The Mayor’s Business
by
James L. Secor
The Mayor was a man who liked paper. He believed in paper. And so there was lots of paper on his desk. It was a very big mahogany roll-top affair with a throng of cubbyholes and myriad drawers. Stacks of paper adorned his deck, a side table and the bottom shelves of the bookcase. The Mayor’s office was a veritable library of paper that, to the untrained eye, looked like chaos. But The Mayor had a practiced eye. He knew where everything was.
On this particular day, he was furiously reading papers in three different piles. He stood up from his padded leather swivel chair and laid out the papers from each pile so they were next to each other. They were full of figures. The Mayor liked numbers, believing in the basic mathematical numerology of life. He moved from one to the other to the other and back again. And again. Again and again. And then he slammed his hands down on the papers, stared at or through the office wall and smiled. His eyes grew big. He put the papers together and slipped them into a particular cubbyhole, pulled down and locked the roll top and strode out of his office.
“Lunch meeting,” he said over his shoulder as he shut the City Offices door.
It was 10 AM.
The sun was high in the cloudless blue sky. Even with his 10-gallon white hat on, The Mayor shielded his eyes as he walked across the street to the Lone Star Inn and Bordello Lounge and Coffee Bar where it just so happened that Medusi Minkowski IV, Captain Bill and a few of his other cronies were gathered chewing the fat over the weather, the immigrants and the fate of the world over a cup of java. The Mayor scuttled across the dusty main street and down the boardwalk and into the Lone Star Inn and Bordello lobby like a horny toad after a good meal. He didn’t even slow down to say hello to his two favorites hostesses, Jezebel and Delilah. They, of course, hailed him in passing. Before even sitting down, The Mayor began his pitch:
“Boys. I got us a opportunity.”
“Take a load of, The,” suggested the Sheriff.
“Hey, boy!” ordered Captain Bill. “Another cup o’ black joe.” He elbowed his buddies to either side, “I just love sayin’ that to that jigaboo.” And laughed and laughed at his own joke.
“What is it, The?” asked one of the other good old boys.
“We got us a bidniss,” The said.
“Spit it out, The. You know we’re always lookin’ for a way to make a buck,” said Medusi, twisting his head from side to side and brushing off his badge.
“Here it is–thanks, boy,” said The Mayor as his coffee was set before him. “This town’s been growin’. More’n more people been comin’ in.”
“Tell us somethin’ we don’t know, The.”
“Every year the past three years we been growin’. Steadily. Each year a bit more. Now, what’d'ya think that means?”
They all looked at each other.
“The town’s growin’ bigger?” ventured Medusi.
“You been readin’ yer figgers again, The?” Captain Bill teased.
But The Mayor paid no mind to their ribbing.
“It means they gotta have houses.”
“Yeah-uh. Since it’s against the law to live in a tent,” concluded Clint Flintlock, attorney-at-large for The Bildersberger & Gunpowder Law Firm.
“And somebody gotta supply the wood,” continued The, oblivious to the teasing. They were ever a hard group to bring around, favoring the obvious in their judgments.
“They git their wood from Waco,” said another of the gang.
“But we got our own forest right to hand.”
“Chalk Mountain Forest?”
“And we can operate the Brazos River Basin Logging and Builders Association. Exclusive suppliers to the metropolis of Chokepointe Piste.”
Everyone was quiet for awhile. This was a good idea and needed some ruminating.
“How do we stiff the competition? Waco Board gonna throw a hissy fit,” said Clint.
“Import tax,” said The Mayor, as if it were the most obvious solution in the world.
“How we gonna collect?” asked Captain Bill.
“Well. . .that gimp’s got himself a toll booth out there. We pass a law he’s gotta collect and we give him ten percent for services rendered. He’s gotta be good for somethin’ besides hoppin’ ’round after that damn Hellecchino character.”
“Five percent.”
“Three percent.”
“Okay. Three percent. He’s only got one and a half legs to feed,” quipped Clint.
Everyone laughed. It was always good to laugh at others’ misfortunes.
“We build the lumber yard just outside of town right on the river. Right there at the narrows so’s we can trap the logs as they come floatin’ downriver.”
“Damn! Ain’tchu the thinker,” said Medusi, slapping his thigh and twisting his head from side to side.
“I’ll go draw up the papers,” said Clint.
“And git me an import tax law for an emergency session of the City Council tomorrow,” said The Mayor. “Bill. . .you take some boys out there and scout out a location for the mill. I’ll run down to Andy Warthole’s an’ git him workin’ on a signboard.”
They all got up and went their separate ways. The waiter boy waited five minutes, to make sure they’d all dispersed, before he asked for leave til the noon rush hour. As the lounge and coffee bar were empty, this was allowed, though his pay would be docked for the time off, and off he went to tell Buck of the doing’s around town.
