One day there was a meeting out at Hacienda Búsqueda Perdiz. Gyorgy Yabu and Clyde Moyen Bucket invited a very select few men. The Mayor was there, as was Medusi Minkowski IV and Clint Flintlock. Mel Gabler and Hiram Evanander were brought in as special consultants for historico-religious and academic rationalization purposes. When the law is being made, no corner can remain unbent. Roaring Bill MacDonald and Roñoso Ratón were not at the hacienda but they were nevertheless busy with necessary support mechanisms. As this was a very private meeting of very important meanings, nothing was ever known of it. All that came of it were consequences, which is usual in the manner of law makers. It can be reported, however, that all who rode away from Hacienda Búsqueda Perdiz were riding tall and smiling, despite the dust winging in the air from the Santa Ana wind. No matter, there would be whiskey available at the Lonestar Inn and Bordello or Fancy Dan’s, as the class case might be.
Clint Flintlock postponed his gratification and mouth cleaning by visiting the editorial offices of The Yabu Yeoman so he could impress upon Edward Garcon the importance of the new laws that were enacted in camera by the leaders of society who, of course, should be making laws anyway as they are of the better sort. Edward was instructed closely in the working of something for something within the legal framework. Clint spent a goodly length of time going over this point with Edward knowing full well that only half of it would find its way into print and he wanted to make sure it was the more appropriate half. Luckily, reporters were the greatest of scapegoats, forever being accosted for misquotation and ad hominem generalization.
And so it was that the next day everyone who could read–or everyone who would read could read about the Vigilante Watchtower. This new law to control the recent outbreak of outlawry and anti-social behavior were, as best as could be grasped from Edward Garcon’s mystery of language, put into place for the protection of the populace. Although the Wall had helped control crime and while crime had depreciated on the other side, on this side it had neither increased nor decreased. However, statistics were difficult to understand or follow along the lines drawn and were boring to boot, so no one really paid any mind that two weeks ago the Overlaw Association had noted a decrease in crime overall because, after all, it was old news and an overview, not a particularity. Particularlities were important. As were especialities. Chokepointe Piste was, as always, special and specially important for the Yabu Yeoman. Crime, as always, is bad for business–except for the criminals and the press–and these new laws were to increase business by decreasing the nearly non-existent crime, the criminals, for all intents and purposes, having been already relegated to the other side of the wall. Everyone on this side of the wall lauded the insightfulness and precision of the leaders while, as would be expected, those on the other side of the wall bitched and moaned and raised up voices of victimization. And, really, the other side had little to complain of, for, if nothing else, the Murdrum Fine and the Vigilante Watchtower limited the incursions of the lumbering Samson O’Merdé into their part of town in the name of protecting them from, basically, if the truth be known, themselves. But there are some things that are not meant to be voiced.
Later that day, as the sun slowly set in the west casting pinks and magentas and blazing oranges over the wide, wide sky causing the land to blush, a few people gathered atop the tariff barrier blockhouse to watch, along with Hellecchino, the scouring of the Vigilante Watchtower over the land. The Vigilante Watchtower was the inspiration of Roñoso Ratón. Atop a specially reconstructed buckboard sat a great round aerial kind of thing like a divining rod that roved back and forth, back and forth catching people and people’s conversations that were then stored in a great copper-wound affair at its base. This was based on Bob Grant’s discovery that sound could be translated into electrical impulses, stored and then retranslated at a later date. Roñoso Ratón and Gyorgy Yabu were the only people in the land who bought into Bob Grant’s mad invention. He’d had so many inventions presented at the copyright office that he’d become a joke. Yabu and Ratón, however, had foresight, if they had anything at all.
Hellecchino and the gathered townsmen had nothing to fear as the Vigilante Watchtower was far too far away to catch their verbal outpourings. But the little man standing alongside the electric surveillor with the pirate spyglass could see them quite clearly mouthing and gesticulating. The old horses were being steered in the direction of the Brownwood Stage Road barrier, though in a kind of roundabout manner so as not to pre-warn the gathering of anti-socials of their intent. As has been proven time and again over the millennia of mankind’s existence, you can fool some of the people some of the time. Sometimes, you can fool all the people. This, however, was not one of those times.
Only Hellecchino did not seem to be overly concerned. Pretty soon the Vigilante Watchtower would have to pack it in, as the poor old horse would most certainly turn an ankle in a gopher hole in the dark. And that would set the program back a tad, as old nags were hard to find amongst the Yabu & Bucket company. No premier horseflesh could be spared for wagon work.
