At Night She Cries, While He Rides His Steed

by Ross Patterson

  I quickly turn around and see an eight-year-old boy who looks exactly like me standing by the stairs. Sheila smiles and puts her arm around him. I’m completely dumbfounded and at a loss for words at this moment.

  “This is your son. Saint James Street James Junior.”

  “I don’t know what’s more confusing, the fact that I have a son I’ve never met, or the fact that you named him entirely after me and made Ron raise him?”

  “That’s why I sent the telegram, Saint James. Do you know how hard it is raising a son that looks exactly like the man your wife slept with?”

  “Shut the fuck up, Ron. It’s not as hard as losing your entire family in a house fire, so don’t even give me that bullshit.”

  On the one hand, I really want to kill Ron. On the other, I’m not going to raise the goddamn kid, and it will be more painful if Ron has to do it for the rest of his life. Having that constant reminder every single day will be mentally debilitating, but Ron still needs to pay for what he did. I take out a cigarette and hand it to the young me.

  “Here, go take Ron’s horse down by the river and have a smoke. Come back in a half hour.”

  “Okay, Dad,” he says with a smile as he scampers outside.

  “Did you hear that, Ron? He called me Dad. That’s a feeling that you never deserve to have. Stand up and pull your pants down.”

  He looks up at me, confused. “What?”

  “Pull down your fucking pants, Ron!”

  He puts his hands up, pleading with me to stop. “Saint James, please!”

  I cock both my pistols and say, “Do it now.”

  “Okay, okay,” he says as he slowly pulls his pants down around his ankles.

  “Underwear too, Ron.”

  “Oh no, please don’t do this! Please!”

  “I’m sure that’s what my wife and kids said. Pull them down.”

  Ron starts sobbing uncontrollably as he begins to tug on his underwear, pulling them down past his knees. I walk over to Sheila, grab the back of her head, and kiss her like she’s the last woman on earth as Ron watches. Satisfied that I have delivered the most passionate kiss she will ever receive in her entire life, I turn and shoot Ron’s dick clean off his body. It hits the floor with the sound of a wet pickle escaping a jar.

  His scream is delayed five seconds, obviously from the shock he’s in. Once his brain registers what has just occurred, he falls to his knees in agonizing pain, screaming and holding his crotch. I put my gun back in my holster and walk toward the door, stopping in the door frame to turn back once more to Sheila.

  “Use Ron as an example of who you shouldn’t raise our son to be like, Sheila.”

  Sheila wipes away her tears and shakes her head. She says, “I will. Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe to Europe to paint or write poetry for a few years.”

  “Really?”

  “No. I’m going to kill every last motherfucker who did this to my family. Make a tourniquet and get the stepdad to a doctor. Oh, and Ron, you’re not a starfish, so that thing isn’t growing back. Know that this happened to you because of the decisions you made to be a bitch in this life.”

  Night has fallen on the ride back over to my property. When I arrive, I can see Samantha down by the river, lighting paper Chinese lanterns, one for every family member that he lost. One by one he slowly releases them into the water, wistfully watching them float away. Tears roll down his face, as he stands there motionless. I notice he has saved seven lanterns for me. Even though I’m not really into that shit, the gesture is appreciated, so I join him and begin to light them anyway and release them downstream as well. Just as I’m about to light the last one, a foot suddenly stomps down on it, smashing it to pieces.

  “No need to be lighting that last one,” a gravelly voice says.

  I draw my guns and look up. It’s Daniel. He’s burned to shit, but he’s still alive. This motherfucker will not die. I stand up and hug him as hard as I can, and he screams in pain.

  “Dad, I’m covered in third-degree burns! Stop!”

  “Sorry, I just—it’s amazing that you’re alive. You really won’t die. It’s truly remarkable.”

  “Fuck you, man. I need to go sit in the river for an hour.”

  He takes off the remainder of his burnt clothes and heads out into the water. My heart is filled with joy and relief as I watch the smoke rising off him as he wades out in the river. I remember staring at his innocent face, thinking to myself, “Sweet Jesus, how are three men going to make it back into town on one horse? Would it be rude to ask Sam to walk back?” In the end, I decide it won’t. It is only six miles, and it probably will give him time to think.

