At Night She Cries, While He Rides His Steed

by Ross Patterson

  “I saw you walk into the house last night covered in blood. What the hell happened at that party, Dad?”

  “Let’s just say you have a new brother.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Daniel, but it would be nice for you to learn Chinese.”

  We ride in silence the rest of the way into town. On Main Street, I see the two Schläger brothers that I smoked out yesterday already lined up in front of my new whorehouse. It’s not as fancy as all the rest of the businesses in town, obviously, but the darker quality to it really adds to the mystery.

  Daniel and I tie our horses up and step back in the street to take it all in. Painted on the sign above the entrance in big black letters are the words “St. James Place: Opium Den & Polite Whores.” It is the first establishment in America that offers both opium and whores, so it is kind of a huge deal.

  As I stand there looking up at the sign, a lion’s pride washes over me. Samantha asks me to stand next to Daniel for a picture to properly mark this moment in history. I tell him I want a solo shot with my steed first, because I don’t want people to think this is a father-and-son business. How would it look if I were selling whores with my son? It’s not like we are fucking blacksmiths. Sam goes under a large blanket behind a camera set up on a large wooden tripod.

  “One, two, three.”

  The bulb explodes in the air when the flash goes off, and it is really fucking dangerous. Samantha learns that firsthand when he steps out from underneath the blanket with his head smoking and his hair almost entirely burned off his scalp. He smiles and pats out a couple small flames of scorched hair.

  “Are you okay, Sam?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Good, because I’m going to need one more; I think I was breathing out on that one. I need you to catch me on the breath in; it makes my pecs look bigger.”

  He nods in agreement and goes back under the blanket, proceeding to count me down again. Samantha sprints out from underneath the blanket completely engulfed in flames after the next one. He frantically runs toward the whorehouse, and I immediately kick him into a horse trough full of water so he won’t light my place ablaze right before it opens. After making sure he is safely put out, I walk over to Daniel and look him square in the eyes.

  “Daniel, you were my firstborn child that I actually took responsibility for, so I’d like you to be the first customer.”

  Daniel looks at me, touched. “Are you serious, Pa?”

  “Yes. I obviously can’t watch you fuck, though, because you’re still at that awkward stage that verges on creepy. Also, you can’t ever tell your mother about this. Got it?”

  He laughs like a fourteen-year-old at a whorehouse, because he is. Catching himself being too excited, he steps back and firmly shakes my hand. Banging a whore is his last step toward becoming a man, and this is a really nice father-son moment. The nicest moment was obviously when he took sixty-three bullets for me, so I figure this is the least I can do to return the favor. As I walk him around the back, the two Schläger brothers who have been waiting out front start scratching their arms.

  “Is there any chance you’re going to open up early, Mr. Street James?” one of them asks.

  I smile and point to Daniel as I say, “Gents, I’m gonna let my boy take the first hit off that wooden dick and then let him bang out one of the whores before we open to the public. It should be just a minute.”

  The other brother smiles. “That’s lovely, man, I wish my father would have done that for me. Congratulations to you and your boy.”

  “Thank you. I tell you what, when I come out, I’ll let you cut the ribbon as my ‘real’ first customers. How about that?”

  “It would be an honor!”

  Walking around back, I wave at my Chinamen neighbors who are feeding dead people to their pigs. Because I’ve picked this exact location, not only will people not be able to sneak in through the back because of my Asian connections, but customers will also be able to devour some delicious squirrel di on the way out. It’s a win-win for everyone involved. I rap on the backdoor twice, and a beautiful Asian woman answers it in a silk kimono. She takes Daniel and me by the hands, leading us in.

  The inside of the den is immaculate. Samantha and the boys did an unbelievable job recreating it to look exactly like the one I was at in China. Silk pillows cover the floors, surrounding a giant hookah in the middle of the room. Four more massive hookahs are set up underneath netting in each of the four corners of the joint. My own personal touch is a rice-wine room in the back where you can go if you want more privacy and pay a little extra.

