The Milking Business I

Clyde Moyen Bucket and Old MacGregor were sitting around drinking shots of Tequila at The Baron’s Roadside Inn when Edward Garcon sauntered in. He was licking his lips, though not because he liked dust, and twirling his Thoreau pencil.
“Well, how do, Mr. Bucket! And you, too, MacGregor,” he said, fanning himself with his sweat-stained slouch hat.
No one else in town had a slouch hat, nor did they want one, such dysutilitarian fashion not being a high priority out on the Brazos River Basin where Eastern newspapers were still two days old despite the Brownwood Stage making a daily pass-through. Out-running Indians was considerably easier if the stage was lighter of load. It wasn’t considered good form to toss out a passenger or two, though it was amazing that anyone managed to hang on given the speed of the stagecoach and the deteriorated condition of the roadway from Waco since it had become the Yabu Carriageway, cowboys having more pressing things to attend to than road repair.
“What d’ya thinka this heat, eh? Hot enough to fry an armadilla.” Garcon was always ready with a colorful phrase, whether he made it up or not.
Clyde and MacGregor looked up.
“‘Lo, Garcon,” said MacGregor, throwing back another shot.
“Ain’t no news here, boy,” snorted Clyde.
“I didn’t come for news. I came to git outa the heat. Worst wave we’ve had since. . .well, gosh! I just can’t recall.” Garcon sat and called out, “Baron! A tall glass o’ lemonade–and go easy on the sugar.”
The Baron emerged from the dark recesses of the shop. He clunked his way to Garcon’s table and glared down at the little man.
“Just where th’hell’m I gonna git the water, Garcon? You notice how dry it is lately?”
“Sure do. My lips are chipped and cracked like the Yabu Causeway. I been thinkin’ ’bout writin’ a editorial ’bout it. All the cracks done dried up and spread out like canyons and the rivers are trickles, small threads o’ runnin’ mud.”
“It’s been like this fer a month, Garcon, and the Causeway been a crack in the cosmic egg fer longer. So what? When you think yo’re thinkin’ gonna be finished?” asked Old MacGregor.
“I dunno. Sometimes the ideas just don’t wanna come. So,” and he turned to The Baron, “What do you suggest I imbibe?”
“We got whiskey, whiskey and whiskey. They got the Tequila and vodka ain’t been imported yet.”
“Oh. Well. I think I’ll have a whiskey.”
“Good choice,” said The Baron and trudged back into the darkness.
“I swear,” said Garcon, “with no drinkin’ water, what th’hell kids’r gonna drink? It ain’t legal to give ‘em alcohol.”
“Let ‘em drink milk,” spat Clyde. “I ain’t got no use for kids. Fuckin’ pain in the ass. I’d love to leave ‘em all behind.”
“Mama’s milk don’t last past a year or so, Mr. Bucket.”
“Let ‘em suck on a witch’s tit for all I care.”
“Or a cow’s tit,” softly scorned Old MacGregor.
Clyde grabbed Old MacGregor’s wrist. “What’d you say?”
“I said, let ‘em suck on a cow’s tit.”
“Now. . .that’s some idea. How many cows you got?”
“What th’hell’s it matter? Big boys don’t drink milk.”
“What do they drink?”
“Not much of anything in this drought.”
“Yeah. And you got how many cows?”
“Not many. Maybe a hunderd head. Why?”
“That ain’t enough.”
“Well, hell. It’s yore pokes drive ‘em up to Wichita for slaughter.”
“Well, now,” ruminated Clyde, “the times they are a changin’.”
“Oh, yeah. How deep that thought is!”
“Mac. . .Yabu’n I got enough beef cattle during season. . .”
“Yeah?”
“Why not turn your herd into a milkin’ farm?”
“Yo’re shittin’ me! Who the hell’s gonna drink that crap?”
“Thirsty people. Specially kids.”
“Huh?”
“An’ it’s more healthy than water, ain’t it?”
“Hell if I know.”
“Baby cows drink it and they grow up big and strong.”
“So?”
“And mom can give it over and git out an’ help in this death-defying drought.”
“Nobody ain’t done it before and ain’t nobody wanna go drinkin’ cow milk.”
“But we could make ‘em.”
“At gunpoint.”
“Nope. We gotta create a need.”
“Create a need?”
“Half the need’s here, yeah?” Old MacGregor nodded. “And Garcon’s lookin’ fer a story, ain’t he?”
“A hunderd head ain’t enough. ‘Sides, almost everyone out here’s got a cow.”
“Cows ain’t such good workers as bull.”
“Yew got that right!”
“How much bull you got?”
“Too damn many.”
“If you was to trade, how many cows could you get for a bull?”
“You want me to trade my bull for cows?”
“What if you owned all the cows in Chokepointe Piste?”
“I’d be poor as shit.”
“Sometimes, Mac, you are so dense I think yo’re name’s Rube Sordes. Garcon!”
“Yes, sir.”
“I got a story for ya.”
“Hot damn!”
“You know anything about milk?”
“No. But I got a encyclerpejia in the office and a hist’ry o’ the world from Noah to the beginning of the 19th century.”
“I want you to git to readin’ and start producing articles and stories and adverts for milk. How nutritious it is and how cheap and how it’ll relieve the severity of the drought. Think you can do that?”
“No problem. But it costs for adverts. Who’s gonna pay?”
“MacGregor’s Golden Udders.”