  Chapter Seventeen

  TIME TO KILL EVERYONE IN SIGHT . . . RELAX, THEY DESERVE IT

  There comes a time in every man’s life where he has a breaking point. A time where mentally, you just can’t take it anymore. Something snaps inside your soul. For me, that time comes when I step into my opium den later that night and see my prized hookah busted to shit. When I see it shattered in the middle of the room, I really lose it. I fall to the ground, holding its remains. It truly feels as if I have just lost yet another family member. Maybe even a little worse.

  My voice starts to shake, but I manage to get out the words, “Who did this?”

  “Mallshows and Mayo Van Bulen,” one of my prized Asian whores answers.

  “Does anyone have anything to get high with? All my opium fields got burned down.”

  Samantha’s old, creepy uncle hobbles forward. His pube beard that he glued to his face is somehow still mostly intact. He hikes up his robe, revealing a wooden leg. Without hesitation he rips off the leg and unscrews the back of it by the ankle. A hush of silence falls over the room, and when a strand of hair falls off his face, you can hear that pube drop.

  He opens up a secret compartment inside the leg, revealing an old opium pipe stashed away as if it were a rare violin inside a case. It has a long porcelain stem with floral and bird motifs hand-painted on it. Every Asian man bows. Daniel removes his hat. Samantha kneels down. Every whore in the room disrobes and gets on all fours.

  To say that this pipe is simply “beautiful” does not do it justice. No, this piece is majestic. It is the most perfect thing I have ever held in my hands, besides my own dick. Holding something like this truly happens only once in a lifetime.

  He puts the pipe in my mouth and forcefully strikes his wooden leg on the floor, creating a small flame with his peg leg. Wood on wood. Old-school shit. He lights my bowl with the wooden toe section, and I inhale the purest, cleanest hit of lachryma papaveris ever imaginable. Yeah, the shit is so good I have to say it in Latin.

  Right as I am about to exhale, the front doors suddenly fly open. I quick-draw my guns and turn to see Ron, now ghastly pale and shivering. He’s standing there with his toupee half heartedly glued back onto his head and blood covering the front of his jeans where his crotch is. I notice him clutching a piece of paper in his hand.

  “Jesus, Ron, I told Sheila to put a tourniquet on that thing!”

  “I got it sewed back on. Doc says I will never achieve a full erection, but I might be able to get it to go from 6:00 to 8:45 someday,” he says with hope.

  “That’s great, Ron. What the fuck do you want? I’m kind of in the middle of something here.”

  “I got a telegram that’s supposed to go to Mayor Van Buren. It’s from the US Marshals office. They’re sending a hundred marshals here to get you tonight. Dead or alive.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I feel bad for being a gimp all these years. You did what any real man would do in the situations I left your wife and kids in repeatedly, and I just want to say I’m sorry.” Ron folds his hands and looks down at the floor, still not wanting to make direct eye contact with me.

  “And I’m sorry for blasting your dick off. That was a level I was not expecting to go to, but it happened. I sincerely do hope those stitches take and
you’re able to get it to 8:45 again one day. Now get the hell out of here and take care of my kid who looks exactly like me, will you?” I finally smile at Ron for the first time ever.

  “I will.”

  “Don’t go letting him come looking for me one day.”

  “Okay,” he says, as he forces a smile and limps out.

  The entire room stares at me in silence as I finally exhale that hit I took before Ron came in. As I look at all those Asian faces staring back at me, everything becomes so clear. My rage quiets within, and I am able to control it. In this moment of clarity I realize that these beautiful people have been through enough. My war should not become their war.

  “Samantha, take your people and get out of town. I don’t want to put you and your family at further risk.”

  Samantha looks at me, touched. “No, boss, I battle with you. We’ve been through too much together. You are the reason I have teeth.”

  “I know, but you need to get the rest of your family out of here safely. Daniel will take you.”

