“I tell you what; you can have the first shot,” I say to him.
The entire crowd that has gathered gasps collectively. Women swoon. Other men’s dicks get hard, because they wish they could do shit like this. I tear off my shirt for good measure, to get one more set of gasps from the ladies in the crowd. Three different women faint; one gets her period.
“You can’t be serious,” he says in shock.
“Only one way to find out. Better make this shot count, Seven.”
I raise my hands slowly above my head away from my guns, but still flexing my abs. With all eyes fixated on Sven, he quick-draws his gun and fires at me. I don’t even fucking blink as the shot hits me in the leg. Blood spurts out of my thigh and I begin to laugh. Sven’s eyes fill with fear.
“Oh shit . . .”
“Goodbye, Seven.”
Before Sven can get off another shot, I quick-draw my gun on the left side and throw it up high in the air. With Sven’s attention diverted to the flight of my spinning gun, I quick-draw my right pistol and shoot the spinning gun’s trigger, causing it to fire a bullet right through Sven’s head. He falls over dead on the ground, staring straight ahead. The entire crowd groans in delight.
I blow kisses to the crowd and give a double crotch chop with my hands, playing to my fans, before limping over to pick up my own gun. Out of nowhere a huge barbarian of a man tackles me from behind, knocking the wind out of me as I hit the dirt. He flips me over on my back and punches me in face with one of the hardest shots I’ve ever taken in my entire life. I try to gather my bearings, but I’m immediately rocked again in the face by his other fist. When I try to cover up, I’m hit with two more punches from different arms. What the hell is happening? I squint through my defense and see that this beast has a third arm growing out of his chest! His eyes are off center and spaced way too far apart.
“You killed my brothers!” he says in a deep, delayed lisp.
Oh fuck. As soon as I hear that voice, panic washes over me. Remember earlier when I said there is only one thing that trumps old-man strength? Welcome to “retard strength.” That’s not a euphemism for anything; I’m talking about the strength of a mentally or physically retarded adult male. There is nothing else in this world that compares to their kind of strength. That kind of power is just downright fucking scary. God threw them a bone by providing that kind of strength. I’ll even go so far as to say that they deserve to be that strong. When you have that much incest going on inside of one family like the Schlägers do, a human mutation is bound to happen, and right now this three-armed Toxic Avenger man-child is locked in.
The arm that has grown from his chest is choking me, while his other two hit me in the face with a series of right/left combos. I have no chance of reaching my gun. Just when I’m about to black out—bang!—a lone gunshot rings out and pierces the heart of the beast. He slumps over facedown on top of me. In the distance I see smoke rising from Daniel’s gun. Miraculously, he’s somehow still alive.
I throw the dead retard off me and limp over to Daniel. His little body is riddled with bullet holes. As he coughs up blood all over the place, I grab his hand. He tries to smile through clenched teeth as he looks up at me, but he’s shaking pretty badly.
“Did I do good, Dad?”
“You did real good, son. If I’m being picky, you could have killed him a little sooner, though. I took a lot of shots.”
“You did? Look at me!” A warm father-son laugh ensues as he coughs up more blood, sensing the inevitable. I squeeze his hand as he looks down at his blood-soaked clothes and asks, “Am I going to die?”
“No. You’re a fucking Street James. It takes more than sixty-three shots to kill a Street James. Do you hear me?”
He tries to smile and nods his little head. “I think I see Totally Fucking Mexico.”
“It’s just an illusion. The way the sun catches his statue, everyone in town can probably see him. You stay with me and keep your eyes open, okay?”
Daniel tries to keep them open with all of his might, but they slowly close and his head falls back as I hold him in my arms.
“I need a fucking doctor!”
A man in a suit holding a doctor’s bag sprints over. “I’m a doctor.”
“Oh, thank God. My boy has been shot. I think he’s dead. You gotta help me.”
“Looks like you were hit too,” he says as he points down at my leg, which is still shooting out blood. “Here, drink this.” He pulls out a small, brown medicine bottle, and I take a swig.
“Holy shit, this is strong. What’s in it?”