“Never heard of ‘em. They new in town?”
“Yep,” said Clyde, taking a hit of Tequila. “They just rode in. I know the owner. I’ll git you some info on ‘em.”
“I shore appreciate it, Mr. Bucket.”
“Here’s $25. That enough to git you started?”
“Shore thing!” Garcon pocketed the windfall.
“There’s more where that came from. Now. Off you git and do your research and writin’. We’ll see somethin’ tomorrow, right?”
“That’s awful tight, Mr. Bucket. . .”
“Just you remember who’s payin’ you, boy. Now. . .I’ll have The Baron bring you whiskey and ribs and if you git me a nice article about milk by tomorrow, I’ll have Yellamama send over a girl.”
“Just once?”
“No, no. You’ll be doin’ lots o’writin’.”
“Two or three times a week?”
“Hell, Garcon! Maybe one o’ them girls might marry you.”
“Whoa! I’m outa here!”
Clyde and Old MacGregor watched Garcon scamper on down the street.
“Sometimes it’s so easy it isn’t worth it,” Clyde growled.
“I ain’t so easy, Clyde. . .”
“Once you got all the cows, you won’t have a thing to worry about.”
“‘Ceptin’ fer breedin’. I won’t have no bull.”
“Keep about four.”
“Well. . .I don’t know. . .”
“Come on. We gotta register the company.”
And that was the start of the milking business and MacGregor’s Golden Udders. Making the best of a bad situation. By the time the mindless masses realized they’d been fleeced, it would be too late to do anything about it. The kids would be hooked, Garcon would be hooked and the admen would be producing propaganda about as fast as a cow could be milked. Yes, sir! The drought was not sucking the life out of Bucket and MacGregor any more. They were making the hard times work for themselves.
The bull worked hard, too, though the parched earth did not cooperate by producing much in the way of food crops. Before things got so bad that the owners turned to eating their bull, milk had taken off. The Golden Udders’ good fortune was helped along by a mysterious bovine flu that killed off all the cows in the Brazos River Basin but those at Old MacGregor’s farm. That’s because, as Garcon, editor of The Yabu Yeoman, discovered, Old MacGregor had begun grain feeding his cattle. They grew big and strong and produced more than enough milk, which is how the Golden Udders brand became the byword for health and fitness throughout East Texas. The problem was the natural grass: it turned out to be bad for bovine.
But, as the drought passed, milk stopped being the cheap all-in-one food it was originally advertised as. The people had to go without. That was not only unhealthy, it was a cultural set-back: milk had become a status symbol–if your kids weren’t drinking milk, you were a bad mother. Wasn’t important either that some kids came down with tuberculosis and spent the rest of their short lives coughing and gagging and spitting up blood and spreading the disease so that adults came down with it.
After moaning and groaning amongst themselves, a select group of townsmen set their complaint before Hellecchino, who said, as he always did, “I’ll see what I can do.” And just in time, too, with the decrease in population. Nobody had heard of Louie Pasture, so the Bible Thumpers began preaching The End Times and nobody wanted to die.
So it was that Hellecchino just happened to saunter by one of the out-pastures at Old MacGregor’s farm. And there just so happened to be a cow in that pasture, probably a spent milker since all of the other cows had had their natural nutrition co-opted by the less nutritious, less tasty, less fortified but far more expensive though hyped as less expensive grain. Any real farmer would have known that grass, that grows without any stimulant and at no cost, is cheaper, but old MacGregor was a monopoly and with monopolies anything goes. Besides, more cost to produce means higher prices on the market which means great profit and so all’s well with the world, as Shakespeare maintained a mere 300 years ago.
Also in the field was a persimmon tree and a cowherd. Not a cowboy, a cowherd. Everyone needs employment, even the incompetent. And there was no one more interested in employment of this kind than Yabu, Bucket and old MacGregor. Ee-eye, ee-eye O.
“Hey! Cowherd!” shouted Hellecchino, leaning on the fence rail.
“Hey,” answered the cowherd.
“That’s sure a fine persimmon tree you got there.”
“Is it?”
“Sure is. I’m a connoisseur of persimmons.”
The cowherd was not from these parts.
“Y’are?”
“Shore thang. I travel the country lookin’ for persimmons and this is a prime tree.”
“Ya don’t say!”
“Yep. What say you get me down some so I can taste the delicacy of the moment.”
“I ain’t much fer climbin’. . .”
“Me neither. I got a gimp leg.” Hellecchino shook a loose leg at the cowherd.
“We got ourselves a problem.”
“Do appear we do. But. . .you could get that there cow to butt the tree and bring some fruit down.”
“Way-all. . .I guess so. She ain’t good for much else but watchin’.”
So the cowherd lined the cow up with the tree and swatted her hind-quarters a good one. The cow banged into the tree. Cows’ll do just about anything.
No effect.
So the cowherd did it again.
No effect.
“Third time lucky,” said Hellecchino, knowing just about everybody believed in superstition.
So the cowherd did it again. And, lo and behold, persimmons rained down. Hellecchino smiled.
But the cow was stuck, horns embedded in the tree trunk.
“Way-all. . .I’ll be gall-darned,” said the cowherd, scratching his head. “There’s your persimmons. I’ll be off to unstick the cow.”
And off he ran.
And off Hellecchino ran–to fetch his friends and their pails.