“What do you propose to do about this, Hellecchino?”
“Not much.”
“But it’s not right.”
“Nope. It’s not. But it’s legal.”
“That ain’t right.”
“Nope. It’s not. But it’s got a flaw.”
“It has?”
“Yes. It’s electric-centred.”
“Y’know. . .sometimes I wonder how it is you’ve made it this far in life–and as a hero. O’course it’s ‘lectric. We all got eyes.”
“Telegraph lines are electric, too. Seems to me.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So. . .y’all just hold your conversations near the telegraph lines. They’re always humming, whether the electrical current stops here or not.”
Everyone was quiet. It is questionable as to whether this was because Hellecchino was so profound or because they didn’t get it. So, Hellecchino let the night draw on and on and then he spoke up again, filling the near-dark silence with his voice, which seemed louder than normal. But that was no problem as the Vigilante Watchtower had turned around and retreated to Bucket’s ranch. This also was a drawback–the buckboard and accoutrements had to come from the Hacienda Búsqueda Perdiz every morning. No one could leave before daybreak because of the old nag’s problems with gopher holes, so it took time to get to within listening distance. It would behoove people to congregate and converse early in the mornings and in the evenings. But Hellecchino said nothing of this. Too many options made it difficult to make a decision as to what to do. Which is how dictatorships worked, giving you only two options with only one obviously right. There was always a hint involved so you’d be sure to be a good citizen. Which, of course, made it easy to catch the bad guys as they’d made their choice knowing well enough ahead of time.
Anyway, Hellecchino spoke up, drawling to fit the evening’s lazy tenor.
“Well. . .if you’re talking one thing or another and you’re near to the telegraph that old Vigilante Watchtower is going to be picking up whatever it is that’s going through the wire. There’s more of it than you. If you don’t talk too very loud, your noise will be background indecipherable.”
“I’ll be damned!” exclaimed some of the gathered.
“Heh-heh,” chuckled Buck from down below. “By the time they figure out what y’all’ve done, they’ll know all about their own secrets.”
“You got it, Buck, ol’ boy. They’ll be wondering how it is you all know all their secrets. Maybe even getting the skinny before they do.”
“They may figger that we got some kinda wire splicer-inner an’ we’re listenin’ to them.”
“Stealin’ their ideas.”
“They got ideas?” asked Buck.
And so it was that the law enforcers and Yabu and Bucket were met with groups of people standing around the telegraph poles conversing. All along the wire line. Men and women, there being a high rate of unemployment. This was very unusual behavior, especially as no one was drinking. Usually when these kinds of people got together they were drinking and carousing. But, no. Not any more. They were talking low. And they weren’t drinking. Well, they were. But they put that off until the evening hours. For this, Roñoso Ratón was taken on the carpet for not foreseeing that his Vigilante Watchtower was dysfunctional at night. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another and Roñoso had to spend extra hours in the basement lab sans assistance figuring out how he could surveil in the dark.
He tried, to begin with, to convince Medusi Minkowski IV and the Shrievalty brothers, Boulogna and Cologna, and their superior Col. Custard that putting black masked men, that is, white men in black masks, amongst the populace at night would be a good idea, for they’d go undetected and, if they were found out, they’d be sure to be seen as ghosts or evil spirits or some such supernumerary entity and disperse into the night air like a magician’s pretty little assistant. No masked men, no problem. When this was tabled, Roñoso suggested hiring some Ninja. No. Yabu and Bucket would have none of this, nor would the Chamber of Commerce. Ninja did not work for peanuts. Besides, them slanty-eyed bastards couldn’t really be trusted. His next idea was an electric torch. A really big one. But everyone laughed at him. The old Ratón was nearing the end of his usefulness, for sure.
The people on either side of the Wall became used to the Vigilante Watchtower waltzing its way through their lives. Some paid it no mind. Others stood around and stared at it, getting a good look at whoever it was was operating the surveilling device. And still others would smile and wave, even going so far as to ask how the operators were doing. People were real polite. Roñoso Ratón and the surveilling people did not like this one bit, the populace getting cozy with them. It defeated the whole purpose of the exercise. How can you dowse for evil when there isn’t any?
Meanwhile back at the ranch, Yabu and Bucket were hopping mad. All they were picking up were telex communications, some of them of a secret nature. However were they to keep a secret! Maybe, suggested Bucket, their secrets were being stolen. Though, of course, there was no indication of such as nothing was being done in response to the sensitive information. Still, something needed to be done. Listening to themselves was of little worth. Listening to what these people were talking about was vital to Chokepointe Piste security. Plots might be being hatched and the leaders had to be prepared. Somewhere, they knew, there were criminal minds devising one kind of caper or another, to Gyorgy Yabu’s detriment.
