Our legendary author Larry Winchester (”The sage of our benighted age.” -- Harold Bloom), bowing to the demands of his audience, assumes once again the inimitable voice of Mr. Big Jake Johnstone...
(Go here to freshen your memory of the previous chapter. Newcomers may click here to return to the long-forgotten first chapter of this masterpiece.)
Everything was just kinda still and quiet like. Great big old dust cloud that the saucer’d stirred up, just kinda hangin’ there over the desert ‘cause there wasn’t much of a wind out, but even so I could see where the saucer’d finally skidded to a stop, because it was still glowin’ this weird kinda soft green like neon or somethin’. The saucer was just restin’ like, ‘cept now all this green smoke starts pourin’ up out of it.
Then, wouldn’tcha just know it, that ol’ saucer just starts slidin’ an’ sinkin’, slow but steady, down into that ol’ sink hole. And then I could see what looked like some kinda creatures runnin’ over the top of the saucer an’ jumpin’ off it.
Then it was gone. The saucer I mean. Disappeared. But through the dust I could see them creatures, five or six of ‘em, standin’ there by the rim of the sink hole.
Well, I had me another hit of that Jack Daniel and, call me crazy or just plain stupid, I started that Caddy up and drove on in to where the saucer’d been. Don’t ask me why. Maybe it was on account of that prayer I’d prayed that the good Lord had seen fit to answer. He’d got me out of that scrape and I’d promised to be a good man if he did. And I’ve tried to live up to that promise. You ask anybody in these parts if I ain’t a changed man. And, well, maybe I figured, hell, I got through that pickle alive, maybe the good Lord wants to keep me around a while. And if I’m gonna be around it might just be in my interest to see what these creatures who’d jumped out of the saucer might have to offer. I mean I figured, hey, they are obviously much more technologically advanced than mankind, but still and all maybe they’d appreciate a savvy earth fella to show ‘em around, show ‘em the ropes so to speak. Maybe set up a few business and political connections for ‘em. Set up a few howdy-dos. Whisper a few words to a few people in the right places and grease a few wheels. Wouldn’t hurt just to introduce myself anyhow. Learned a long time ago bein’ shy is a good way to get nowhere fast in this life, and with all due respect to the Lord Jesus, the meek of this world don’t inherit jack shit in a leaky bucket.
So I headed on in.
Took another good jolt o’ Mr. Daniel and headed on in.
Now I wished I could tell ya what transpired next but I’m afraid I been sworn to secrecy. That’s right. Sworn. And a man ain’t as good as his word, well, that man is just about lower’n whaleshit in my opinion, lower than whaleshit at the bottom of the ocean.
Oh, now, I ain’t sayin’ I never told nobody. Somethin’ like what I’m talkin’ about, ya just gotta tell somebody, otherwise the fact of it’ll just keep growin’ in your brain, growin’ and growin’, like a goddam brain tumor. (Known quite a few people hereabouts what’ve had brain tumors. Knew one feller had a brain tumor got so damn big one day his head just split open while he was sittin’ drinkin’ a beer at Burt’s. Split right open right along the top of his skull, sprayin’ out blood and brain matter just like a fountain. Fell off the stool, smacked his head on the floor and out rolled a tumor size of a softball.)
So I told people, sure.
But the thing was I only told prostitutes. You know, lyin’ there, all calm an’ cozy after gettin’ my weezer wozzled, smokin’ a cigar, maybe sippin’ a little J.D., I’d tell some little gal what happened. Usually it’d be some little Mex gal who couldn’t understand what I was sayin’ no how. (All’s said and done I gotta admit I prefer women what don’t speak English. I find it much more, well, restful that way. And chances are they do too, come to think of it.)
Anyway, I’d lie back an’ tell ‘em all about it, an’ even the ones that did speak English probly just thought I was makin’ it all up. But I wasn’t. An’ even if they did believe it and repeat it, it wouldn’t matter none, ‘cause who gives a fuck what a prostitute says?
(Continued here. Coming soon to better "art" theatres everywhere, under the title Une ville qu'on appelle Disdain, directed by Jean-Luc Godard, starring Eddie Constantine, Alain Delon, and Anna Karina.)
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