Gyorgy Yabu was not a man to sit still with his victory or even find it satisfactory, that is, enough. There was always more to be had and Gorgy Yabu wanted it. Wanted it all. He was a man famine-cursed: in a famine, no matter how much is planted, it is not enough. With a famine, there is not enough. Of anything. Gyorgy Yabu was like a famine: no matter how much he ate up, he was never satisfied. Would he sell his soul–to the Devil, of course–to win the world? Would he sell his daughter? Well, perhaps only one of them would do the trick. After all, Agamemnon only required one.
So, it should not come as a surprise that when people stood in his way, Gyorgy Yabu became frustrated until he had removed them. This was often exhausting, causing him uncomfortable sleep and a general kind of irritation by day and occasionally a twitch at the left side of his mouth that caused him to grimace in a smiling sort of way. It was in his wish to banish these physical impediments, including the people, that Gyorgy Yabu found and hired–every hand has his price–Dr. Chicane Milchrot, an expert in his field. The project he set him was building a machine, a smart machine, a machine that would disappear people. It was of no concern where they were rendered, as long as they were gone out of his way. In the perfecting of such a miraculous machine, the more miraculous as it was to be designed to select one individual out of a crowd, guinea pigs were needed. Thus it was that arbitrary people were randomly picked up off the street, usually from the other side of the wall, and disappeared, never to be heard from again. Which, of course, was the whole idea. However, all along the way, people were incapacitated and died. An unfortunate side-effect but unavoidable, all things considered. As the dead were secretly disposed of, tortured limbs and all, it was all the same: they just disappeared and no amount of inquiry could uncover them.
Buck notified Hellecchino of every disappearance. Hellecchino kept a Domesday Book of names, dates and circumstances. Buck’s position as town disabled person and his living outside of town made it easy for him to disappear for days at a time in his search for Hellecchino, who was never in one place twice. They could have used carrier pigeons but Clyde Moyen Bucket liked to bird hunt and to him all birds were the same: dinner on the wing. And he liked to be the one with the most hits, so he often used a modified short barrel with #1 buckshot, even though it occasionally took out a fellow hunter. A mortally wounded pigeon would divulge its message and a later look for similarly fine feathered friends would have drive Clyde to ride through the night across the Coahuila near-desert sands in an attempt to follow the bird to its destination: Hellecchino, the swingest grade A number one East Texas choice frustration. So, the most obvious and direct method, so utterly within everyone’s sight and right under their noses, was the best way. Thus it was Buck hopped on his burro and clip-copped across the chaparral to wherever Hellecchino might be. Even I can’t tell you where he was or it’d not be a secret. Buck always limped back home with guidance for the corralled population, that is, all those on the other side of the wall. Fat lot of good it did–where was he when he was needed, eh? Stupid fucking hero!
Of course, Buck wasn’t the only one looking for Hellecchino. Jim Hatfield was looking for him, too. Jim Hatfield, no longer a Texas Ranger, had time on his hands. What better way to employ his time than by finding this much-talked-about thorn in Gyorgy Yabu’s, Medusi Minkowski IV’s, Clyde Moyen Bucket’s and The Mayor’s sides. Any man capable of invigorating so many enemies in so short a time must be formidable indeed. Now that Jim Hatfield knew how Gyorgy Yabu worked and what the long arm of the law really meant, he was anxious to meet Hellecchino. Perhaps there was something that he could learn, old dog that he was.
So it was that one day, in the middle of Yabu and Brownwood Causeway, just outside of Kaikai’s Hostelry, Jim Griffin and Kaikai waved good-bye to Jim Hatfield and Goldie. Even though the boardwalks were crowded with shoppers and loungers and the street modestly filled with buggies, buckboards and horses, nobody noted Jim Hatfield’s passing. After all, people were coming and going daily. Nothing unusual here.
So it was, too, that Jim Hatfield found Hellecchino. In amongst a group of wildly gesticulating and shouting Indians, Hellecchino stood cool as a cucumber. Everybody reverted to silence as Jim Hatfield rode up. Hellecchino looked around.
