“A Town Called Disdain”, Episode 23: gun room

September, 1969. A town called Disdain in the state of New Mexico, also known as “The Land of Enchantment”.

The recently-discharged young soldier Harvey has returned home to say one last farewell before leaving again to find his own path through the cosmos.

However, before he can say farewell he gets in a fight with a local bully named Bull Thorndyke and shoots him dead in self-defense, using Sheriff Dooley’s own revolver.

The local rancher Big Jake Johnstone then offers Harvey an amazingly well-paying temporary gig as a guide for two mysterious and beautiful strangers, Dick Smith and his wife Daphne. (But it turns out Dick’s real last name is Ridpath.)

On the drive out to Big Jake’s ranch our principals are waylaid by a loathsome biker band called the Motorpsychos, led by a one-eyed former Oxford don called Moloch. Dick is forced to shoot dead one of the gang, although he later wonders if he would have found it necessary to shoot him if he had not been under the influence of LSD at the time.

Everyone spends the next day recovering.

The following day Dick and Daphne come down to Big Jake’s lunch table to find among the other guests two notorious international killers named Hans Grupler and Marlene, now posing as West German tourists...

(Go here to review our previous installment, or click here to return to Episode One.)

When Daphne got back from her turn in the bathroom Dick was gazing at himself in the mirror, adjusting his shoulder holster under his safari jacket. He had an extra thirteen-round magazine for the Browning in the left side pocket of his jacket. He put his cigarette case and lighter in the right side pocket.

“My, aren’t we handsome?”

“We sure are. Hey, sweety, take that gun on the bed and bring it along. Just in case we run into those motorcycle guys, or whatever.”

She picked up the small but sturdy Smith & Wesson snubnose.

“Careful there, baby, it’s loaded. You got a round under the hammer there, kiddo.”

“I’ll be careful. But you know who should be careful -- any of those motorcycle guys who try to fool with us again, that’s who.”

She aimed the .38 at the mirror, and Dick really wished she would aim it somewhere else.

“Come on, biker,” she snarled. “Eat this! Pow! Pow!”

She blew imaginary smoke from the pistol’s muzzle.

“I hope those bastards try to bother us.”

Right.

They’re probably the least of our worries, thought Dick.

****

Daphne wanted to choose the horses, and while she did this Dick had a little tête-à-tête with Big Jake in his “gun room”.

They were there to pick out a suitable sidearm for Harvey. Glass-doored cabinets filled with weaponry from contemporary to antique, dead animal heads on wood-paneled walls, the smell of leather, tobacco, bourbon and steel -- the room was a still-life orgy of such strident masculinity that Dick wondered if Big Jake wasn’t really a pansy after all; either that or he had a pretty small cock.

“Now ya know, Dick ol’ boy, maybe we oughta fix you up with a shootin’ iron while we’re at it. I mean, that little snubby you used the other night might be fine at real close range, but --”

“I’ll be carrying this, Jake.”

Dick lifted up the left breast of his jacket.

“Oh. Automatic, huh? Whatcha got there?”

“Browning, Hi-Power.”

“Oh. Well, now, that’s a fine shootin’ weapon, yessir, fine weapon. Had it a long time?”

“Yep.”

“Used to it, huh?”

“Yep.”

“Sure it’s in good shape and all?”

“I take good care of it.”

“Well, if you’re happy with it --”

“Excuse me, Jake, I mean, not to rush you, but we really should pick out something for Harvey --”

“Yes sir. Right away. I know I do tend to run my old mouth on the all too infrequent occasion I get a intelligent guest like yourself here, Dick boy. Nice shoulder holster ya got there too by the way --”

“Thanks, Jake. So --”

“Handsome safari jacket ya got there, too. Abercrombie & Fitch?”

“Joseph A. Bank, Philadelphia.”

“Joseph A. Bank?”

“Yeah. Y’know, Jake, what about that service .45 there? Harvey’s probably familiar with it from the army.”

“Well, he probably is, sir, that no doubt he is, and the M1911 is a fine weapon, carried one myself back in the big one.” He opened the glass lid of the case and gently caressed the pistol. “But may I make a suggestion? Just one --”

“Sure.”

Dick smiled politely, but he couldn’t help wanting to take one of Jake’s fine Purdey shotguns off the wall and shoving it up his fat ass.