  Daniel throws up his hands. “What? Dad, no way. I’m staying here with you.”

  “Daniel, you’ve almost died twice. You’re the only one I have left. I’m not going to lose you for what I think will be a third time. I can’t take that again.”

  “But Dad, that’s too many marshals for you to take on. You need me.”

  “What I need is for you to take Samantha and his family out of here. Head as far east as you possibly can. I’ll find you guys.”

  Daniel hangs his head before muttering, “Okay.” His eyes well up, and I motion him over and hug him.

  Just as we break the embrace I say to him forcefully, “You have to go right now.”

  He nods, knowing that it’s for the best. I walk them out and help Sam squeeze his thirty remaining family members into the back of a small covered wagon. He pulls down the cover and attempts a smile, knowing this is it. Our friendship is at another crossroads. We shake hands as he climbs up front with Daniel.

  “There’s still room in the wagon,” he says.

  I shake my head as I look inside and see Sam’s relatives piled on top of each other three-deep. “No, I have to stay and fight, or else they’ll just be chasing me forever. Plus, this looks really uncomfortable.”

  “Okay. By the way, there’s a cellar door underneath the floorboards. It will buy you some time if they burn the place down,” Sam says.

  “Then what?”

  “Then they’ll probably shoot you after that, but it’s better than burning to death. No offense, Daniel.”

  Daniel lights a cigarette off his own skin. “None taken. Asshole.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see you guys soon . . . I hope.”

  He whips the reins on a horse that is definitely not mine. I love my family and friends, but no one is taking my fucking steed. Daniel smiles and waves good-bye with a hand-sewn queef mitten now on his hand. “That SOB banged one of my whores? Awesome,” I think. What a championship exit. Goddamn it, I love that kid.

  When I walk back inside I notice the front door is slightly cracked open. I draw my pistols and slowly approach the front of the opium den. I hear a floorboard creak as I peer out from behind a large wooden beam. The coast seems clear, so I walk out into the center of the den, when out of nowhere a marshal jumps down off a beam in the ceiling and shoots me in the shoulder. I fall to the ground hard.

  “Saint James Street James, you’re wanted for murder. You killed my—”

  Before he can finish his sentence, I roll over on my back and unload both my pistols into his body. He falls to the floor, gasping for breath. I slowly get up and walk over to his sprawled-out, bleeding body. Up close, I realize it’s not a marshal at all. It’s the fucking gypsy woman.

  Her eyes widen as she says, “You . . . killed . . . my . . . pussy.”

  “Why did you do this to me?”

  “This is how it was supposed to end. Find another man for me.”

  And with that last and final statement, she passes, still staring straight at me like a fucking psychopath. I kick her in the ribs to make sure she’s really fucking dead. She’s gone for good, but I can’t have her staring at me like this. I try to close her eyes by hand, but they still won’t go down. Digging into my pockets, I pull out a couple loose nickels and place them over her eyelids. It does no good, they pop right back open. Finally, I just roll her over on her stomach so she’s facedown.

  I rip down a silk curtain outside the rice-wine room and wrap it around the fresh hole in my shoulder. My steed neighs loudly out front, and I suddenly hear the sounds of hooves sprinting outside, approaching the den. I quickly run over to the front door to let him in before slamming it shut.

  Through the window I can see a hundred marshals pull up on horseback. Some of them are holding torches, others shotguns, and one of them has two rake heads tied to his arms with yarn. I’m at a loss for the last dude. Mayor Van Buren walks out and stands next to them with a huge smile on his face.

  “Saint James Street James, we got a warrant for your arrest. You can either come out peacefully, or we can burn the place down. It’s up to you.”

  “Let me think it over.”

  “You’re lucky we’re even giving you the option. Your wife and kids didn’t even know it was coming.”

  “I’m going to kill you in the most fucked up way I can possibly think of, Van Buren!”

  I grab the body of the gypsy and pull her cowboy hat down over her face, dragging her over to the front door. With my leg, I pull the door open and use my free arm to put my gun to her head. Every single marshal has his guns trained at me. The one dude with the rake heads tied to his arms just spins in a circle, further confusing me.