“Why, Jim Hatfield! Glad to see ya, buddy. Hop on down and join in the discussion,” said Hellecchino.
Jim did, loosely holding Goldie’s reins in his left hand in case the palomino got spooked.
“How’d you know it was me?”
“Everybody knows ya, Jim. You’re the most known man in the West.” A couple of the Indians grunted. “The most known white man in the West.” The Indians were happy with this. “But we can talk about that later. How’d you find me?”
“Buck’s burro bunnies,” replied Jim with a smile.
“We’ll have to see about his bagging it. You weren’t followed, were you?”
“Nobody even remarked my leaving.” Jim looked down, Goldie blew a gust out his great nostrils. “You ain’t afraid of them finding you, are you?”
“Hell no! But I’m not ready to be found. Ya gotta keep ‘em guessin’, Jim.”
“I suppose so,” said Jim, rubbing his chin. “But there’s no telling what’s going on in their heads.”
“The more fantasy, the better. Keeps ‘em occupied. Besides, they’ll be so involved in their possibility stories, we can slip right by ‘em. It’s a pink elephant, Jim.”
What the hell’s a pink elephant got to do with things?”
“Just you don’t think nothin’ about it.”
“What’s going on here? It’s against the law for Indians to gather like this.”
“You see anybody watching?”
Jim scanned the horizon. No hill or rise or big bush anywhere around. “Nope,” he said.
“That’s why we’re here. Right out in the open right where everyone can see is right where no one will be looking. If people think you’re sneaking around, they will only be looking for hiding places.” Hellecchino turned to the Indians. “Jim Hatfield wants to know what’s the problem” The Indians were silent. “It’s okay. He’s not a Texas Ranger any more. Gained some Indian friends out to the west of here.”
The Indians looked around to each other.
“You come do sweat lodge?”
“Sure.”
“Okay.”
“They come after our land. It’s our land. We don’t want them to have it. It’s all we got,” said a big Indian.
“They will return with blue coats. Always it is so,” said a short Indian standing right before Jim.
“Who’s they?” asked Jim.
“Monkey Ears and Twisted Lips.”
“We don’t know what to do.”
“Yeah. We always lose.”
“Not so damn fast,” warned Jim Hatfield. “If you think that way, you certainly will lose. You’ve already lost.”
“You’re language sure has taken a tumble, Jim,” said Hellecchino.
“Happens when I’m a little put out.”
“What do we do, Hellecchino–why you have such a difficult name?”
“I had no choice.” Hellecchino paused. “What land is this?”
“Our holy land. It is where we go to feel the spirit.”
“And so they want it.”
“They come two, three times. Always more money.”
“Soon we have no land.”
Great group assent.
“Well. . .the more you fight for it, the more they’ll want it. They want it because it’s important to you. You gotta tell ‘em they can have it as long as they don’t take the other place.”
“What place?”
“Hell, I don’t know! Any old piece of worthless land a ways away. Draw a circle of stones on it. Don’t give it up. Fight tooth and nail–metaphorically, that is–and when you got a better deal, right up to the point that they’re threatening you, you give in like a bunch of yellow bellied cowards.”
“What do they want with worthless land?”
“If you’re fighting to keep it, they’ll think it’s worth plenty. Only you know it’s priceless.”
Jim Hatfield burst out laughing. Goldie neighed.
“That’s good hone, Hellecchino! Priceless indeed.”
The Indians were scratching their heads.
“Look,” explained Hellecchino, “you are leading them down a blind alley.” No comprehension in their eyes. “On a wild goose chase.” Still no comprehension ase’ceov the seminole sasv’kwv.”
“A group “Ah” and holding of black long-haired heads. These foreigners and their Indian!
“No one wants worthless land, right? Only you can make it worth something.”
“That’s a good idea,” said the big Indian.
“Alright then. Problem solved. Now. . .when you make the sale, you come find me and we’ll celebrate with a big dinner.”
And with that, the Indians jumped on their pintos and rode off into the south wind.
“You’re pretty slick,” commented Jim after the sound of hooves had receded and the dust settled.