“Now I know you wanta carry that Browning, Dick, and I don’t blame ya. That’s a fine weapon, and you’re used to it. But let me tell ya somethin’ about automatics in this country, all this dust out here, well, sir, sometime they gonna jam up, and you got a automatic jammed you got yourself a problem. And that’s why I myself carry a Colt New Service revolver I inherited from my daddy, fifty year old and never jammed one single time. Not once. But, for Harvey, now, lemme tell ya, that was one good shot he got off day before yesterday with the sheriff’s gun, heavy as that cannon is, but -- slight little fella like Harvey? You want a reliable stoppin’ gun for this country but not too heavy? Well, sir, I’m gonna recommend this piece.”

He took a Parkerized revolver out of a higher shelf of the case and held it out in both hands like a proud shopkeeper.

“Smith & Wesson M10. Chambered for the .38 Special, four-inch barrel, just a hair under two pound, government issue and don’t you even ask me how I acquired it. But -- just you feel the balance on this sucker.”

Dick took the gun and felt the balance.

“Lotta them Green Berets carry this weapon, and believe you me that baby’ll stop any damn fool you point it at.”

“Okay, sold.”

Dick restrained the urge to try out the gun’s pistol-whipping efficacy on Big Jake’s head, and Jake proceeded to show off and expatiate on various other firearms in his collection.

There was something very nervous under his good-old-boy façade, and he seemed to be working hard to hide this nervousness. Was he always this way? No way to know, but Dick was bored and agitated, and he seriously considered bracing Jake here and now and maybe getting to the bottom of this whole Grupler and Marlene and Philips and Adams nonsense.

But on second thought he decided just to let the fat bastard stew in his own vile juices a while longer.

If the time came when Dick really had to get some information out of this man then he would just ask.

And if Jake tried to hold back or prevaricate, well, a guy like this, one little tap and he’d crack like an egg.

(Continued here.)

hap dixon in the case of the mysterious cove: chapter 3 - a job well done

click here for chapter 1

by jason gusmann

visuals by rhoda penmarq

Chapter Three: A Job Well Done Hap Dixon stands in the morning sunshine talking to cub reporter Rudy Sidelong and Officer Dan. Tell us how you did it, Hap! Rudy asks excitedly. Hap looks up at Officer Dan, who nods his approval. Hap begins, Well, after I found the clues I knew I had to get to the airport. So I hiked up there and, using my trusty flashlight, I found my way out onto the airfield. And there I saw the smugglers! Rudy inquires breathlessly, How did you know they were the smugglers, Hap? Well, Hap continues, I knew from the clues I found that the smugglers were using an air route and that it was a family business. So when I got out on the airfield I saw there was only one plane being loaded at that time of night. And what did it say on the side of the plane but Martinelli and Sons Shipping! Rudy snaps his fingers. Of course! Hap continues, Another tipoff was that they were swarthy and foreign and I had never seen them in town before. So I used my trusty two-way radio to contact Officer Dan and the police took care of the rest! Rudy exclaims, Gee, what a story! Officer Dan frowns. I should’ve known from the beginning that they would be crooked, he says. Without Hap Dixon’s help, the Case of the Swarthy Smugglers would probably never have been solved. Officer Dan says to Hap, You did a fine job, young man! Officer Dan tousles Hap’s yellow hair; Hap grins. The sun is shining brightly down on the town. Hap walks into his house through the front door, into the living room. In the picture hanging on the beige wall above the green sofa, it seems as if something has changed. It is hard to tell as no matter how close or how far you are from the picture it never quite comes into focus. Mom is a blue dress, blonde hair, a devil mask. On the green sofa, across from the television in the big, brown console, there is a thin woman in a short black dress. She has short black hair and long white legs. Her legs are crossed at the knee and a black high-heeled shoe dangles from her white foot. She is smoking a long white cigarette. She glares at Hap and taps a gray ash onto the orange rug. The television is off. Bodie is lying behind the green sofa, whining. Hap Dixon asks, Where’s Aunt Bea? Dad asks, from behind the paper, Aunt who? THE END

seven candle stories...

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the short story of the long candle
===========================
it was lit on a wedding night and was the only one that could see the sunrise before it died...

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the long story of the short candle
===========================
it was never picked... it was never lit... and lived a very long life... with no flame...

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the sad story of the scented candle
============================
it was never appreciated for what it really was...

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the sinful story of the church candle
=============================
it had nothing to do in its life except laughing at the minister's jokes... so hard its eyes were always tearful and its mouth drooling...

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the sentimental story of the flat candle
===============================
it could never look into the pillar candle's eyes... and was eventually drowned in its lover's tears...