It wasn’t long before that cow was milked dry and Hellecchino was smiling. It didn’t matter that he had to spend time picking up the green persimmons and tossing them aside. He’d all but done his job. Next was extricating the cow and putting her to good use.
So Hellecchino banged on the tree and banged on the tree until the protesting cow was free. And the cow was grateful, as Aesop showed us millennia ago would be the case, wolves not withstanding.
The next day, the cowherd and several of the boys returned to solve the problem only to find they had a greater problem. Being the loyal followers they were, they lit out down the road in search of their missing bovine. Hellecchino left a good trail to follow, though, in fact the cow had gone the other direction. Hellecchino was a crafty hero, as heroes go.
It wasn’t long before the boys came upon a street walker. That is, a prostitute out for a more lucrative business. Hellecchino was sitting down by the side of the road on a little folding stool. A little ways off, behind a mulberry bush, a colorful Mexican horse blanket was spread on the ground. He wasn’t a very good looking prostitute, either, but that’s of no consequence to cowboys. As the sound of approaching hooves grew louder, he began knitting, whispering stitches to himself, “Drop one, pearl two.” When they drew nigh, they stopped in a cloud of dust. Hellecchino coughed prettily and waved his row of knitting at the dirt and grime.
“You seem a pretty wench. Whatcha doin’ out here all by yo’self?” said the lead Carambolero.
“Looking for a poke. How’s about yourself, handsome?”
“We’re chasin’ a varmint.”
“That sure wouldn’t be me, would it?” Hellecchino looked up at the cowboys with big eyes and blinked.
“No, ma’am. It shore wouldn’t.”
“Well. . .that’s nice.” Hellecchino put his knitting down and spread his legs beneath his gingham dress, propping his elbows on his knees.
They all sat around awhile, the cowboys fidgeting in their saddles, Hellecchino looking casually from one to the other. Hellecchino could be very charming when he wanted.
“Say,” one of the cowpokes finally said. “You seen a cow lately?”
“Oh, my. I sure have. But what do you want with a cow when I’m here? My cunt’s a whole lot tighter and virus free. . .and I’ll suck your udder as a bonus.” And Hellecchino giggled, hiding his face behind his hand.
“We’re–” cough, “looking for that cow.”
“You boys spend alot of time in the saddle, I dare say,” remarked Hellecchino archly, steering them away from the matter at hand.
“You got that right, honey.”
“Can you take the time from your task at hand for a fuck?”
“Hell, woman! We’re always ready to get fucked.”
“Well. . .I don’t like doing it in a crowd,” and Hellecchiono looked down demurely between his open skirted legs. “So let me hop up on your horse and you can ride me to my shack. When you’ve been fucked, we’ll come again for another horny cowpoke. Sound like a good idea? It’ll be the best fucking of your life. I’ve a terrible itch a-going.”
“Alright, boys. You wait right here. Hop up here, honey.”
As Hellecchino mounted, he let out a fart.
“You got any more gas in ya, I’ll pound it out, make no mistake about it.”
“That wasn’t a fart. That was the saddle creaking.”
And when Hellecchino was up, “Come on, you upright cowpoke. Let me hold you close.” He threw his arms around the man, clamping one hand over each breast and pushing his stuffed bosom against his back. “Bound me for a warm-up, cowboy!”
The unlikely pair cantered on down the road and around the bend to where there was a mud hole and a bunch of townies, out of work carpenters and builders. That sort.
“Here we are, sweetheart.”
Hellecchino jumped down and pulled the Carambolero after him, divesting him of his pistol. Hellecchino pulled off his wig. The townies pushed in about the pair.
“You’re finished riding this horse, boy. It’s mine now. And now for the screw job I promised you. Strip!”
With a group of brawny men around, the Carambolero didn’t hesitate. When he stood nude, Hellecchino started laughing. The Chokepointe Piste roughnecks guffawed.
“You expected to fuck me with that little worm? Go on and climb into that mud pit. You smell. The bath’ll do you good.” The man did as he was bid. “Deeper, sweet thing, and if it ain’t deep enough duck down. Tha-aaat’s right. Now. . .we’re gonna leave your clothes and pistolee right here if. . .if you promise to tell Clyde Moyen Bucket”–Hellecchino pronounced his name incorrectly–”just how you been treated. Every detail. Courtesy of Hellecchino, hero.”
Hellecchino and the townies walked off, leaving their chastened chaser wallowing in his shame.
The cow was never recovered.

Holly Hills Primer

One day while Hellecchino was sunning himself down at Sycamore Hole after taking a dip, Buck came lumbering up on his brown burro, kicking up alot of dust and the poor creature’s flanks. Buck was cursing the poor animal for taking his time, a vital characteristic of burros, and when he finally alighted, he stamped his foot and slapped the poor beast on the side. To no effect. Then he called out:
“Hellecchino?”
“Down here, Buck.”
“We got us a amergency.”
“Always, Buck. Why don’tcha come on down an’ take a dip. Water’s fine but the sun’s better when you’re out.”
“We ain’t got time.”
“Hell, good buddy, there’s always time.”
“Dammit, Hellecchino! Come on up outa there. You know I can’t git down there. I’ll never git back up again.”
“Buck. . .I’m a hero. I can get you out of any hole you can get yourself into. It’s a fact of life.”
“I ain’t comin’ down.”