“Depends on which plane of existence you live on.”
“I don’t think I follow you,” said Jim, scratching his head and unsettling his hat.
“You don’t have to live in the world somebody else makes for you. You may not like their rules and their interpretation of the world. Ain’t that why you quit?”
“So?”
“Well, if you don’t buy into it, you know the rules anyway and you can play it back at ‘em. Charming Jonson called it blow back.”
“And Jimmy Zimmerman called it blowing in the wind.”
“More like spittin’ into the wind.”
“I guess now I’m on a different plane.”
“Sure seems like it.”
Jim and Hellecchino stood around shuffling their boots for awhile.
“I’m parched,” Hellecchino broke the self-conscious silence. “Let’s go get a drink.”
“Where do we find a drink out here? You gotta be careful of drink. It clouds the mind.”
“Lu Da’s got some fine wine. Water, too, for you.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the disappearing machine was working well, though not so secretively as planned, and the disappearances became pandemic. Gyorgy and Chicane Milchrot had no idea who leaked the knowledge of the machine, nicknamed The Lagniappe, though Gyorgy liked to call it the Giving Machine. He was into Critias-type rhetoric, though, in reality, he would have had no idea who Critias was–and probably wouldn’t be able to pronounce the name properly. Everything outside of Brazos River Basin dialect was Greek to him. But sometimes secrecy was not as important as chutzpah, for if you pull it off right in front of people’s faces, they’re so appalled at your gall, at your audacity to flaunt your inhumanity, that they’re frozen in action and reduced to bitching about it. The best defense is denial, anyway.
Hellecchino was able, by way of his Domesday Book, to discover a pattern to the disappearances, temporally and geographically. This was not difficult to do, as people who are so sure of themselves that they feel they can do the most heinous of deeds right out in the open tend to operate in a very constrained and predictable manner. More often that not, they will also react predictably. And this is how Hellecchino worked to thwart Gyorgy’s plans for total Coahuila domination. This is why, too, the people of Chokepointe Piste considered Hellecchino to be a gifted, if not magical, being. Of course, he was a hero. Heroes were known for their superhuman life-saving efforts.
It was not at all surprising that at the time and placed of the next disappearance, directly upon the heels of outrageous behavior of one sort or another, in order to thwart it, Hellecchino was to be found. Unfortunately, spies and–worse–informers were about. Chicane Milchrot knew of the plot and simply retimed his disappearing act and–bingo!–Hellecchino was discredited, made to be a fool. Ll it takes is one such incident to get people to wondering about a person’s worth and reliability, especially those who are dependent, that is, those who do nothing. But this happened twice before Hellecchino found the clue to his failure. So, he set a trap. A stupid, simple trap. So simple in fact, that it smacked of the ingenious. Directly in front of the suspected snitch, Hellecchino told a secret to Buck that was easily overhead. And, sure enough, the Lagniappe did its bit just ahead of schedule. Hellecchino and Buck were there to witness it, as were, of course, a few others, including the ratfink, who was of course duly astounded and flabbergasted and ran off lickety-split to report the faux pas thus giving himself away. No one disappeared because Hellecchino told the intended to stay away until 10 minutes after the incident. Which he did. It was so good to see him again that Hellecchino’s reputation was restored. As for the ratfink, well, he disappeared, albeit not as cleanly rendered as Chicane Milchrot’s victims. Which is why Medusi Minkowski IV and a posse comeditatis tracked down Hellecchino and surrounded him, bull-in-the-ring fashion, south of Chokepointe Piste, on the way to McDonald’s farm, though why he was heading in that direction was a mystery and would remain so forever. However, legends grew up.
“Is this a welcoming committee?” asked Hellecchino after he’d been duly surrounded.
“Yore wanted for questioning,” said Medusi Minkowski IV.
“Well! Here I am. Ask away.”
“Yore willin’ to be questioned?” Medusi Minkowski8 IV was incredulous.
“Shore thang, sheriff. ‘Sides, I ain’t got much of a choice.”
“That’s for sure!” Medusi Minkowski IV jabbed a finger at Hellecchino.