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the witless story of the wickless candle
===============================
it was cloned to be the cute dummy child of a miser's family for generations...



the tearful story of the tearless candle
===============================
hmmm... (sorry i don't write autobiographies...)

.

Bad Attitude

I woke up hungover and alone. After three weeks of no drinking because of the concussion, a few drinks hit me times ten. Maybe that explains it. The dinner wine worked me into another black-out. Almost. Because, I remember Emma screaming. And then later, when Charlie had disappeared, her saying, “You didn’t beat him up for my sake, Scott. None of us is that dumb.”

Everybody was always telling her, even back in Chicago, how I treat women like brunch and dinner. That bogus bad-attitude  haunts me now, causing no end of trouble with Emma. Every time, which is all the time, people laugh about my penchant for women, I’ve got to prove to her that if I acted cavalier in the past, it’s a testament to how much she means to me. All those other women were nothing; Emma’s everything. True as life gets. But let me tell you—a hell of a lot to prove.

’Course Charlie knew how it would play. “Later, Emma? Let me tell ya ’bout later.” He’s caustic like that, snorting drugs and way out of bounds. But drunk, stupid, or desperate while punching him out, I was hardly contemplating: whose honor’s at stake here, mine or hers?

(click here to read the first episode and here  for the previous one)

Charlie pushed me and kept pushing till I got angry. He asked for it. And he knows as well as anyone that unless Emma believes I’m serious—I might as well go drown myself.

On the bathroom mirror, a magnet covered by a red ceramic ladybug is holding a deckle-edged note card—where does Emma get this stuff? Is there a fancy stationery store in the jungle I don’t know about? She’s at the yoga pavilion taking a class and afterwards, she’s planning on saying good-bye to her friends during lunch. She and I—and Charlie—go to Chicago tomorrow. And this really is so obvious it can go unsaid: if I don’t make up with Charlie, Emma will stay here and teach yoga.

I splash water on my face, brush my teeth, and hurry through the paths to the huge tree supporting Logan’s three tiers: lounge first, second for massage, and the third tier is his bedroom.

“Logan! All right if I come up there?” He needs to throw a rope ladder down. But says sorry, he’s giving Lacey a massage. And thanks a lot for interrupting because now he has to all start over. I’m not leaving, though. So after a minute, I smell marijuana and hear murmuring. The platform heaves, the ladder groans, and clouds of smoke puff out. Charlie’s down the rope ladder fast for a guy who brags about how his proud Buddha belly has grown prouder just since he got here.

“You better be sorry, Scott.”

 “I am sorry, Charlie. I shouldn’t have to tell you that. But I’m so fucking sorry that I need to say it out loud.”

Charlie’s lip is split and it looks like I gave him twin shiners. “What if you’re just saying you’re sorry because Emma won’t go home with you unless we’re friends?”

“Life’s a risk. I’m sorry. What more do you want?”

“I want you and Emma to go on stage with me in Chicago.”

“Christ.” I stare at my feet. “Fine. If I’m impatient that’s my problem.”

We’re back to being brothers, walking to the pavilion. Charlie dusts off his shirt and yanks up his trunks. “Logan lives like an animal.”

(click here for the next episode)

“A Town Called Disdain”, Episode 22: Grupler

Previously in our story:

Dick Ridpath (“One fairly expects his passport to list his occupation as ‘mysterious stranger’” -- John Updike) and his lovely and unflappable young wife Daphne partook of an uneasy lunch at the table of dude-rancher Big Jake Johnstone. Who should Dick have seen there but the notorious Hans Grupler and his accomplice Marlene, under the guise of tourists named Feldschmitt from West Germany.

New Mexico, September 1969...

(Click here to see our previous chapter; go here to return to the beginning of this uncut serialization of Larry Winchester's sprawling {"Oh, but how one wishes it were twice as long!" -- Ronald Firbank} epic.)

Dick went down the hall to take a pee before they went out for the day but the door was locked.

“One moment please.”

It was Grupler.

Dick stood and waited. He lit up a cigarette. A Marlboro. There had been a mahogany box of them on a little table by the staircase and he had grabbed a handful. He breathed it in. He missed his unfiltered Craven “A”s, which he had gotten used to in Saigon and Singapore. He’d have to pick up some Chesterfields in town.

A deep orgasmic groaning came from the bathroom, then finally a heavy liquid plopping accompanied by burgherish sighs of pleasure.