That evening, another of The Mayor’s business ventures was in full swing–both arms. The enterprise was a very successful operation. The Mayor ran a rather exclusive prostitution ring. The main house, which catered especially to sado-masochistic proclivities within the male populace, was located outside the city limits, just north of the Chalk Mountain Forest that was to be harvested. Only Mr. Mayor had figured that logging would also increase his sex trade as, via the logging road, access to the house of ill repute would be more direct, relieving the burden of time some of his clientele suffered under. This was listed, at the Chamber of Commerce, as a private gentlemen’s club, name: The Bait and Switch. Mr. Mayor never ceased to wonder at the many fishing aficionados there were in town. A special offer was available for business associations: delivery service.
The second piece of this clandestine concern was gathering resources, which had become much more difficult with the disappearance of the disappearing machine; however, low tech solutions to the problem had worked before the advent of high tech and, though rather painstaking, would be adequate again. That is, girls had to be procured. Kidnapping was effective but costly, for there were laws and some laws could not be broken with impunity. Getting caught in the act–or even ex poste haste –was a dangerous business risk. So, a more effective and efficient method was adopted: buying the goods. There were always people who were hard up, who had too many mouths to feed or were simply–as with The Mayor and his business associates –greedy. Money talks. Indeed, money talks so loudly that it trumps humanity. As people continued to be fruitful and multiply–who wants to take the fun out of life?–there was an unending supply. Generally speaking, this ingredient of the business was acquired under cover of darkness, as much due to its nefarious nature as to its inherent furtive excitement. However, it must be admitted that there were contract workers, brought in, of course, from outside: unsatisfied housewives and bored socialites. The thrill of taboo breaking had immense drawing power.
Of course, there were further enhancements to pleasure and thus there was a brisk trade in pharmaceuticals. The Mayor steered clear of this. Captain Bill–Roaring Bill MacDonald–took care of this end of the food chain. Medusi Minkowski IV, Sheriff of Chokepointe Piste, helped by making appropriate raids and confiscating the evidence, to be distributed elsewhere for a 100% profit.
As is the way of the world, everything went along smoothly for some time, including the new logging and building adventure. Indeed, so efficient were they at clearing the forest that the partners found themselves with a surplus of wood. They took up the slack by building a surplus of houses. Planned communities. This investing in the future occurred at all levels of society, from shanties to dream houses, all constructed according to code and in the appropriate location.
Nevertheless, this super-efficiency and over-exuberant zeal had an unforeseen downside. Log jam. This log jam on the river created another problem. A shortage of water. Water for farming, water for washing, water for cooking, water for drinking. That is, when the supply diminished, it was discovered just how important to life water was. You’d expect that the business conglomerate would see their way to making more money from this debacle but such was not the case. Before The was able to see how he could profit from the misery of others yet again, the people’s complaints reached Hellecchino’s ears. Of course, most of the people so adversely affected were from the other side of the wall and their lot was already a hard one. Their frustration boiled over easily. Like all good heroes, Hellecchino had good hearing. And he was a good listener. Like a true hero, too, he reassured the restless citizens, for he had a plan. When asked what it was, all Hellecchino said was, “Greed is a kind of hubris and hubris is a kind of blindness.”
Everybody thought that was pretty profound and returned to their dry homes ooohing and ahhing.
Hellecchino however heighed himself into town to buy a kazoo.
“Hold down the fort, Buck. I’m going into town to buy a kazoo and then I’m going out into the woods to practice.”
And that’s just what he did.
As Hellecchino expected, it wasn’t too very long before he was discovered out in the woods. He was caught gathering faggots for firewood. In these woods, this had become against the law with the result that people were reduced to eating cold gruel, cold soup, cold stew, cold etc. So it was he was caught red-handed picking up sticks.
What brought about Hellecchino’s discovery was that every time he strained, he kazood. Sometimes, this sounded like a sick bird, kind of like a duck with indigestion. And the perimeter guard heard this. And he went in search of the sound. And he found a man all in brown bent over grappling with the vines and bushes and pulling together sticks and branches–and kazooing as he did so.
“Who the hell are you?” shouted the cowboy perimeter guard.
Hellecchino was in disguise.
Hellecchino did not answer.
“What the hell are yew doin’!” shouted the cowboy perimeter guard.
Hellecchino continued scratching at the underbrush for good kindling.
“I said goddamnit who the hell are you!”
There was the ominous click of a gun being cocked.
Hellecchino did not stop what he was doing but he did bend over a little more, making his butt stick out from beneath his brown cloth over-blouse.
“I’m man-who-breaks-wind.”
“Yer shittin’ me.”