“It’s a new medicine called laudanum that contains opium. I got it from a Chinese doctor, and no one knows the side effects of it, so go easy.”
I’ve already pounded half the bottle before the doctor finishes his sentence. I pick up Daniel and load him into the doc’s carriage. As we head off, I look out at the carnage strewn in the street as we ride away. I see Curly lying faceup, blood covering most of his face paint. Through weary eyes, I see him slowly come to life and pull something out of a bullet wound in his chest. He tries to grin as he proudly holds up a nine of diamonds.
“Was this the card you picked?” he asks in a whisper.
“No. Sorry, Curly.”
He nods in disappointment, and his head falls back, dead on the ground. Truthfully, it is my card, but I hate magic so much that I’m not even willing to give a dying man one more smile. If he was a real magician, he could bring himself back to life right now. Guess who doesn’t open his eyes ever again?
* * *
I. I even applied for a patent on it, but the patent office said it would be difficult to enforce since “anyone could cut a hole in anything and suck a dick through it.” For personal pride, though, I want it on the record that I did indeed invent this.
Chapter Eight
DEATH IS A HEAVY THING . . . ESPECIALLY WHEN THE CORPSE WEIGHS MORE THAN EIGHT HUNDRED POUNDS
I awake to see the doctor standing over me, snapping his fingers in front of my face, staring at me intently. It takes me a moment to assess my surroundings, but finally I recognize that I’m at home in my own bed. My leg has been bandaged where I got shot, and my cock is tied down to my other leg. Obviously, it was a preventive measure so the doc wouldn’t be knocked unconscious by a stray boner while tending to my well-being.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Street James?”
“Pretty fucking shitty, dude.”
“Well, I don’t mean to pull my pants down and dump out on you any more, but there’s a rumor in town that the law is coming for you.”
“What law? We don’t have fucking law in this town?”
Louretta walks in hurriedly, wearing a long black dress. “Good, you’re finally awake. Get dressed, people will be arriving for the funeral soon.”
“The funeral is Saturday. How long have I been sleeping?”
“Three days,” she says flatly.
“Awesome. Doc, I’m definitely going to need more of that laudanum.”
“I’ve left four bottles for you and your son.”
“Daniel is alive? Where is he?”
“He’s sleeping in his room. It’s a miracle. He was shot sixty-three times. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Well, let’s not forget that I was shot too.”
Louretta shakes her head and says, “Daniel’s not saying what happened, so maybe you can fill me in on why our son was shot sixty-three times and you were only shot once?”
“He’s not really that nimble?”
“Lovely. Help me put the food out for the funeral. It starts in twenty minutes, so get up.”
As she walks the doctor out, I rise up out of bed buck naked and limp over to the window, where I see people starting to arrive out front. I spot Ron and Sheila pulling up on their gimpy horse, so I pull the curtain all the way back and make sure they both see me in all my glory. Sheila waves at me, and I salute her back by smacking my dong against the window. Once I’m satisfied wit
h Ron’s level of discomfort, I take a swig of laudanum and begin to get dressed.
Getting dressed for your own son’s funeral is really tough. As a parent, it’s something you never prepare yourself for. Staring into my closet full of suits, I want something that says, “This motherfucker is hard but isn’t trying too much.” I finally decide on an all-black ensemble made entirely out of bison skin, accessorized with bison-skin boots.
As I limp down the stairs, I see that Louretta has everything beautifully organized. I stuff a fistful of deviled eggs into my face on my way outside to greet everyone. Standing in the sweltering heat waiting for me are the town preacher, Pastor Jenkins; my remaining sons; and Ron. Pastor Jenkins, who is super fucking old, looks up at me hesitantly before finally raising his hand.
“Speak, your high power,” I instruct him.
“Saint James, I don’t know how to tell you this, but we’re going to need some extra pallbearers.”
“Why?”
“Your son weighs more than eight hundred pounds.”
“Shit, I forgot about that. Typically that amount of weight wouldn’t be a problem for me to carry on my own, but with me being shot in the leg, I can’t get any lift out of my quads. Are there any more dudes here?”