And then everyone was silent. The posse comeditatis had come expecting resistance. They did not know what to do with acquiescence. Finally, Medusi Minkowski IV spurred his mount into the ring. He bent over his saddle horn and breathed down into Hellecchino’s face.
“I don’t like your sort,” he snarled.
“So?”
“I wanna know about the disappearance.”
“What disappearance?”
“Harvey Matusow.”
“Harvey?”
“Yes. Harvey. You hard o’ hearin’?”
“Harvey’s disappeared?”
“I just said so, didn’t I?”
“Where’d he go?”
“Are you really so fucking dumb?!@ When people disappears nobody knows where they gone.”
“How should I know?”
“I ain’t out here on no wild goose chase, goddamnit! Now, tell us what you know!”: shouted Medusi Minkowski IV, getting down off his horse.
“I don’t know noting’, ‘ceptin. . .”
Medusi Minkowski leaned in. All members of the po9sse comeditatis leaned in.
“‘Ceptin there’s been alotta disappearances lately.” Silence. “You ever check into them?”
Medusi Minkowski IV put his hands on his guns, took a wide stance. “I’m takin’ you in.”
“Hey!” Hellecchino held out his hands, pals up. “My hands are clean. I washed ‘em before I left Lu Da’s. See?”
Medusi Minkowski IV looked.
“Alright.” He stuck a finger in Hellecchino’s face. “I’m goin’ t’check. If’n you wasn’t there, yore ass is grass. Alright, boys,” he said, still staring menacingly at Hellecchino, “let’s ride.”
Medusi Minkowski IV turned and strode manfully, purposefully to his horse, relinquished hid hold on his guns and mounted up. The cowboys rode off, leaving Hellecchino standing in a cloud of dust.
Among the wondrous things that Chicane Milchrot had created–aside from the disappearing machine and an eater of the dead–was a remote sensing telegraph. A hand ditta. It was because of this particular invention that Chicane was able to be at the next disappearance at the same time Hellecchino was: he had been telegraphed.
“Ah-ha! I’ve got you now, Hellecchino! You’ll never get away.” Eureka’s Chicane Milchrot.
Hellecchino was surprised. “Whoa!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here? I mean. . .how did you know?”
“I have a hand job,” announced Chicane rather proudly, throwing out his chest.
With that, the great scientist opened up his hand and showed Hellecchino his new device: the hand job. AKA the hand conn. Gyorgy Yabu, however, called it the Bush Pilot. Hellecchino was duly amazed if not over-reactive, a kind of wild goose chasing behavior in order to induce the confidently proud scientists to further exhibit his device. Chicane was more than obliging.
After an hour or two of dissertation, Hellecchino, still nodding and smiling, asked the dapper fabricationist one simple question. It was a safe question because there was no one else around. Thus Chicane Milchrot’s next solution to the problem would hurt no one in particular.
“Now you have me, Dr. Milchrot, what are you going to do with me?”
“Ah-ha!” And the hand job disappeared into a large side pocket of his Zoot Suit coat and out of another another hand held device appeared. “I’m going to disappear you with my mini-lagniappe.” And without another word, he flicked a switch and the little gadget leapt to life. “What’re you gonna do about that!” A button was depressed –but too late.
You see, Hellecchino had jumped back and assumed one of the many Kong-fu pre-set stances, left hand extended before him, a look of horror or hatred on his face, and when the mini-lagniappe’s disappearing ray struck his hand Dr. Chicane Milchrot disappeared with a little pop. He had been rendered into never never land. Because Hellecchino was holding a mirror in his extended hand and the ray of the unseen was imaged right back at the Frankensteinian doctor.
End of problem.
Many years later, Hellecchino was to explain this phenomenon by stating that a good many people could not look at themselves in a mirror because they’d see nothing. He did not tell that he’d gotten the mirror from Walt Disney, though. That would have been just too unbelievable. Who believes in magic mirrors, eh?