“Damn!” and Hellecchino signed deeply. “No rest for the weary.” He put on his clothes and clambered up to Buck. “What’s up, Buck?”
“There’s a trial goin’ on up on Holly Hills an–”
“That’s a prickly affair. What’s it all about?”
“Witchcraft.”
“You’re shittin’ me!”
“Nope. I ain’t.”
“Since when did witches come to be in this part of the country?”
“Since Gyorgy and Clyde decided it.”
“Well, if that ain’t the pot callin’ the kettle black.”
“There’s a gatherin’ of ’bout 300 people gone to watch.”
“Who is it?”
“Glenda and Marvel Proctor.”
“Well, I suppose we oughta go an’ see what’s what, eh? What’re the charges?”
“Don’t know. They’re gonna be read when they are brought up to the top of the hill.”
“Alright. Hop back on ol’ burro there and I’ll walk along beside you. You can tell me the particulars on the way.”
“You think we got time?”
“Buck. . .flyin’ ain’t been invented yet. You got another plan?”
Buck limped over to the still animal and mounted. “You’re not makin’ me ride cause-a my leg, are ya?”
“I got longer legs, so I can make ol’ burro go faster.”
And off they went.
Sure enough, when they arrived in Chokepointe Piste, there was a string of people wending their desultory way to Holly Hills where Hellecchino found Buck had counted appropriately: there were 300 people gathered at the foot of the hill, held back from going up to the top by a string of barbed wire. Several of the Ship of Fools were stationed around the perimeter to make sure no one passed, as if anyone would risk flaying themselves by passing through barbed wire. Not too many people were stupid as bovine. Hellecchino spotted several kerchiefed Officers of General Protection and Upkeep (OGPU) pretending to be undercover facilitators of protest in order to provoke randy activism so the Ship of Fools, the Wheels of Justice and the Caramboleros could go into action. They were itching for it, Hellecchino could tell–their truncheons were out and they were slapping them rhythmically into their brown leather gloved other hand, their mouths set in tight-lipped determination, their eyes dark and intense, like wild pigs’ eyes, hats pulled down low on their furrowed brows.
Yes. Things did not look good. It looked like it might just be a repeat performance of the Blast at Seattle.
Hellecchino edged as close to the barbed wire as he could, close to the path the indicted would be led up to their seat of judgment. There were no gallows or other such public displays of punishment atop the little mound–Holly Hill was not much of a hill, just a kind of rise along the river’s edge where it took a mighty turn to the south–though there was a raised platform, bare of any accoutrements. And Hellecchino waited.
It wasn’t long before Glenda and Marvel Proctor were herded up the barbed wire chute, their hands tied in half-hitches, the long end of the rope held in the hands of Medusi Minkowski IV, who pulled them mercilessly forward, a grimacing grin on his face. The man and woman were tied together. Their ankles were tied together, making progress that much more difficult. Behind them came a bevy of Wheels of Justice warders, rifles and shotguns at the ready, for escape was always a worry. It did not matter that both Glenda and Marvel wore black hoods sans eyeholes or nose holes and held in place around their necks by another length of rope, again joined one to the other, which made it terribly difficult for Glenda to walk as she was head and shoulders taller than Marvel who was in the lead, being a man. Whenever they stumbled, the Baron applied his bullwhip to their rumps or flanks or backs–whatever exhibited itself. Needless to say, Glenda and Marvel, perhaps the handsomest people in Chokepointe Piste, were not in the best of shape upon reaching the crest of the hill. They were led up onto the stage and positioned, very carefully, directly in the centre of the wooden platform. Clint Flintlock stepped up beside them and slightly in front and read the charges in as loud a voice as possible, given he was a counter-tenor.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Hear ye, hear ye!” Clint paused as if expecting a celestial chorus to join in in contrapuntality. “We are gathered here to witness the branding and trial of Glenda and Marvel Proctor, accused of and being found to be practicing witchcraft and sorcery.” The crowd murmured, bringing the ring of Caramboleros and Wheels of Justices to a higher state of altertness. Hellecchino could see their trigger fingers itching. “These be the charges! Making their neighbors sheep dance in an uncommon manner and causing hogs to speak and sing Psalms and Odes and Chants to the great terror and amazement of the Chokepointe Piste goodly, peaceful and comfortable and the distress of the subjects of said great city.” Clint paused again, looking out over the crowd. “You are the salt of the earth but if the salt loses its taste, what kind of spice will you be? You will be good for nothing and be cast out over the left shoulder and be trodden under foot, as Glenda and Marvel Proctor, as they stand before you. They are not the light of the world. Their light does not fall upon those of us in the house of Chokepointe Piste. For their light is a dark light” Clint turned to face the accused, the damned. “It is the law!” he screeched. “Whosoever breaks the least little letter of that law is the least before the law and you shall in no case be blessed among us. You have heard it said of old, ‘Thou shalt not kill; and whosoever shall kill shall be in danger of the judgment.’ But I say that whosoever even thinks about doing harm shall be in danger of the final judgment and shall be in danger of hell-fire lest at any time your intended deliver you to the judge and the judge deliver you to the officer and the officer cast you into prison from which place you shall by no means come out of. Amen! And if your right eye offends, it will be plucked out and tossed out onto the dung heap. And if your right hand offends, one or more of your digits shall be severed and fed to the hogs. So, take heed that you do not raise your arms before men, otherwise you’ll have no reward but damnation. And do not lay up treasures for yourselves, else thieves will break in and steal you blind–as the Devil has done with the treasured souls of Glenda and Marvel Proctor.” Clint lowered his voice and spoke out over the heads of the spectators, “No man can serve two masters, for either he will hate the one and love the other, or else he will hold to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve the law of the land and That of Mammon. . .as these two sinners have done.” He raised his hand on high and a glint of terror flashed out of his eyes, “Seek to first satisfy the City of Chokepointe Piste and its righteousness and all good things shall come to you. Judge not or you’ll be judged and the judgment you judge by will be the judgment that condemns you, as it is and always has been.” Clint smiled as best he could. “Ask and it shall be given, seek and you’ll find, knock, and the door will be opened. But,” and he shook his forefinger, “beware of false prophets that come to you in sheep’s clothing but are really ravening wolves. Glenda and Marvel Proctor were deceived by such and are now wicked and lost.” Clint hesitated. “Yes. That’s it. Great is their fall and great shall be their foreclosure.” Clint Flintlock looked out over the crowd but he did not receive the approval he sought–and he’d worked so hard on that speech. Neither was there any murmuring.