“Just a few boys from the blind school down the road. We could yell out our steps in unison,” Pastor Jenkins meekly says.
“I wish I could unhear what you just said. Jesus, man. All right, I guess everyone is going to have to man the fuck up today. I’ll do the heavy lifting at the front. Everyone else fall behind. Ron, don’t you dare let that back end fall, or it’s your ass!”
I spit in my hands, then chalk up over by the porch. Yes, I keep chalk out in front of my house for when I have to lift heavy shit. Curly was a freak of nature, lifting that wagon without chalking up. Full disclosure, I don’t have old-man strength right now; instead I just possess a lot of God-given raw, natural power. Plus I’m on opium, so I could probably lift a fucking bank vault.
After a sweet chalk sesh, I lift the casket up with ease, and everyone falls in behind me, holding up the back. We walk toward the big oak tree down by the river, while Louretta starts playing a set of seventeenth-century bagpipes that her parents brought over from Ireland. A smattering of people begin weeping, including Sheila. Another woman in the front row starts peeling potatoes by hand, which is apparently a tradition at Irish funerals.
With only about ten yards remaining in our walk, I feel the back half of the casket slipping. Behind me I hear grunting and labored breathing. Turning back, I see Ron’s arms shaking, desperately trying to hold up the casket. Gong! It falls to the ground, and everyone gasps, including Louretta, who blows out a bagpipe and starts crying hysterically.
“Goddamn it, Ron! What the fuck did I tell you?”
“No, you’re right. I totally deserve this one,” he says as he gets on all fours and assumes a beating position.
The pastor runs over and grabs my arm after I’ve already taken off my belt. “You don’t want to do this here, Saint James.”
“No, I definitely do. Why don’t you take your goddamn hand off me and go put one foot in that grave.”
“Saint James! This day is about Totally Mexico!” Louretta cries out.
I see the tears in her eyes and decide to postpone Ron’s beating. Instead, I take a pull of laudanum and lift up the casket “fireman’s carry” style, over my shoulder, walking it over on my own. People clap for my bravery as I lower it into the pre-dug grave. One woman even flashes me her beaver when I walk up to give my eulogy.
“What can I say about our beloved son Totally Fucking Mexico Street James that hasn’t already been said? He was a magical boy with big hopes and dreams? He was destined to change the world? His unique vision and outlook on life were things to be cherished by all who met him? Well, I can’t really say that, because he was taken from us at four years old, so who knows what the fuck he was thinking about. What I can tell you is that he had two arms and two legs. Ten fingers, and ten toes. He had blond hair and a pretty ripped physique for a four-year-old. He loved to spend his free time, which was all the time, playing outside with my freshly sharpened axes, swimming in the river with heavy rocks tied to his legs, or just fooling around in our knife drawer in the kitchen. Normal kid stuff, you know? That little son of a bitch had a heart of gold that was only eclipsed by his golden spirit. So today, as his tiny little body gets lowered into the ground forever, I want you all to take solace in the fact that the men who did this were killed in brutal fashion also. All seventeen of them were shot dead by me, a seventy-year-old man painted as a sad clown, and another of my sons, Daniel, who was shot sixty-three times in the altercation. I’m proud of you, Daniel, for killing that retard.”
I point up to Daniel, who sits in a full-body cast with his legs stuffed outside the window. He nods and tips his bottle of laudanum toward me, and we cheers.
“I know what you’re thinking: doesn’t senseless violence breed more senseless violence? To those people thinking that bullshit, I ask you, is touch not a sense? Because right now my dead son will never get to be touched again. Not by his family, not by a woman, and certainly not by a stranger who just wants to party. So keep your thoughts to yourself, and don’t ever voice them if you’re thinking about shit like that. If you want to ask me how many fucks I give that those men are dead, the answer is zero. Did I kill one or two of them first? Probably. Shit gets wild sometimes when grown men are drinking. That’s not an excuse to kill an innocent child. If you have a problem, handle it man-to-man.”
I wink at Ron, who looks away.