  The Asian woman sits Daniel down at the center hookah, already packed full of opium. I strike a match off the bottom of my boot and light the first honorary bowl inside my new establishment. Daniel chokes on the first hit, probably because of nerves, or due to the fact that he’s smoking high-grade opium. Instead of laughing at him, I let him enjoy these last few minutes before his “prostitution virginity” is taken.

  It’s a big deal when you fuck your first prosty; it’s not like having sex with a normal girl. A normal girl, you have to play coy and see what kind of positions they’ll let you try, but with a hooker, the sky’s the limit. You can ask for the fairy tale.I

  “Have a good time, son,” I say as I pat him on the back and walk out.

  When I walk out the front door, I notice a small crowd has now gathered. I spot a man holding a soapbox and promptly take it from him, dumping all of his soap onto the ground before I jump on top of the box. Across the street, Mayor Van Buren curiously peeks his head out from behind a post. He holds his monocle up to his eye, examining the proceedings. I grab a cane from an elderly gentleman, who instantly falls over.

  “Hear ye, hear ye, gentle townspeople. I am Saint James Street James, but you probably already knew that,” I say as I motion down toward my cock with the cane.

  “Today, I am here to open the first-ever opium den and polite whorehouse that has ever existed in America. No longer will you have to drink left-handed liquor with gold flakes floating in it. And gone are the days of having to put up with the sass of American whores. In here, you will be treated like gentlemen on a fine Oriental vacation. Plus, the girls don’t speak English, so they can’t say no!”

  All of the men gathered roar with laughter. In the front, a man with a familiar face winks at me. As I look closer, I realize it’s the fucking crazy gypsy woman dressed as an older businessman, complete with a long, fake white beard. I can’t shake her. A part of me doesn’t want to, either. It’s sick, and it will come back to haunt me, but it makes my mind fucking dance.

  “So come on in! Morning, noon, or night, our ladies will treat you right! The first time is on me! I’ll also pay for it too.”

  The crowd erupts in laughter and rapturous applause. Two beautiful Asian girls in kimonos walk out holding a giant red ribbon and a pair of scissors. I ask the two Schläger brothers who have been waiting in line to cut the ribbon, and they run over like excited junkies.

  “Samantha, one more picture please!” I implore him.

  He pulls himself out of the trough he is cooling off his first-degree burns in, and gingerly walks over to the camera. Flash! Sam stumbles out from behind the curtain with his jeans burned almost completely off his body, and falls over facedown on the ground as I open the doors for business. A slew of gentlemen rush inside, including the crazy gypsy, who stops and grabs my penis as hard as she can. She whispers in my ear, “Don’t you fucking dare say anything about me having a lady hole.”

  “Never,” I say, still respecting her secret.

  She grabs her fake dick and walks inside. Mayor Van Buren is still glaring at me from across the street, shaking his head in disgust. I tip my cowboy hat toward him and motion him over.

  “Can I interest you in some opium and possibly a fine whore today, Mayor Van Buren? The first one is on me.”

  “No, thank you. I don’t participate in those kinds of e
stablishments.”

  “Your relatives do,” I say, walking over to the camera, pulling out the sheet of glass containing the photograph. I hold it up to the sunlight so he can see the image of the Schläger brothers cutting the ribbon with me in between them. Mayor Van Buren fumes.

  “Well, I’ll have to see if the use of opium is in the book of laws or not,” he threatens.

  “I can assure you that there is no law against it.”

  “We’ll see about that! Good day to you, sir!” he says as he storms off.

  “Please fucketh off, sir!” I reply as I head straight over to Ron’s printing-press office with my glass picture of the three of us. When I walk in, I see a man who appears to be Ron, but he looks different. This man is a little thinner and has a little more hair. I bird-dog a holster around his waist with a gun in it, so I proceed with caution and quietly draw my guns.

  “Ron? Is that you? Say something, or I’ll shoot your dick clean off your body.”

  “It’s me! It’s me! Please don’t shoot my dick off my body; that’s my biggest fear in life!”