Medusi Minkowski IV stepped forward. “These two. . .people. . .will be tested to see whether they’s witches or not because the law says it must be so, though their souls are already damned to hell and back the fucking shit cocksucking bastards!” Medusi wiped spittle from his chin. “There will be two tests. First. . .they shall be weighed on a scale against The Bible. If they are heavier, they will be considered not to be witches. Second. . .they shall be tied to a strip of wood and if they float, they will be considered to be witches.”
“Let it be, let it be!” shouted Glenda Proctor.
“Let it be!” shouted Marvel Proctor.
“But–” prevaricated Hellecchino in a disguised voice.
“But whut?” spat Medusi.
“Two of their accusers must undergo the same ordeal as they do.”
This brought the crowd to life.
“Who said that?” shouted Medusi, stepping forward and drawing his pistol.
Hellecchino egged those near him on and soon the entire gathering of townsmen was shouting for the test of four, not two.
Medusi, Clint, Clyde and Col., Ret’d, Thor Custard put their heads together. As their conference took longer and longer, the crowd’s demands grew shriller and shriller. A few tomatoes came arcing out over the stage, splattering themselves against the wood, the accused and Medusi. Clint and Clyde received cabbages to the back. Col., Ret’d., Thor Custard ducked the guided apple sent in his direction. Quickly, the law decided it was best to acquiesce to the people on the spot. Later they could make them pay for their audacity. Who did they think they were anyway?
So it was that Guiser Bunco and Jezebel Hawkshaw were fingered and brought forward to be tested. Guiser was tied up with Marvel, Jezebel with Glenda. It didn’t matter what the outcome would be, Gusier’s and Jezebel’s careers were over now that everyone knew who they were. It’s never pleasant to out your own spies and stoolies but they are, after all, disposable assets.
First, the Bible. All four were placed on one side of a dual-rigged up cattle scales and a specially prepared heavy Bible on the other. If only Glenda and Marvel Proctor alone had been weighed, perhaps they’d have been found wanted; however, there was not enough time to re-prepare the Bible, so they passed. No witches here.
Second, the sink hole torture. All four were stripped bare and tied individually to pine slabs, trimmings from the Brazos River Basin Logging and Builders Association. The women were duly amazed at the size of the men, some of them covering up their mouths in surprise: Guise was so long and thin, Marvel rather larger around and with great hanging balls. The men drooled over the two women, especially Glenda who, despite her 40 years, still had upstanding breasts; Jezebel’s being a little fuller. After a bit of gawking and latrine humor by the lawmen, the four were tossed into the flooded gravel pit. This was a better choice than the river, for, in the river, one or all might be carried downstream and butt up against a rock or root or even the riverbank and saved. Of course, one or all might sink and the undertow carry them downstream never to be recovered. This would be a terrible loss: it was the habit of the Chokepointe Pisters to publicly display the corpses of the ill-fated lawbreakers. At a penny an ogling, this was extra income for the undertakers and good copy for the newspaper. It was also figured to be a good deterrent to crime, for no one, no matter how well-endowed, wished to be exposed publicly.
Well, Guise, thin and wiry, sank almost immediately; the other three floated.
Jezebel became rather panicky about her predicament. Everyone now knew her for what she was and she’d rather die here and now than at the tongues and hands of the townsmen. She started screeching and screaming and straining at her bondage. As frightful as it was while she was floating in the gravel pit, her demeanor and vocal abilities were twisted and pitched to even greater heights.
“I demand to be dunked! I demand to be dunked! It is the traditional witch-proving technique. Dunk me, you fucking bastards!”
And, so, they did. They dunked her. But she bobbed right back up. Well, despite her breasts, she was a thin middle aged woman. She was crying and spitting water and shouting her distress.
So Hellecchino disguised his voice and cried above the shocked exclamations of the surging crowd, “She is bewitched! The Devil her Master has made her so light as to float. Dunk her again. Dunk her 100 times.”
As expected, the women in the crowd started hooting, “Dunk her! Dunk her!” The men refrained for fear the womenfolk would discover how they loved wet shirt contests and that would be the end of the once a month contests out on Old MacGregor’s Farm.