So, once again, Clint Flintlock and The Bildersburger & Gunpowder Law Firm were called in. A new law was fashioned and put into place. This was a gathering law. It became suddenly illegal to congregate in groups larger than two anywhere other than in a Church. Slick as ever, this law went into effect the same day the Murdrum Fine began to be levied. There was good reason for this as, as the new anti-social behavior control device was unleashed, the population began congregating in droves. Around the telegraph poles. A whole lot of people were arrested, sent before the Pyxilators and fined. A few were retained in the calaboose as examples to the rest of the people.
The Murdrum Fine was insidious. It was cruel and unusual punishment. It was also puerile and a tacit admission by the authorities that they had lost control, lost control of the people and lost control of themselves. But of course they could not see this as their focus was on the anti-social behavior of the others.
The Murdrum Fine levied on any township within the legal range of Chokepointe Piste within whose bounds a crime was committed and a culprit could not be produced a monetary assessment. A fine. If the inhabitants couldn’t prove the culprit to be a local, the fine rose to arbitrary heights. Of course, if no culprit could be found, anyone would do, as long as someone paid the price of anti-social behavior making. No lawmaker thought beyond this point to the eventual fact that a township and its people might become bankrupt. But if they had, they’d have found a way to relieve the damn people of their homes. Indeed, no one who made up the law thought that perhaps it would actually happen that no crimes would be committed. That is, that people would actually become law abiding. They were banking on human behavior of long-standing, evolutionary proportions. People were human and humans were hard-wired for violence and fighting, according to the popular theories of Dr. Richard Askwind, who seemed to think that everything about humans was hard-wired and could not be escaped unless the selfish little genies that went into making us up were destroyed. Not many considered putting an end to all life as an efficient or efficacious method for controlling innate tendencies. One life here or there was more or less acceptable. But first you had to whip them into line. Thus, the fine.
These lawmakers were fairly short-sighted. Which allowed for an immediate escalation in the abuse of the Murdrum Fine. You see, as no crimes were uncovered and, thereby, Chokepointe Piste income declined, it became necessary to see this in a new light.
“These people are sneaky, I tell ya,” said Yabu.
“They’ve got something up their sleeves,” said Bucket.
“You don’ theenk it’s a plot?” whined Roñoso.
Yabu and Bucket looked at Roñoso.
“Everyone is covering for everyone else,” he continued. But still they just looked at him in that kind of unseeing way they had. “Anybody and everybody is engaging in obstruction of justice.”
“A-ha!” said Yabu.
“A-ha!” said Bucket.
“It’s a conspiracy.”
“They are conspiring against the rightful law of the land.”
“That,” Bucket and Yabu mouthed together, “is against the law.”
Yabu had never truly understood Peter Rabbit and believed that his mother had said, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say something sensible.”
So it was that one day, around high noon, the women of Chokepointe Piste descended upon Hellecchino as he sat atop the cinderblock house sipping on a mint julep. You could see they were angry by the way they stomped along, raising up a cloud of dust behind them, though the road had been recently wetted down, it being a Wednesday.
“Hellecchino!” shouted one of the women. “You get down here! We got some talkin’ to do.”
“What seems to be the problem, ladies?”
“You get your skinny little ass down here, boy!”
“That is an invitation I cannot refuse. I’m on my way.” When he stood in the roadway facing the women, his mint julep in hand, he asked, “What’s the problem?”
“We ain’t got no men!”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I’m no match maker–”
“They all been arrested, you silly man.”
“They have?”
“They have. Whatchu gonna do about it?”
“They’re in jail?”
“Yes.”
“Whatever for?”
“Obstruction of justice.”
“Conspiring to undermine the security of the country.”
“Anti-social behavior.”
“Being disrespectful of the authorities.”
“They are, to make a long story short, the Murdrum Fine fine.”
“I see.” Hellecchino sipped his mint julep. “What did you do with the kids?”
“We left them at Granny Rosewater’s.”
“Good choice.”
“What are you going to do about this state of affairs?”
“Hadn’t given it much thought, to tell you the truth.”
“Well, you better git to thinkin’, Mr. Hero, ’cause there ain’t no one mindin’ the store.”
“How is Yabu going to make any money when nobody’s working for him?”
“You ever hear of a chain gang?”