  His loose holster falls off onto the floor as he runs toward me. Same old gimpy Ron. In the light, I notice he’s wearing a horrible toupee that is the same color and length of my hair. He’s lost a few pounds, but he’s still fat, the skinny-fat kind, with a lot of excess skin and zero definition. Truthfully, he should have just stayed fat.

  “Is that gun even loaded, Ron?”

  “No,” he says sadly.

  “Good. I wouldn’t want you hurting yourself. Here, I need you to print this photograph of my grand opening and put it on the front page of tomorrow’s paper.”

  “I have to run everything by the mayor now, Saint James.”

  “It’s fine, the Schläger brothers are in the picture with me cutting the ribbon. We’ve buried the hatchet.”

  I hand him the glass plate, and he holds it up to the light, examining it. He seems surprised to see the Schlägers and me posing together. Ron takes it and carefully walks it over to the back of the shop, afraid of dropping it. From behind, I can see that he’s even tried to flare his hair out like mine.

  “Have you been growing your hair out for the last six years, Ron?”

  He blushes, embarrassed that I said something. “Oh, you know, my wife asked me to grow it out. She likes it.”

  “You don’t say? How is Sheila?”

  “She’s good, looks a lot older. You probably wouldn’t recognize her, so there’s no need to stop by ever again.”

  “Say hi to her for me, will you?”

  “I sure won’t. Is there anything else I can do for you today?”

  “No, just run the article,” I say as I walk out. I stop a couple steps before I hit the door and turn back toward him.

  “Oh, and Ron, if Sheila really wants you to look like me, my gun belt has two holsters on it.”

  Shutting the door behind me, I take a few steps out into the street and see a steady stream of gentlemen walking into my new establishment. Sam runs up to me with a hat full of money and a forty-cent smile. Goddamn it, his teeth have gotten worse.

  “Boss, we’re making money hand over tits in there!”

  I grab the hat and flip a few gold coins to him. He looks at me, puzzled.

  “Take these and go buy yourself some new teeth. Also, get yourself a decent suit or a karate gi. Whatever the fuck you prefer to wear to greet the customers. I want you to run the place for me, and I’ll be extending your cut by two percent. You’ve earned it.”

  His eyes well up with tears. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “If you had manners, you’d say thank you.”

  “No, I don’t know what to say, because I’m in so much pain. I can smell my own flesh cooking.”

  “Me too. Spray some cologne on it or something. I don’t want you to scare any customers off.”

  I pat him hard on the back and walk through town with a new sense of confidence. I’m rich as fuck again, and it feels great. You see what happens when you use the hard work that someone else has done for you? That shit pays off. Time for Daddy to get suited up.

  Kicking open the front doors, I strut into the Schläger Brothers Suit Store. Two different brothers stare at me suspiciously when I slam two gold coins down on the counter.

  “I’ll take two of your finest, boys. I’m a thirty-two waist, but be prepared to let the crotch way out.”

  “As the sailors say, we’ll release the sheet, sir,” one of them says while the other pours me a glass of Goldschläger.

  “Come on, boys, you don’t serve a man who orders two of your finest suits a glass of spring water. Where’s the fucking whiskey? I know you got a bottle back there somewhere.”

  The two of them look at each other for a moment, then one of them finally walks to the back and comes out with a bottle of whiskey. We laugh as if they never killed my son, and I offer them cigars . . . laced with opium. It’s time to get the richest people in town hooked on my new product, so I have to infiltrate the rest of the brothers.

  One by one, I smoke out every Schläger brother at each and every one of their businesses. I order up a shave, got some fresh meat from the butcher, buy some adult party supplies—you name it, I buy it. By the time I leave the last store, most of the brothers have already hung “Closed” signs on their doors and are heading over to party inside St. James Place. Game. Set. Match.

  At the end of the day when I walk down Main Street with my new suit on, a fresh shave, and a large sack full of doorknobs, meat, and porn supplies over my shoulder, the townspeople look at me like they used to, with admiration mixed with fear. I can’t even count how many women cock-gaze me. The six-year journey over to China was worth it. I am back on top.