Jezebel howled, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
The SOFA could not help the situation or themselves so they dunked her again and again but to no avail. So, after 10 or 12 times, they stopped, untied her and watched her take off like a badger with a burning tail. Jezebel was never seen in town again and nobody knows what happened to her. Guiser Bunco was drug up from the bottom of the pit and displayed at the undertakers. He was a great success, bringing untold amounts of money into the business. Indeed, the Waco Enquirer and the Nacogdoches News and the Port Arthur Rag all sent reporters for pictures and stories: it was not often that a witch was caught in East Coahuila. There was even a sidebar in some of the nationals. Chokepointe Piste got its 15 minutes of fame.
Hellecchino and Buck retired to the roof of the tollbooth to celebrate the embarrassment while the SOFA got pissed. Gyorgy, Clyde and Medusi met out at the ranch for a much needed conference to clear up an untidy situation.

How the Security Officers Freedom Fighters Association Got Its Name

It wasn’t too long before Gyorgy Yabu, Medusi Minkowski IV and Clyde Moyen Bucket decided that more needed to be done. Hellecchino, the thorn in their sides, was creating an unruly, an inappropriately responsive crowd. There were more of them than them. That was frightening. It was only one step further to formulate the fact that there were fear mongers. And that meant, since the masses are mindless, that there were secret facilitators–other that the pesky Hellecchino. Like all community activists, these agents provocateurs were insidious manipulators–and they must be stopped. After all, they threatened the peace and it was the job of the lawmakers and law keepers to protect that peace. But the present police force, even with Ronoso Raton and the Blackwater Brothers, was not large enough and far, far too visible. To fight an invisible enemy, an invisible police force was needed. So, the Security Officers Freedom Fighters Association (SOFA) was created. Aside from the local constabulary, Yabu, Minkowski and Bucket sought out other like-minded coldcockers.
The Wheels of Justice, a private police force operating in the Far West under the capable hands of Colonel, Ret., Thor Custard, was contracted. Under this officer’s experienced thumb, a secret force within SOFA was created to go undercover: the Officers of General Protection and Upkeep (OGPU). It was their job to ferret out and finger the fear facilitators, at which point the Caramboleros went into action. The leaders of the Caramboleros were the Shrievalty Brothers and the major percentage of their force of chasers came from the West Country Pummelers, a mixed bag of viragoes, many of whom were former bounty hunters who opted out for a stable salary. Besides which, they were getting a bad name and changing their cover was the easiest route to respectability.
Now, because this was a highly sensitive, highly volatile undertaking, a special PR campaign was launched under the aegis of Mel Gabler of the Educational Research Analysts and his new side-kick, Bernay Aisles. At the same time, a special court was established to deal with these vicious, terrible underminers of the populace, the Pyx Jury–which quickly became popularly known as The Pyxilators. The Irish immigrants in the area calling them The Little People.
And, of course, Janus Beauregard and the Disappearing Machine came into play–as might be expected. It is unfortunate that Jim Hatfield had not yet figured out how to undisappear the long-disappeared. Ethics and personal dilemma being what they were, you can imagine Yabu’s consternation when he discovered Janus Beauregard had disappeared. Jim Hatfield took with him all of Chicane Milchrot’s notes.
A two-pronged attack was undertaken: PR via The Yabu Yeoman along with broadsides floated around The Lone Star Inn & Bordello–and an occasional sermon at The Saints Janus and Ananias Methodist Church by visiting pastors; and a search and destroy mission centred on Hellecchino. For some unknown reason, this latter task took precedence, dominating the SOFA agenda and the interest of the folk. If Hellecchino weren’t already a hero, the shenanigans of the SOFA Caramboleros assured his history and status. Not being literary men, albeit literalists, SOFA et al. had never heard of Robby Burns who wrote, amongst other dialectics: “The best-laid schemes of mice an’ men gang aft a-gley.”
It is true, too, that the road of life is a long and twisty way, full of pot holes, troll-ridden bridges, dark woods and itinerant salesman. Curses all, they stand in the way of progress and the right of way.
It so happened that one day the Caramboleros were out scouring the countryside when they were approached by a spy, one of the OGPU boys. They were known by their long thin noses, close-set, beady eyes and manner of freely swinging their arms when they walked.
“I am Man of the Streets,” he said.
“Ah. Vortegern,” said Boulogna Shrievalty, who was leading the chasers this particular day. “I recognize you. What have you to say for yourself, you sly devil?”
“Hellecchino is in the forest there.”
“But I see no forest.”
“That is because it is up around the bend and down in a valley.”
“Ah-ha! How very cunning of him! Lead the way, Vortegern.”
The Caramboleros followed Vortegern to the edge of the greenwood in the vale. There was a stream running through it and an old dried up irrigation ditch. The Caramboleros set up an ambush in the ditch. They let Vortegern lead their horses back down the road and around the bend. This was to be one surprise attack that that pesky Hellecchino would not escape to live another day to tell about it. There was no surviving capture.
At the sound of hoof beats coming across the semi-arid landscape, the Caramboleros hunkered own as far as their holsters and jeans would allow. The hoof clop-clops splashed through the stream and up onto the road and Buck sauntered by on his long-eared burro, empty wine sacks slapping at its flanks. Buck was not blind but the Caramboleros hoped he wouldn’t look. To further help them remain undiscovered, they held their breaths. This did not work. Buck had great peripheral vision. The Caramboleros were not locals. They did not know who Buck was. Bad luck. Because Buck came across Hellecchino in the woods and told him of the ambush.