  “You burn this place down, I kill this marshal first. You understand me?”

  The gypsy’s creepy eyes are still open as I cock the gun. The marshals hold their fire, trying to figure out who it is. Satisfied that I’ve given them just enough of a glance to keep them at bay, I quickly walk back in and slam the door behind me. Mayor Van Buren huddles up with a couple of the marshals, and they have a small conference. After a few moments, he shakes his head and looks back toward me.

  “All right, what do you want for the marshal, Saint James?”

  “I want to see my son one last time. Dig him up and bring him here.”

  Mayor Van Buren and the rest of the marshals laugh. “Which one?”

  “The one your boys dipped in gold. Totally Fucking Mexico. You bring him here, and I’ll come out peacefully. I want to see my boy.”

  Mayor Van Buren takes a moment and confers with the marshals. They all nod their head in unison. “You got a deal.”

  “Deal,” I say as I quickly pull the silk curtains shut to cover the window. I know goddamn well they won’t be able to lift him, and it will buy me some time . . . unless they figure out that the gypsy isn’t one of theirs. I walk to the back of the den to cover those windows as well, and I see that there are a few marshals in the alley, maybe ten or so. I make a blowjob motion toward them before slamming the curtains shut.

  Knowing that my time is fleeting, I drop down to the floor on all fours and start tossing the throw pillows, searching for the mystery door. I slide my hands across the floor a few minutes before finally stumbling upon something. Cautiously, I place my hand over the door, examining it. I lean down and hear whispering coming from below, so I put my ear on top of the door. It sounds like people laughing. Maybe Samantha forgot some of his relatives.

  As I pull open the cellar door and walk down a creaky set of stairs, a hush falls over the room. There’s barely any light, except from tiny flames underneath a small cauldron that’s lit in the middle of the basement. When I hit the last stair, I see about fifteen Native Americans standing there in loincloths, aiming bows and arrows at me. A large white buffalo is lying on the ground next to them. I hold up my hands and squint, trying to make out their faces.

  “Stop right there, white man,” an Indian voice says.
>
  “I don’t mean to bother you. I own the whorehouse upstairs,” I say as I make a jack-off gesture.

  “Shit, Saint James, we almost scalped your ass! Put the bows down, boys.” The other Indians oblige and put down their bows and arrows. It’s Manuel! Thank Christ. We embrace in a long hug. I can’t tell you how relieved I am to see this motherfucker right now.

  “Look who’s pretending to be Indian, you son of a bitch! By the way, you look terrible in a loincloth.”

  “Fuck you,” he says as he laughs.

  No lie, he really does look awful in a loincloth. He’s super soft and out of shape, not like the ripped Indians you see in the old black-and-white drawings in schoolbooks. Realizing his nude dong is pressed against my leg, I break out into a weird Indian handshake that I don’t know.

  “What’s up with the white buffalo?”

  “Oh, it has a pigment disease. Don’t worry, there’s not like a hidden Indian meaning to it or anything.”

  As the smoke starts to clear, I can see the eldest Indian stirring something in the cauldron with an old wooden boat oar. “What the fuck are you guys doing down here?”

  “Samantha lets us hide out in here and make ayahuasca during the day. The marshals want all the Indians dead in this area, or ‘moved,’ as white people conveniently call it. We can only go out in a group at night when it’s dark enough that we can pass for Mexicans.”

  “Still playing that Mexican card, huh? Well, if it’s any consolation, they want me dead right now too. There’s a hundred of them outside surrounding the place.”

  “Wait, you have a hundred marshals out there waiting for you? Like, right now?”

  “Yeah, I even got a fake hostage upstairs, which will probably buy me another hour or so. That is, until they figure out it’s not really one of them and they burn this place to the ground. You want to pour me a bowl of that shit?”

  “Asshole, that means we can’t get out of here either. If they set this place on fire, we’ll burn with you!”

  “Yeah, that seems to be the sitch. Can you pour me a bowl? I hate saying things twice.”