“There’s talk of makin’ that damned Samson O’Merdé the Master Gangster.”
“Oh, now, that would be cruel and unusual punishment. Yes, indeed.”
“You know damn well he’ll wop ‘em with his club and knock ‘em to the ground and make mince meat of ‘em and stomp on their necks and get graft fer not killin’ ‘em.”
“I want a man home, not no mince pie. If you git my meanin’.”
“How long’s this been going on?”
“How long you ain’t seen no men around town?”
“Ah. I see. Well. I’ll get right on it. Now, y’all go on home and have faith in me.”
“That ain’t enough, Hellecchino. We hear that every Sunday and still He ain’t come by Chokepointe Piste.”
“Have I ever let you down?” The ladies all shuffled their feet. “So it is and so it shall be. Go on home. I’ll have them back into your own backyard before William Sidney Porter returns from Cuba, as he surely will.”
“Aright. But you better come through. You don’t wanna go messin’ with mother nature.”
It wasn’t long after this that Hellecchino sauntered through town on his way to the jail. He tipped his hat and said hello and how ya doin’ to everyone he passed along the way. What a nice young man. But when Hellecchino got to the jailhouse, he stopped being so nice. He stopped dead in his tracks right before the front door. He looked a long time. Long enough that Medusi Minkowski IV came out the door to see what was going on. But he didn’t get to ask, for as soon as the door opened, Hellecchino was off walking around the jailhouse, looking at the walls and the way it sat on the ground. Like he was a Healthy Homes inspector. Medusi Minkowski IV, thinking that something was up, followed Hellecchino in his rounds. Hellecchino went around a couple of times. Then he stopped before the open front door. Medusi Minkowski IV stopped with him. They both looked at the door.
“Jailhouse door is open,” pointed out Hellecchino.
Medusi Minkowski IV climbed up onto the porch and closed it.
“That’s better,” nodded Hellecchino.
“What do you want?” asked the Sheriff.
“I’m just making sure the prisoners don’t escape.”
“You are, huh?”
“Yup. I are.”
“Well, I don’t believe you.”
“That is your privilege.”
“You’re damn right it’s my privilege.”
“Can I have a word with your prisoners?”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“Have I ever lied to you?”
“You ain’t never talked to me before today.”
“There you are then!”
Medusi Minkowski IV drew his six guns and held them at the ready. He kicked open the door.
“You make one funny move and you’re dead meat.”
“I guess a whole lotta folk would turn you in for murder, then.”
“It ain’t murder when the law shoots a civilian. Now, go on in there and see what you gotta see.”
Hellecchino strode into the jail and stood before the crowded cell. He nodded to the men. They nodded back.
“Sorry, guys. I can’t bust you out. That would be breaking the law.” Hellecchino turned to Medusi Minkowski IV and touched his hat. “Thank you, Sheriff. It would be too bad if there were a tornado.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” shouted Medusi Minkowski IV as Hellecchino strode back through town.
The next day there was a tornado but it didn’t come anywhere near the jailhouse. In fact, it didn’t come anywhere near Chokepointe Piste. But it made the news. And Gyorgy Yabu heard about how Hellecchino had predicted it. That was truly disturbing. Whoever heard of predicting the weather? There had to be a law against it. It could just be witchcraft, after all Hellecchino had walked around the jailhouse twice looking intently at it.
Yabu rode over to Bucket’s and then rode back home again. Bucket rode out to fetch the Shrievalty Brothers who then went around rounded up a few of the Caramboleros. They rode to the blockhouse looking for Hellecchino. He was there.
“What can I do for you boys?” Hellecchino asked.
“You can come with us,” Boulogna Shrievalty said menacingly.
“What for?”
“‘Cause we’re arresting you.”
“For what?”
“Witchcraft.”
“Why for?”
“Predicting the weather.”
“Oh. Okay.”
And so the Caramboleros and the Shrievalty Brothers herded Hellecchino before them, right down through the centre of town. Hellecchino tipped his hat and said hello and how you doin’ just as before.
Medusi Minkowski IV was waiting for them, the jailhouse door open wide. He had his six shooters out and ready, not even thinking that against witchcraft they would be useless. He poked Hellecchino inside. He made Cologna Shrievalty open up the cell door. It was real crowded in there. They had to push hard to get Hellecchino inside. When they did, they shut and locked the door. They dusted off their hands, smiling to each other for a job well done.
And the walls of the jailhouse burst at their seams.
Tags: crawford, george bush, hellecchino, legal, secor, surveillance