Dick had only seen Grupler in person once before. Marlene he knew only by photographs. However it had once been Dick’s job to know quite a bit about people like Grupler and Marlene.

They were terrible people and indeed on the one occasion when he and Grupler had come face to face the only thing that kept Dick from doing humanity a favor and shooting him down like a mad dog on the spot was the fact that they were both sitting in the crowded bar car of the Paris/Marseilles express.

Dick had needed to take a pee then, too. Grupler had made him as well, and they both had to sit there for hours, keeping an eye on one another. The seconds oozed by like beads of sweat as Dick nursed a cognac, his bladder feeling ripe to burst, but he didn’t dare go to the head. Not if he didn’t want to take a chance on getting drilled through the door while taking his piss.

His only consolation through this agonizing trip was that Grupler didn’t dare go to the WC either.

When they finally pulled into the station at Marseilles, Dick (with his hand in his jacket pocket gripping his Browning) had tried to follow Grupler but had lost him in the crowd. Being too wary to use the station’s rest room he had carried his suitcase to a nearby seedy café and there had finally voided his bladder into the reeking but quaint hole in the men’s room floor.

Shortly before Dick’s retirement from the service he had heard rumors that Grupler and Marlene’s multiple treacheries had finally been discovered by the East Germans; that they had gone underground; that they had offered their services to and been turned down by the CIA (whom they had already worked for and betrayed several times -- indeed they were suspected of the murder of at least one CIA officer, and of who knows how many other “assets”); that the Soviets had a $50,000 contract on their heads.

The last Dick had heard of Grupler and Marlene was that they had been chased out of London by the Kray gang and then had gotten themselves killed in Haiti after trying to pull a double deal on Duvalier.

But these sort of people were like cockroaches.

They would keep turning up.

Dick had almost finished his insipid Marlboro when the toilet flushed loudly and decisively.

The slapping sounds of washing up, like a thirsty horse in a water trough, as the toilet bowl slowly refilled itself, whining rustily and moaning as if it was drawing its fresh water not without pain from some dark cistern deep beneath the surface of the desert.

Then the door opened and there stood Grupler still buttoning his heavy worsted trousers as the stench wafted out of the bathroom behind him.

“Commander Ridpath,” he smiled, showing those yellowed doglike teeth, “or should I say Mr. Smith, such a pleasure to meet you again.”

“Mister whatever will do just fine, Hans. I’m retired.”

“Ah yes.” Grupler took a soft leatherbound notebook out of the inside breast pocket of his tweed hunting jacket and thumbed through it.

“Retired -- officially -- from active service 29th April 1965.”

“Actually my papers were dated 17th May.”

Hans raised his eyebrows.

“So?”

He removed a pencil from a holder in the book, made an erasure on the open page, blew away the rubber dust, licked the point of the pencil, wrote something, put the pencil back, and then closed the notebook with a precise little thwap.

(To tell the truth Dick had no idea when his papers had been dated.)

“I am so happy to make the acquaintance of your charming wife the former Miss Daphne F. MacNamara of the Rittenhouse Square, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.”

He paused rather disgustingly with a wet little smile.

“You have done very well for yourself, Mr. Ridpath or should I say Mr. Smith. It is wonderful is it not to have someone to share one’s life through fat and thin.”

“Thick and thin,” said Dick.

“Quite. Through the thick of the thin of it.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“To the bitter end,” said Grupler.

What the fuck.

“Excuse me, Hans. I really gotta pee.”

“Yes, of course, pardon me.”

He stepped aside, bowing, and Dick walked by sideways, not taking an eye off him.

Grupler seemed almost ready to follow Dick into the bathroom, but Dick closed the door.

Inside, he stood to one side of the door and waited until he heard Grupler’s footsteps receding.

The bathroom still reeked of Grupler’s bowel movement.

Dick took one last drag of his cigarette and dropped it into the toilet.

Of course Hans had left the lid up.

And, yes, damn it to hell, there was a definite fresh smudge of shit-smear on the toilet seat.

Christ.

Dick tore off some toilet paper, wet it under the faucet, then wiped off the seat. He dropped the paper into the toilet, ripped off another wad of paper, and gave the seat another good wipe with the dry paper.

He paused, wondering if Grupler had tiptoed back and was standing out there, listening.

Fuck him.

He dropped the paper into the bowl and then washed his hands thoroughly with Ivory soap.

He dried his hands and only then did he unzip and take his pee, amidst that still-lingering shit stench, mixed with -- yes -- it could only be -- the cloying tang of Hai Karate cologne.