We call such fortuitousness bad luck if we are the Caramboleros and good luck if we are Hellecchino. Probability and serendipity play into this, too. But this type of rare occurrence did not end here. Shortly after Buck passed on his way to Lu Da’s to refill his wineskins, a coal man came lumbering down the road on his way to Chokepointe Piste, or perhaps Hacienda loco plátano. The man was a sight to behold, to be sure. Covered from head to foot in black dust with only his white teeth shining and the whites of his eyes, he pushed an equally blackened wheelbarrow piled high with great hunks of coal and trailing a black trail of coal dust behind him. He was singing an old folk song, “There Ain’t No Hammer.” He had a lusty voice despite the black dust inhalants that, later at night, would make him gasp and cough into the wee hours of the morning.
Hellecchino jumped out from the trees.
“Hey, my man! You look tired. How ’bout lettin’ me deliver that fer ya.”
“Yew gotta be kiddin’!”
“I never joke.”
“You’re shittin’ me.”
“Do I look like the shittin’ kind? Look. . .here’s $25 and you get my clothes.”
“What about mine?”
“Even trade.”
“Now I know yore full up, Mr. I been wearin’ these duds for a month. Ain’t no use in washin’ ‘em as they jest git black agin’n fall apart in no time.”
“All the better.”
Hellecchino took off his clothes and laid them in a neat pile beside the road. The miner took of his clothes and stood them beside the road, so full of coal dust and sweat were they. Hellecchino jumped into them and began smearing coal dust over his face.
“How do I look?”
“Like a minstrelsy end-man.”
“Ho-kay! You better wash up a bit before you get in my duds. There’s a little pond over thataway.”
“Alright. Thanks, Mr.” And off the coal miner went with his $25 and new clothes. He was pretty pleased with himself. It wasn’t often that such luck fell into his lap.
Hellecchino waved him off and then picked up the wheelbarrow handles with a huff and a puff and began lumbering down the road, picking up the old coal miner’s song right where he was interrupted. And so Hellecchino rambled right past the Caramboleros’ ambush, singing at the top of his lungs–and in a very racist manner in order to further disguise himself and endear himself to his pursuers. Not being locals and Hellecchino being in black-face, the Caramboleros did not recognize their quarry. So Hellecchino shouted at them.
“Hey! Whatchu all doin’ down there in th’ditch? Huntin’ up snails?”
“What’s it to you, you scurvy fellow?”
“Ah’ll be goad-damned! Ah’m gonna complain ’bout th’way yew’s addressin’ me. Ah’m hew-main an’ if’n it warn’t fer me, ya’ll’d not git no heat in th’winter and no hot food.” Hellecchino spat. “Fer all th’trubble I been through drivin’ ma wheelbarra instead’n ma draft horse an’ you treat me lahk shit.”
“Why’d you not brang yore draft horse?” inquired Boulogna.
“I heerd thet Hellecchino char’cter was in these parts. I didn’t want ma horse stolen. She’s kinda my meat’n p’taters. An’ it’s a good thing I did whut I did, fer I seen him in the woods back there. Takin’ off his clothes and bathin’ in th’pond.”
Like lightning, Boulogna jumped out of the ditch, shouting at his companions.
“Come on, boys! We got the bastard now!”
The herd of Caramboleros dashed off into the woods, holsters slapping their thighs, spurs jangling at their heels and their boots clomping along on the dried-up roadbed. There was no way they could have surprised anybody but there was no thought to that as Hellecchino was presumed naked. However, when they got to the pond, Hellecchino was not there–rather, the coal seller was not there. They followed his drippings and came upon him at the farther edge of the woods. Without a word, they jumped the man and began pummeling him with fists and feet and guns.
The coal miner fell like a ton of bricks beneath their barrage, screaming and yelling, for he was mightily wronged. All his pleading did no good until they’d bloodied him up good and ripped his clothing to shreds. The Caramboleros stood him up and prodded him back down the forest path, laughing and sniggering and teasing him. Finally, the man found his breath.
“Ah hain’t Hellecchino.”
“Yeah. Right. What do you think we are, dumb fuckers?”
“Ah’m th’coal man. He stole ma coal an’ paid me fer ma clothes.”
“You got any identification?”
“Hell no!”
“Well, then. Fuck you. Git along!”
“There’s some places no ‘mounta washin’ gits ridda th’coal dust. . .”
“You tryin’ to put one over on us? We’re lawmen, you know.”
“Yore them damn Cay-rambolay-ros is who yew is.”
“You bein’ disrespectful to the law?”
One of the Caramboleros flattened the coal miner.
“I tell ya. . .I’m a coal miner,” whined the man from the feet of the chasers.
“Prove it!”
“Look up my nose.”
The lawmen looked at each other. They looked at the man on the ground. They looked at each other.
“You do it.”
“No. You do it.”
“Nuh-uh. You do it.”
“Ain’t no shittin’ way. You do it.”
“I’m the boss. You fuckin’ do it.”
So the Carambolero bent over and roughly took hold of the coal miner’s nostrils and spread them wide. He gazed up into them. He looked back to his comrades.
“I can’t see a damn thing. Like a match fer me.”
