarely played it. But how could you have known? Still your reaction was more than a little harsh. You said you were leaving, again, loudly. I’m sure solely for the benefit of your girlfriend. An aside, she seemed awfully young despite her efforts to play the femme fatale - she couldn’t have been more than 17 (but who am I to judge?) Despite this, you stayed, ordered another drink and danced to the very same music you professed to loathe.

Now I will admit after your second outburst, I was curious as to the nature of the troublemaker in our midst. So I gave you a once over, and I was shocked. I hadn’t seen a duck’s-tail pompadour in years! Sakes alive. You looked like a member of Sha-Na-Na! That combined with your underage girlfriend rendered you, a bit of a spectacle. Even you have to admit it.

Here, Mr. Setzer, is where our direct interaction began, first with an extremely petty ad hominem attack on my wardrobe. I will be the first to admit my suit was out of fashion. I am not a rich man, and in fact live on a disability pension from a back injury I suffered some years ago. So no, to respond to your critique of my garments, my suit was not “from 1974”, but rather a few years older than that. I am not ashamed of my penury and I try to maintain my wardrobe to the best of my abilities. I will not comment on whether or not I am a “Real Square Cat” as I believe that is beneath my dignity.

Your cutting remarks on my clothing were quickly followed up with a curt “what’re you looking at”. I think my previous observations have adequately explained that question of yours away. To be frank, I might go so far as to say it was your intention to be noticed. It was difficult to do anything BUT watch you and your child-bride try to dance the bop to selection A27 on the RockOla 469 - “Disco Party” by The Trammps.

Of course it was only a matter of time before an imagined slight prompted another outburst, this time threatening me with physical violence if I deigned to cast my gaze upon you for a third time. I’m not a violent person and would have been happy to finish my cocktail and return to my apartment.

Now this is the part that is painful and unforgivable. You may not like me, or Harry, or the unfortunate set of circumstances that coalesced to build a perfect crèche in which you nurtured your rage, but when you began to “rip this place apart” it was too much. Your drunken anti-social behavior cost Harry hundreds if not thousands of dollars in damages. He never recovered and passed away a few months later. Harry’s has been shuttered ever since. It’s a haven for junkies and prostitutes now. You may have escaped the Law but I assure you Mr. Setzer someday you will have your comeuppance.

Yours,

Albert W. Murray

April 23^rd, Luncheon

As the long whistle blast signaled the departure of the Noon mixed local, Crandall leaned close to the log book, noting that very fact in his neat block letters. His cursive handwriting had been a private shame to him as far back as his school days, and was still nearly illegible. He slapped the book closed with a sigh, raising a cloud of northern prairie dust.

Donning his sack coat and ineffectually brushing off his sleeves, Arthur made sure the Porter, Charles, was not drunk or asleep then turned his attention to his luncheon of hard-boiled eggs, cheese and stale bread. He ate fussily, wiping nearly non existent crumbs with his handkerchief, whilst perusing a copy of the Omaha Bee.

A man had inadvertently exchanged hats with another, the Council Bluffs Base-Ball team would see a rematch with Plattsmouth for the first time since the twelve inning 7 to 6 game last season. Crandall noted that a special round trip rate of one dollar was being offered. “Always the last to know!” Crandall grunted around a mouthful of egg. The deaf and dumb home was in need of a gardener; Arthur thought with amusement, at least there might be some peace and quiet. Although upon reflection having to loudly declaim the latest changes to the inmates vis-à-vis plantings and grounds-keeping might grow wearisome. The Easter Musicale at the Presbyterian Church on Thursday evening looked delightful, with selections from Gilbert and Sullivan and a new composition for the Badolet brothers by Professor Baetens entitled “Sleep well Thou Beautiful Angel.” He would simply have to be in attendance. He checked his watch, sighing audibly when he noted he had no time to fetch a cream soda from Saxe’s across the river.

To be continued…

Urgent: Cash On Delivery

A Tale of the Railroads and the Men Who Work Them

By

E. Michael George

Foreward

Too many pieces of historical fiction focus only on the Soldier, the Diplomat, the Prince or King, the Spies that lurk doing the bidding of their shadowy masters. Now here is a tale of the men who tie strings, use mucilage, stamp with patented ink-stamps, and brave the dusty streets and boardwalks for their hamburger sandwich and mug of beer at lunch. History is made in the Boarding-House as well as on the Battle-Field and the great events of our Nation are writ in mining injury reports as well as upon the ledgers of the counting house as indelibly as upon the statuary and monuments of the greats.

E. Michael George,

Burbank, California

2010

Chapter One, April 23^rd

Arthur Crandall, assistant depot master of the Council Bluffs, Iowa Union Pacific station, finished nailing the rate change notice on the board outside the station. The circular, stated that the ten-cent fare to Omaha would be raised to twenty-five cents effective May 1^st. A round trip would cost a discounted forty-five cents. Family tickets for a ninety-day span were available for $6.25 and 15.60 good for 156 rides.  He dusted his hands off despite having not soiled them, a habit from his boyhood on the farm where honest dirt was a constant companion. A check of his watch upon its patent gold chain showed 4:15 am. Winds were slow and the air dewy and spring fresh. The 4:45 for Omaha was loading mail and a few passengers milled about the station. Arthur straightened himself and viewed his work. Surely tongues would wag here and in Nebraska about the fare rise. But, the Railroad would not stoop to compete with the commutation streetcar railways, that was a fact just as the sun rose over to the East and the cuspidors needed to be emptied daily, twice on paydays. A few locals, to whom Arthur nodded and graced with a sage nod, had begun to coalesce into an impromptu viewing party around the notice. Satisfied with his handiwork and that it was garnering attention form its intended audience, he retired into the station office to check if any parcels needed sorting.

To be continued…