Part 14 (1/2)
”Think about it, Bill. Forget your digestive condition and think of the stars! Think of the symbolic representation of the actual energies in Flux, Trooper! The rampant a.s.sault on the female countryside by the male principle! This is where it's all happening, Bill! If I can short-circuit Frank and Jesse and Billy, the Chinger war will be over, and you humans will be warm, friendly and docile which, P.S., will be a very rare change!”
”Aren't you forgetting about Delazny? He's still sniffing about somewhere!”
”I got my trusty six-shooter, kemo sabe!” shouted the Chinger, waving his little gun excitedly. ”I'll waste that bowbhead in the bargain! He tricked me and the whole Chinger Army! I'm gonna fill the varmint full of lead!”
Bill wasn't so sure about any of this. If he didn't die at once all he wanted was to get off the stagecoach.
And stay as far away as he could from more violence. He had had enough.
”That's fine for you, Chinger. But if the Troopers can't find me I think maybe Irma and I will just settle down somewhere and raise porkuswine or something nice like that.”
”Strange fella, talking to yourself like that,” said Alf Bob. ”But let me warn you. People who take on the j.i.s.m gang jest about always end up planted in Shoe Hill!”
”You mean, 'Boot Hill,' don't you old timer?” said Bill, remembering his ACTION WESTERN SHOOTOUT COMIX.
”h.e.l.l, no. That's in Dodge City. What do you think I am, stupid?”
Bill apologized and strongly suggested to Bgr to keep his mouth shut as well for the duration of the journey. Maybe he could get some shut-eye and forget what was happening to his guts. But just as he was dropping off, a plaintive voice interrupted his repose.
”Bill!”
Bill opened his eyes and leaned over the side of the coach. Irma was leaning out of the window, turning a petulant frown his way.
”Yes, ma little desert flower, sweetest blossom of the prairie,” Bill found himself saying. Pretty disgusting stuff. Must be Western-speak.
”I don't like it down here. It's stuffy. Can I ride up there with you?”
”Golly - I don't know, honey-bunch!”
”Your lady friend wants to ride up here? Why sure! But she'll have to sit in my lap!”
The scraggly old man wheezed with laughter.
Bill relayed the message to Irma, who decided, after all, to stay in the coach.
The sun was a fiery red ball on the purple horizon when the buildings of Mulch Gulch rode into view, snaggly poking into the air like rotting teeth in a twisted jaw. The dust in the air made sundown a b.l.o.o.d.y thing that washed the outskirts of ”the Gulch” (as Alf Bob called it) with bleak and ruddy light and sepia shadows. It was a town that could have been ripped straight from Bill's Three-Dee Comix - cardboard and cheap paint and all. It smelled of horses and dust, and horseapples and open drains, and much less pleasant things, and the people that walked its dusty, muddy streets and snarled at the stagecoach as it pulled in looked haggard and mean.
Bill felt like he was back home on Phigerinadon II.
”Whooooooaaaaa!” said Alf Bob Barker, pulling on the reins just as the horses reached the Uterine Hotel.
”Well, podner. This is it. We'll be a-holding up here for the night. You have ma thanks for a job well done. Them rabbits you scared away were mean varmints!” He winked cagily then turned and threw all the luggage down into the mud before jumping down to help the pa.s.sengers out of the coach.
Bill jumped off as well, opened the coach door and held his arms wide and Irma dropped into them.
Within moments, her own arms were tightly wrapped around Bill's back, and their lips were locked in frantic osculation.
”Oh Bill!” said Irma, panting pa.s.sionately.
”Oh Irma,” said Bill, opening his belt frantically.
”Not here, you foolish, pa.s.sionate devil!” she laughed and pushed him away.
”Where?” Bill husked pa.s.sionately.
”I know,” said Irma coquettishly. ”I'll just go and register at the hotel, my darling. Then I'll go and powder my nose. The hotel desk clerk will give you my room number. We'll order room service so we don't have to ever go out, ever again. We'll spend eternity there. Now, doesn't that sound like real fun?”
It sounded like the stuff that dreams are made of to Bill. But there were other temptations. A glimpse of something very interesting caught the corner of his eye. Across the way, right next to the promised Ovum Bank, was a quite interesting structure, bearing a sign that read, NEW GOON SALOON.
”Good as done, dearest one! Go - and I will see you soonest!” he gurgled, finding it difficult to speak with all the saliva gus.h.i.+ng into his mouth.
Irma gave him a sweet peck on his cheek and then bustled into the hotel with the rest of the pa.s.sengers of the stagecoach to check in.
”Come on Bgr,” gargled Bill. ”Let us mosey on over to that thar saloon and I'll buy you a shot of Old Overcoat!”
”Good thinking old hoss. I can't imagine a better place to reconnoiter the situation!”
They moseyed moistly through the mud and pushed through the swinging doors of the New Goon Saloon.
It was like unto a paradise to Bill! Without a doubt, it was his kind of place. The problem with Trooper canteens, as well as most of the bars in the known universe, was that they were far too high-tech. You didn't really know where the plastic ended and the good honest booze began. No, Bill liked his bars not only soaked in atmosphere, but just plain soaked, and the New Goon Saloon certainly fit the bill. And the Bill.
The place was dark and roomy, awash with the smell of ancient beer, spilled whiskey and dead cigars, the sound of clinking gla.s.s, drunken conversation and melting livers. The bar - a dark mahogany affair - stretched the length of the large room, brightly s.h.i.+ning with bra.s.s fixtures. Behind it was a huge mural of a reclining woman with bits of gauze drapery falling from her plump body. She smiled down warmly on the alcoholic scene below. The bartender - a bald-headed large-moustachioed individual with an impressive gut - was lazily polis.h.i.+ng a gla.s.s. He looked up as they entered. He did not seem at all surprised to see a four-armed lizard wearing a western outfit hop up onto his bar.
”Name your poison, gents?” he said.
”Hydrofluoric acid on the rocks,” Bill said.
”Ho-ho, sonny, yore quite a card. Quintuple bourbon in a beer mug coming up. What about your little green chum here?”
”Just a sarsaparilla for me, please,” said the Chinger. ”And I'll need a straw with that.”
Eyes growing accustomed to the cool dimness, Bill looked around at the crowd. Men in western garb sat around tables here and there. In the corner, there was a small poker game going on.
”What a great place!” said Bill happily.
”Here you go, gents!” said the bartender, sliding their drinks down the smooth surface of the bar. ”That'll be six bits.”
”Gee - my friend's paying,” said Bgr. He washed his hands in the sarsparilla then ate his straw.
”Uh - how much is six bits, mister?”
”No jokes, sonny. Seventy-five cents.”
”Yeah, sure.” Bill turned out his pockets. All he had was lint. He took a healthy gulp of his whiskey, just in case. ”Do you take Trooper Cred Fingernails here?” He held up his pinky, upon which was implanted his meager Trooper credit account.
The bartender scowled. ”No funny games, cowboy. This is a cash and carry bar. Pay up. And no greenbacks. If it don't clank I don't want it.”