Well, one of the chasers did and the flame leapt from the match head to the coal miner’s nostrils and burned him but good. He screamed and yelled and cursed and held his nose. When he took his hand away, he looked like Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer. But Boulogna Shrievalty and the Caramboleros didn’t care. They shouted in unanimity and took off back down the road after the real Hellecchino, disguised as a coal miner. The bastard.
But Hellecchino, as soon as the Caramboleros took off into the woods, took off down the road, leaving his coal wheelbarrow right where it was. He rushed around the bend and stopped in front of Vortegern, hands on knees, panting.
“You. . .better. . .git on. . .down the road! Boulogna sent me. They’re fightin’ Hellecchino. I’m to watch the horses.”
“Hot damn!” And off ran Vortegern, happy as a clam that he could actually lay his hands on an enemy.
Hellecchino waved him good-bye behind his back and then stampeded the horses. He ran to the stream and jumped in, washing himself as best he could. When he’d finished cleaning himself off, he realized he had no clothes and a long way to go. As he was sitting’ on the bank drying himself, a potter came along leading an old nag loaded down with earthenware.
“Hey!” Hellecchino shouted without getting up.
“Hey,” answered the potter.
“You look kinda dirty. Why not take a swim with me. I’m Hellecchino.”
“Well, I’ll be damned! I’ve always wanted to meet you.”
“We can talk in the water. It’s damn cool and refreshing.”
“I ain’t in no hurry. Sure thing!”
So the potter got undressed and jumped in the stream. Hellecchino just sat there watching him.
“Ain’t you comin’ in?”
“Nope. I’m escaping. Thanks for your clothes. Stop by the toll booth and Buck’ll pay you for ‘em.”
Hellecchino quickly dressed in the potter’s clothes, dried his hair, which kind of left it sticking up all over the place, and took up the old horse’s halter. He walked off back toward the woods, whistling a merry tune.
It wasn’t long before he came upon the Caramboleros who stopped long enough to enquire after their quarry.
“A coal miner? Sure thing. He’s up there round the bend taking a bath in the stream.”
Off ran the Caramboleros as Hellecchino sauntered into the deep dark woods very pleased with himself.
About half way to the bend in the road, the chasers met Vortegern.
“What th’hell you doin’ here? You’re supposed t’be watchin’ the horses.”
“A coal miner told me you needed help. He’s watching the horses.”
“You jackass! Don’t you know Hellecchino when you see him?!”
“Gawwwd-damn!”
They all ran on down the road and around the bend and, sure enough, there was a man in the stream, his coal dust-soaked clothes standing by the side of the road. The Caramboleros whooped and jumped into the water and dragged the poor guy out. They threw him in the dust and began abusing him as they’d done the coal man. He rolled around trying to escape the impromptu beating and yelling at them to stop. But it did no good. Not until he lay motionless and face down, bleeding from the nose into the dust.
“Git on yer feet!”
“I can’t.”
He was pulled up, roughly and disrespectfully.
“Look at the size of his dick,” shouted one of the chasers.
The rough and tumble cowboys guffawed and pointed.
“Yew a man’er a mouse!” And other such slurs fell from their lips.
“Who th’hell you think I am?”
“You can’t fool us, Hellecchino. We got you dead to rights.”
“I ain’t Hellecchino. He run off with my stuff. Them’s his duds right there.”
The Caramboleros turned and, for the first time, saw only coal miner’s clothes standing beside the road. Boulogna grabbed the little potter by the neck and lifted him up off the ground.
“Which way did he go? Which way did he go?”
The potter croaked and pointed back toward the woods.
Boulogna dropped the little man and turned to his compatriots.
“To horse! To horse!”
But there were no horses. Lots of hoof prints gave evidence to their being run off, though.
And so, the Caramboleros, already sore of foot in their narrow-toed boots, took off back down the road after Hellecchino. Right through the woods they ran, for there was no sign of the trouble-maker. Unbeknownst to them, he had climbed up into a tree.
When the chasers had emerged on the other side of the woods and there was still no sign of their quarry, they were mightily frustrated–and damnably tired. There was nothing to do but return to town defeated. What a loss of face. In order to take out their embarrassment and not show up empty handed, along the road they arrested four Jesuits, three merchants, two chicken farmers and an out of work lumberjack. These unfortunate innocents were thrown into jail. Nothing could head off the caramboling of the law. It’s just in the nature of things.
As much as they tried to hide their failings, the Caramboleros could not keep the story silent. So it wasn’t long before the SOFA had a new and, as far as the folk were concerned, more apt name: Ship of Fools.

Return from the Crypt

I’m back. China blocked proxies and I couldn’t get here for the longest time. I’m now in Liverpool, involved in theatre and poverty. Three more Hellecchino adventures were written following The Mayor’s Business and I’m stumped on #14. I might be posting some essays I wrote on Chinese education, none of them complementary. But I did find myself in a major poetry anthology, first foreigner I think: 26 poems in Chinese. My translator and a publisher are working on a bilingual text of modern American poets–any interested, write me for info. A commissioned play was translated and sent to the woman; but more importantly to a local Han opera director for possible adaptation–a real coup if it works. Another commission, for a TV drama, will probably never see the light of day there; it’s in play form, so I can peddle it around in more civilized countries. So, despite the worst they could dish out, I was active. Sorry to have to leave my daughters: the only reason I put up with the abuse for so long. They are older now, near to being married. I guess I’ll get to visit now and again to steal the grandkids. Don’t need a CRB there to play with children! Next up will probably be another Hellecchino.