Fucking Grupler. Him and that whore Marlene.

Dick had not felt good about killing that motorcyclist the other night, and he knew that if he hadn’t been quite so ripped on that Owsley acid he could have probably easily stopped the guy with a simple pistol barrel smacked against his nose and a kick to the balls, whatever. There were other ways to stop a big fat giant with a monkey wrench besides shooting him in the eye.

No use crying over spilt milk, but still...

He had decided a long time ago he wanted nothing more to do with killing people.

But.

But he had to admit that right now he really wouldn’t mind at all killing Grupler and that bitch Marlene, too, in the bargain.

People like that just had no respect for human life.

He’d run into his share of that sort in his career, and they weren’t always foreigners, either.

When you came right down to it, it was that cold-blooded sort who had caused Dick to retire early from the navy.

He just couldn’t stand people like that, and if Grupler was smart he’d watch his step.

But come to think of it, Grupler was smart. After all, he had fucked over plenty of the most dangerous people in the world, and here he was, still walking around, full of beans.

Dick finished and flushed, washed and dried his hands again.

He pulled the door open and with one eye peeked down the corridor.

(Continued here.)

the cad

by horace p sternwall

pictures by rhoda penmarq

for mr dan leo

it must be sad to be a cad and have women every hour fall like flowers into your lap when you're trying to take a nap or want some solitude to sit in a somber mood and create unflinching perfect art but how can you start when these myriad creatures with their softly shifting features will not go away but multiply every day lining up for miles in kaleidoscopic styles and wind through city blocks stopping the tower clocks of the haughty bourgeoisie who hate art and poetry o apollo shed a tear! but poet, try to persevere though the world be misbegotten you will never be forgotten your words will be on lips when thinking machines and rocket ships are wiped from time's black shining slate immortality shall be your fate

"A Town Called Disdain", Episode 21: lunch

The place is the Johnstone Ranch, several miles outside of the town of Disdain, NM. The time is September, 1969, the month after the first Moon landing, and Woodstock, and the Manson murders. “Sugar Sugar” by the Archies is soaring its way to #1...

(Click here to read our previous episode. Go here to return to the beginning.)

Finally around one o’clock we came down these long wide curving stairs, following the lovely maid Esmeralda, and into an ornate large dining room where apparently everyone was waiting for us.

And who do we see but Hans Grupler and that evil bitch known as “Marlene”.

Talk about not being able to escape one’s sordid past.

We sat down and were introduced.

Two smooth young men (“Mr. Philips and Mr. Adams”) whom I at first took for a couple of homosexual lads on vacation, but further observation makes me think CIA, maybe FBI.

Also a rather dissipated-looking young Englishman with long hair.

Big Jake of course and this absolutely stunning but very strange creature introduced as his daughter with the somehow unlikely name of “Hope”.

Grupler and Marlene are supposedly “Mr. and Mrs. Feldschmitt...tourists from West Germany”. Uh huh.

Grupler looked tanned and fit, as did Marlene, who by the way is built like a brick shit house and was wearing this distracting blouse thing opened up way down.

Philips and Adams were “geologists” doing some “fieldwork in the area for the government”. Right. OK.

The only guest who seemed legit was the Limey, introduced as Mr. Squitters, apparently a rock and roll star (never heard of him, what do I know) here to record and study local Mescalero chants. He spoke little; he said, with a thick Cockney accent, that he was “bloody ‘ungover”, and he looked it.

Lunch was OK. “Chicken fried” ham, which Big Jake said was from Virginia. A quite good “red hot” salsa. Nice warm tortillas instead of bread. Heinz baked beans. Canned peas and carrots. The pineapples were also from a can. An unusual rutabaga salad. Mateus and Blue Nun unfortunately, but -- surprise -- a decent Beaujolais.

Everyone played their cards tight to the vest.

Jake is dumb enough not to know about Grupler and Marlene, and Philips and Adams. But who knows?

With a day already wasted sleeping I thought it best to get right to work, so I asked Jake if we could have the soldier for the day “to show us around”.

Daphne wanted to go horseback. This seemed as good a way as any to reconnoiter the neighborhood, and had the advantage of being good “cover” since we were supposed to be on vacation ourselves.

After lunch Daphne changed into riding clothes. Brought out those old jodhpurs. She asked me how she looked in them, turning around.

She looked so good in them I had to take them right off her again.

(Continued here. Somewhere a plot lies waiting. Maybe.)