Later that night, as Gyorgy was fretting that his ace in the hole scientist was not home yet, Hellecchino, Jim Hatfield and Buck were discussing things over an open fire outside the cinderblock house. There was no need to hide any more. Indeed, it was better to be out in the open and above-board with everything as this would be threateningly frustrating to the bad guys who thought they owned the world and assumed everyone was secretly plotting against them, thus creating a self-fulfilling prophesy, creating their own little world and, at the same time, imposing a nightmare scenario on everyone else. A kind of perpetual paranoia machine.
“Seems like we got ourselves a new problem,” opined Jim Hatfield.
“How so, Ranger?”
“Buck,” Jim leaned forward on his chair, “I’m not a Ranger any more.”
“But. . .but. . .you’ll always be Ranger Jim to me. Ya just can’t give up yore identity like that. It ain’t right.”
“I’m still the same man, Buck. Just with a coat of a different color.”
“What’m I gonna call you, then?”
“Jim would be fine.”
“How’m I s’posed to do that? There are so many Jims.” Buck chewed on a thought for awhile. “I’ll call you Jimhatfield.”
“How about me?” said a voice from the doorway.
Everyone turned.
“Hello, Jim.”
“Hello, Jim. What are y’all doing?”
“We have a problem now Hellecchino got rid of Milchrot. Come on in and join the discussion,” Jim Hatfield said.
“How can getting rid of Milchrot be a problem?” queried Jim Griffin.
“Well. . .we still have to find and deactivate the machine and with Milchrot gone there’s no telling what Yabu will do.”
Jim Griffin shook his head. “You really did it this time, Hellecchino.”
“I’m fallible. I’m only human,” Hellecchino spread his hands sheepishly.
“Yore a hero, Hellecchino. You ain’t allowed,” said Buck. “Not everybody can be a hero, y’know.”
“There’s no need for everyone to be a hero, Buck,” Hellecchino clapped his sidekick on the back. “I’ll just have to think of something, that’s all.”
“But yore a hero!”
“C’mon, Buck,” Jim Griffin remonstrated. “Give the guy a chance. It’s not like it’s the end of the world.”
“It is if Yabu discovers Milchrot is no longer around!” shouted Buck.
“Well, then,” drawled Jim Hatfield, “we’ll have to make sure he doesn’t find out right away. That’s all.”
“How you plan on doin’ it?”
“That’s the problem we’re discussing here, Buck,” Hellecchino quipped.
“Somebody better start thinkin’ then,” mumbled the little man.
So they all sat around thinking for awhile.
“We have to get to the machine and put it out of commission, it seems to me,” suggested Jim Griffin.
“Nobody gets into Yabu’s ranch.”
“If he thought it was one of his own. . .”
“Milchrot’s gone. Disappeared by his own hand.”
“But his assistant’s still here.”
Jim Griffin sat back and let the silence settle.
“He gotta assistant?” asked Buck, screwing up his face.
“He does now.”
“Yore joshin’ me!”
Hellecchino laughed.
“Where did he come from, Jim?”
“We just made him up, Jim. Dr. Theodore Nemore.”
Hellecchino laughed. People were solving their own problems. Amazing!
“I’ve been talkin’ to Sherlock Holmes about disguises. . .” Jim Griffin let the thought hang in the air again.
After a moment, Buck slapped his thigh. “We just make up Hellecchino and send him in there. Great idea Jimgriffin.”
“Nope. Not Hellecchino.”
“Nope, Not me,” said Hellecchino.
“Who then?” asked Jim Hatfield.
Everyone turned to look at him.
“Nope. Not me. No, sir. I’m not up to–I’m not going to be in one of your fictions, Jim Griffin!”
“I’ll work out okay, Jim.”
“No it won’t.”
“You doubtin’ my creativity?”
“Ain’t no doubt about it.”
“Good! Come on with me and I’ll fix you right up. In the meantime, we have to come up with an excuse for Milchrot not being around.”
Jim Griffin pushed Jim Hatfield out, leaving Hellecchino and Buck to come up with a lame duck excuse for Milchrot sending his trusted assistant to take up the slack. But where to put the good doctor in the meantime. . .
Tags: crawford, hellecchino, missing persons, rendition, secor