Just then, Medusi Minkowski IV rode by on his way to supervising the new business development. They were now harvesting green pine. He was going to see if they could sell them as “you don’t have to paint your house” lumber. Always fresh as the day you bought it.
“What seems to be the trouble, cowboy?”
“I got this here guy says he’s man-who-breaks-wind.”
“And you were going to shoot him to see the escaped wind?”
“No, sir. He just wasn’t answerin’ to my query.”
“God damn! You know I don’t cotton to homosectshuals! You’re fired!”
Before the cowboy perimeter guard had a chance to explain himself, Medusi Minkowski IV began beating him with his reins and kicking him with his pointy-toed boots. This not only caused the cowboy to run off but the horse to buck and skitter about and carry on til the Sheriff fell off.
Hellecchino never once turned around.
Sheriff Minkowski IV gained his feet and wiped himself off. He polished his badge and twisted his head from side to side. He gathered up the reins of his horse.
“You the man-who-breaks-wind?” he asked the swaying ass before him.
“Yeah. Dat’s me. Man-who-breaks-wind.”
“Let me see ya prove it or I’m takin’ you in. You know who I am?”
“Nope.”
“I’m Medusi Minkowski IV, Sheriff of Chokepointe Piste.”
“Yew don’t say. . .”
“I do. And if you don’t prove you’re who you say you are, I’ll arresting you for impersonating an old fart.”
“Okay. Glad to oblige.”
Now, Hellecchino never did anything half-assed. And, true to form, he did not this time either. He not only kazood as he strained, he kazood bird calls and at least one verse of a popular hymn.
Well! Medusi Minkowski IV was truly amazed. He laughed and laughed and asked for an encore. Hellecchino very nearly shit himself obliging the Sheriff.
“This is great. I just gotta tell the boys ’bout this.”
So, up he got up and spurred his mount into a near gallop back toward town.
Hellecchino, once the hoof beats had paled, stood up, gathered his firewood in a bundle, strapped it to his back and walked off. He knew Buck would be pleased as punch to get some warm food for dinner.
When Medusi Minkowski IV returned with The Mayor, Clint Flintlock, Clyde Moyen Bucket (“bouquet”), Gyorgy Yabu and the Yabu Yeoman editor, Edward Garcon, Hellecchino was long gone. As fate would have it, though, a big brown bear had wandered into the Chalk Mountain Forest foraging for food and escaping the Indians on his trail. The town fathers hunted around and, hearing the snorting and pawing, followed the sound to the bear. They were on foot as getting the horses to pass through the undergrowth and trees was a mite too difficult. They were laughing and carrying on and not paying one bit of attention to what they were doing.
“Hey! I’m back. Go on and do your ass singin’ again,” shouted the Sheriff.
The bear did not respond.
Medusi Minkowski IV walked up to the big brown mass and kicked it in the ass.
The bear responded. He spun around and stood on his hind legs and roared his indignation. Great paws gnashed at the air. Spit flew from his jaws. And the town fathers took to their heels. The bear, of course, took off after them, though his hunger for satisfaction and human meat was never satisfied. The humans jumped on their horses and high-tailed it back to town.
Next day the Yabu Yeoman blared a panic-stricken headline: Bear Found Shitting In The Woods!!
That pretty much put an end to both the logging business and the whoring business. It also brought about the rediscovery of some of the missing peoples because, without their pharmaceutical fix, they wandered off in search of something to make themselves feel better. Addiction is not a pleasant sight. Nevertheless, when these denizens of ill-got means were discovered, their families were ecstatic and thankful all to heaven. There would have been a scandal but most of the damaged goods belonged on the other side of the wall and so the Yabu Yeoman carried no story. It was as if nothing had happened. And, of course, the good side of town was happy in its ignorance, ignorant of the fact that it was ignorant.
But the other side of town benefited in another way, too, for now they safely foraged for wood for fires and once again were able to drink hot coffee, hot chocolate and hot toddies. This was so because of two reasons: 1) the Indians caught up to the bear and took him down; and 2) everyone else was afraid to go into the woods, bears being known for their mindless frenzy.
No one did anything about the log jam, following Hellecchino’s suggestion, for he realized that eventually the water would overflow the river’s banks and work its way around the dead wood and continue its way downstream, thus opening up water to the populace. Eventually, too, the lumber would flood downstream and be harvested by any interested bystander and used for fuel, thus getting rid of the need to raid the Chalk Mountain Forest, which really was a long walk, especially on the way back.
“Sometimes,” explained Hellecchino to Buck one evening from atop the toll booth blockhouse, “sometimes you just have to let the problem overwhelm itself.”
Tags: business, crawfor, crawford, hellecchino, log jam, mayor, secor