“Mentally, my wife and I are going to be really fucked up for years and years to come, but that’s what life is. It’s overcoming tragedy by inflicting it on someone else. I’d like to close my eulogy with one solitary wish for my special tiny dancer. TFM, may you never know the pain of chafing ever again, for in heaven, your sweet nuts will forever be cradled by the powdery hands of angels.”
I cup my hands together and blow kisses to the crowd with the remaining chalk dust on my palms. Everyone stands up and erupts in applause; there’s not a dry eye in the house. Pastor Jenkins asks everyone to bow their heads in a moment of silence. As they bow, I walk over to Totally Fucking Mexico’s open casket and pull out a mallet I have stuffed in the back of my pants and bang it on the statue, which invokes the sound of a church bell ringing. After the fourth and final gong, one for every year of his life, I take one last sip from my bottle of laudanum . . . which proves to be a little too much.
There are a lot of questions surrounding what happens next. Most people think that I am so stricken with grief that I hurl myself onto his casket, but in truth, I black out and fall on top of it. I can feel people throwing roses and potato peelings on top of me as they pass by. The one thing I can be sure of is, for the first time in my life, I am truly grieving.
After an hour of my being blacked out on top of the casket, Louretta leaves me there and continues the reception inside. I probably would stay there all night, if I weren’t awakened by the woman who flashed me her beaver during my eulogy. She is now standing over me with her legs spread wide apart, straddling both sides of the grave, whispering down to me.
“Hey! Hey! Look up here. Can you see my vagina?”
I open my eyes. “Of course, you’re not wearing any panties. I can see your whole birth canal.”
“Good. Do you want to screw?”
I nod my head yes, and she climbs down inside the grave with me. I may be groggy as shit, but I can recognize a sweet beave anywhere. Within seconds, she unzips my pants, puts my cowboy hat on her head, and jams my dick inside her. I move my hand up her dress and squeeze her tits as she rides me, slowly starting to come to life. Now that I’m fully awake with the realization of where I’m at, I stop her.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“This. We’re fucking on top of my dead kid’s casket. I’ve done a lot of horrific shit in my life, but this takes the quadri
plegic’s cake.”
“Does it? Or is this the ultimate send-off? What better way to feel alive again than to have sex on top of death? Your son would want this.”
Wow. This woman is fucking crazy, but she makes a great point. I don’t even have a counterargument, so I shrug my shoulders and let her continue. She grabs my hands and slams them down on the casket above my head.
“Just lay there and grieve for me, baby,” she whispers.
She picks up her pace, and little chunks of dirt from inside the grave begin falling all around us. I’m not going to lie, this really is helping me grieve, and I’m actually starting to get emotional about it. I look up toward the sky and see Totally Fucking Mexico’s spirit running around the grave in circles with my steed. The two of them are laughing. This strange gypsy woman, combined with all this laudanum, has taken me to a different planet.
When I climax, it feels like a euphoric rainbow is shooting out of my dick hole. She clutches a fistful of roses and orgasms after me, which is a first. The thorns on the stems cause her hands to bleed, and she holds them over my mouth, letting her blood drip down into it.
“This is fucking life!” she moans.
I look into her eyes and scream, “Mi vida loca!”
A strange man peeks his head into the grave and destroys my moment of unadulterated bliss. He has a gun drawn, aiming it at my head. I go to grab my own guns, but my pants are down around my ankles.
“Are you Saint James Street James?”
“You can see my dick and balls, can’t you? Of course I’m him.” I get up and pull my pants back up. “Who the fuck are you?”
He smiles and pulls out a copper badge. “I’m the new sheriff in town, and you’re wanted for murder. Leave the guns and put these on.”
He throws down a pair of handcuffs, which I properly throw back at him. “Let me get out of my dead son’s grave first, asshole.”
As the strange gypsy woman and I climb out of the grave, I notice the entire reception has stopped and come outside. Louretta stands on the front porch watching me and who I believe to be her friend dusting the dirt off our clothes. A look of disgust and confusion washes over her face.
At Night She Cries, While He Rides His Steed Page 8
