by Martin Bolton
A pregnant cloud of flatulence and apprehension stifled the atmosphere in the Donkey’s Ass, the rootin’est, tootin’est, hootin’est, shootin’est saloon in El Big Little Dusty Whiskey Stone. An assortment of soiled ignoramuses spoke in hushed tones to the idle background music of fruit flies playing an inappropriately cheerful jig along with the musical composition of nasal exhalations whistling from a muted orchestra of raddled nostrils.
“Big Jake’s comin’ to town.”
“Jake the Kid’s out for blood.”
“Word is Big Jake’s in no mood for not killin’ no one.”
The barman stood at the bar wiping dirty glasses on a dirty cloth with dirty, shaking hands. He had a face like a pair of rusty underpants. Two dusty eyebrows hung down and shaded twinkling, beady eyes like frosty weeping willows hiding a couple of glistening turds nestled in their roots. Cheeks, furrowed and pitted like a dry river bed, twitched as he squinted towards the door with baited breath and worked away absent-mindedly on his collection of filthy drinking vessels. Then the saloon doors swung open, sending in a gust of hot air and showering everyone with sand, tumble weed and horse shit.
Big Jake “the Kid” Bonnie’s boots shook the floor boards as he stomped through the swinging doors with a dead horse on one shoulder. Fifteen feet tall if he was a day. His beard streamed sweat, his leather hair seethed beneath a massive hat made of the hats of men he’d killed or pinned down and tickled until they turned into girls and then made pregnant. Four belts held up his wooden trousers, each one sporting a pair of six shooters and a shining steel buckle the size of a dinner plate. His sodden chest rose and fell like a buttoned up sea straining to contain a gang of amorous leviathans. Lascivious liver lips squirmed as they parted obscenely to reveal a grill full of table-sized yellow teeth like a pair of naked, sunburnt whores writhing on a bed of pissy crockery. (His ears were fairly nondescript.)
Eyes darted from shaking whiskey glasses to holsters and back. Tongues dabbed furtively at parched lips. Buttocks clenched. Noses twitched. Hats tried to look inconspicuous. The fruit flies took a break.
Big Jake’s forehead creaked as he squinted at his surroundings, his mouth curved downwards, his nose creased up and his nostrils flared, exposing bushy thickets of hair matted with snot and assorted detritus. His bulging eyeballs squelched slowly from side to side in their sockets. His primitive gaze violated all it fell upon, his rage made so indecisive by a stagnant, impotent hatred for all things that it was incapable of choosing a satisfactory outlet. Eventually, his bulbous pupils rested on the petrified barman.
A suffocating grimace of cloying terror constricted the barman’s sweat streaked face. A fart squeaked as it made its timely escape from his quivering backside.
“H-Howdie, Jake,” said the barman, “w-what can I getcha?”
Big Jake’s massive jaw creaked open and he raised one lumpen hirsute fist.
Just then the saloon doors burst open even more suddenly than before, sending a gust of searing gale force wind through the bar. A storm of sand, tumble weed and horse shit battered the occupants of the Donkey’s Ass. The barman’s eyebrows ignited and one ignoramus was struck stone dead by a flying horse shoe. As the wind died and the air cleared, there stood a hulking figure before the swinging saloon doors. A vast heap of hair and leather dwarfed Big Jake “the Kid” Bonnie.
“Well,” muttered a gob-smacked ignoramus through a moustache full of dust, “if it ain’t Colossal Clyde “the Kid” Money.”
Twenty feet tall. A hat made of the skins of the bears he had bested in single naked combat. A jaw the size of a bath tub. A dead horse slumped over one shoulder with a dead cowboy on its back. Wind moaned mournfully through the cleft in his gargantuan chin, folk said that wind was the voices of all the choirs he’d eaten. As his writhing python skin lips parted to show a row of boots instead of teeth (folk said they were for stomping his food to death) he pulled a dead Indian from his top pocket, struck a match on his eyeball, and blinked at the scene before him as he placed it between his teeth and lit the end.
Big Jake’s fists clenched and he gritted his teeth.
Several ignoramuses farted involuntarily.
Jake being the smaller man was quicker, and went for his gun, just as Clyde reached for his.
Just then the saloon doors crashed open a third time, with such force both men were thrown to the floor, hit by a mighty wave of dust, tumble weed, horse shit, horse shoes and chewing tobacco. The barman farted, the fruit flies committed suicide and two ignoramuses were mummified in the ensuing tempest. Then the dust settled.
There stood Giant John Bad Gun “the Kid” McGraw. Thirty feet tall with a wagon and two dead horses on his head. A herd of dead bison hung from one shoulder. A working railway held up his whale skin trousers. He surveyed all before him with a look of utter disdain as he pulled a whiskey barrel from his back pocket and took a bite.
Now there was going to be fucking hell up.