  When I mount my steed, I notice Daniel’s horse is still tied up next to mine. That little son of a bitch is still at the den, probably going back for thirds at this point. Good for him; I know I would have. Why am I not going to the rice-wine room right now? After six years in China and four months of sixty-plus Chinamen living on my property with one outhouse, I just want to go home and be with my family. Totally kidding. I really just want to head home to put the feelers out to Louretta and see if she’s down with another orgy. Maybe this could become a twice-a-week thing, or where she just watches sometimes—I’m not going to push it. I’ll just see where it goes. Now that I’m rich again, I can at least ask.

  I arrive home like jolly fucking St. Nick with a burlap sack full of gifts slung over my shoulder. Louretta and the kids greet me on the front porch, and I unload my bag of goodies for everyone. I pat my middle child on the head.

  “I have a doorknob and a sturdy belt for you, Patrick.”

  “Dad, my name is Steve, and you look really high,” he says.

  I can’t help but chuckle, remembering the first time I challenged my father too. “Well, look at you all full of shit and vinegar. Since you’re such a big man now, I have one more thing for you.”

  Reaching into the bag, I pull out half a dead cow wrapped in a bloody sheet that I got from the butcher, and place it in his arms. Patrick struggles with it and falls over sideways on the porch. He looks up at me, helpless.

  “Not so fucking big now, are you? Take that meat into the kitchen and divide it into chuck, rib, short loin, sirloin, round, shank, brisket, and flank steak.”

  “Dad, I don’t know how to do any of that?”

  “Ohhhhhhh, I thought you wanted to go by Mr. Know-It-All Steve who does shit on his own and has a fucking attitude about things. How’s that working out, jackass?”

  “Fine, I’ll go by Patrick,” he says, defeated.

  “That’s better. Now go and take that meat into the kitchen, and I’ll slice it up like the man that you’re not.”

  He gets up off the porch, dragging the huge piece of meat in behind him. Louretta walks over and kisses me like I’m a rich man again. There’s a difference between how your wife kisses you when you have money and when you don’t. This is an “I’ll de
finitely be going down on you later, and I might even let you try your key in the backdoor” type of kiss. That orgy will definitely be going down now. She leans in and whispers into my ear, “You got anything in that sack for me?”

  “The same set of nuts I’ve had on me my whole life. I also brought you back a gift.” I reach into the bag and pull out an old-school wooden drill-do, which is a dildo made of mahogany attached to a bicycle frame consisting of only one wheel, a chain, and a set of foot pedals. If I’m being real with you, I don’t even know how to fucking use it. The Schläger brothers are into some weird shit.

  Louretta stares at it for a moment before finally asking, “Are those for your feet, or mine?”

  “We can take turns. I’m starving, let’s go make some dinner. Patrick, pick up the drill-do off the porch and put it in my bedroom!”

  “It’s Ste—never mind!”

  We eat like whatever the opposite of Ethiopians are. So much so that I have to unzip my jeans and pull them down a little. It is a glorious night. Louretta and I drink goblets of rice wine, my kids laugh when I can’t remember any of their names, and Daniel manages to make it home midway through the meal. When he stumbles in through the front door, his eyes are bloodshot red. He smells like stale sex and wet leather, a scent I’ve known for more than half my life.

  He hands me a fresh newspaper with the photo of the Schläger brothers and me cutting the ribbon on the front page. The caption reads: “Town’s Elite Show Up for Grand Opening!” When I see it, I laugh like a schoolgirl with tuberculosis. Whoever said “Money can’t buy you happiness” was obviously really fucking poor.

  * * *

  I. “Fairy tale” means anal.

  Chapter Sixteen

  PEOPLE ARE STARTING TO HATE THE CHINESE. I GET IT.

  February 25, 1857—Two Years Later Blam! A big, greasy Schläger brother shoots his own brother dead in the middle of Main Street. Most of the patrons passing by don’t even flinch, since it’s become a daily occurrence. Neither do I, as I sit in front of St. James Place, calmly reading the newspaper. The fat Chinaman from the pig shack drags the dead body off the street and back down the alley, where he throws it to his eagerly awaiting swine.