Yellow Back Radio Broke-Down

by Ishmael Reed

  You were absolutely right in, shall we say, selling the guy down the river, Royal Flush said, leaning over and nudging the woman in a wide belt she wore on her hips from which dangled chalky trophies from former lovers, penises which had been made into plaster of paris casts.

  Now with the gold Drag gave us for them Coult rifles he used in blasting them kids who didn’t believe in law and order, to use a popular euphemism, I’ll be able to sub-lease Florida.

  O Royal Flush you thrill me so, she said riding the mule and examining her fingers glittering against the snow. All the things you’ve done for me, Cadillac, buckboard and cooperative mules, all a girl could desire, Fire Island in the summer!

  O yes Royal I’m all yours, she said leaning over and bussing the furtrapper on the cheek. He was nothing but a jeffing con. When Diane went uptown, me and Sal hat up too. I think she’s still in love with him, that Sal, maybe Diane too but I’ll fix the nigger. I’ll have him subpoenaed and thrown in jail if I see him again. The way he used to brand me and beat me leaving those welts in the shape of bats on my fine yellow frame.

  Down below is the town of Yellow Back Radio, Drag’s town, Gooseman pointed out. He said we can stay there for free in his Hotel. As long as we want. Some old dame gives out the weather reports and runs down the produce scores. Sometimes she indulges in astrological predictions.

  The two rode down Blackfoot Mountain until they came into view of the buildings lined up. Behind the Executioneer’s display, hogs with armored jaws were chewing on some metal scraps. Before they came to the road that connected with Main Street, Royal Flush looked over his shoulder and took inventory of his stock: furs, quack-bottles, saddles, carbines, kitchen knives, calico dresses, sun bonnets, snuff, tobaccy, photographic equipment. He flapped his stirrups against the mule’s side and spat out a long cigar, and rubbed his hands. O.K. doll, let’s go get these palookas.

  O Royal Flush you’re so cute, Mighty Dike cooed, pecking the merchant on his shiny head.

  The saddle stiffs from the Purple Bar-B were congregated in Big Lizzy’s Rabid Black Cougar drinking Rot-Gut and Two-Bits-Per-Throw. Some of the cowpokes were seated at tables playing poker or being entertained by the hurdy gurdy girls.

  Skinny McCullough the foreman was at the bar conversing with Sam the bartender.

  Man, that boss is really getting timid in the noggin, Skinny said.

  Can you blame him? Monstrous births, weird parties, his nag stolen, herd wiped out by mysterious animals, toes, fingers and hindlegs rotting away, I mean how can you blame the guy? But I don’t care if he turns into black straw so long as he coughs up the deeds he promised us.

  He brings us up there every Sun, and he reads those awful words from the good book. Sometimes I feel so skerry I go back to my bunk and have dreams in which blank-eyed and stupid demons do handsprings on my chest. I think as soon as this season comes to an end I’m going to take my roll and go over to join the Lincoln County forces against that anarchist bandit Billy the Kid. It’s nice and peaceful on the front.

  Did you see his latest symptoms? the bartender said. Sits up there on the hill. Got all the servants building a monument he designed for himself. Said he might kick off any day now. Case he feels it coming and wants to get it over with quick. And to add to that each night the coyote howls outside his house and he raises himself and sez: Who’s that! Who’s that howling about my door?

  Good evening Marshal.

  Good evening Sam, Skinny. Damn, what time of day is it? Looks half and half, like a land assessor’s coffee break. Let’s have something special today. Hows about some of that imported Lacrymose Christi?

  Marshal, Skinny said, I was just telling the bartender that Drag is getting spookier than a son of a bitch. He’s a mere whisper of his former self. Each morning we find those effigies on the doorstep. Before you know it he’ll be making an appearance before the Riders of Judgment. He thinks the Loop Garoo Kid has put some kind of so-called magical spell on him or something. While he’s out there building his tomb that new mail order bride of his plays with them funny cards.

  Poker?

  No, some kind of weird cards, one of em had death on it, with a scythe cutting across the grim reaper’s foot.

  You don’t believe in that malarkey do you boys? the Marshal asked.

  No I’m a Fanny Wrightite, Skinny said.

  And I’m a Baptist, the bartender offered, that pagan nonsense cuts nothing with me.

  Just then Royal Flush Gooseman, Furtrapper and sometimes bald-headed Cowthief, and Mighty Dike entered the room:

  O.K. all you brush poppers, ranahans, limb skinners, and saddle warmers, this is Royal Flush Gooseman all the way from St. Louis!!!!!!!!

  All the cowpokes rose from their tables with gosh, golly stares on their faces. The Marshal and bartender and the foreman were a little more nonchalant, each having been as far as the Mississippi River a few times apiece.

  What you need, cowpokes? Rectifyers to heal them bruises, blankets, boots, firearms, bottle of rum all the way from Boston? Come outside and inspect my mule train. You got the money I got the time.

  Little hand of poker while you’re at it. I even got posters of that greenhorn President of the East case you want to mount them on your bunk walls and spit tobaccy at em.

  All the buckaroos laughed and followed Royal Flush outside to examine his mule train of goods. Some of them were already reaching into their jeans for silver with which to make purchases.

  The Marshal, foreman and bartender continued their conversation.

  Man, pass me another whiskey. This place is really getting eerie, never seed no town like this; all the planks holding up the buildings seem to lean, like tilt over, and there’s a disproportionate amount of shadows in reference to the sun we get—it’s like a pen and ink drawing by Edward Munch or one of them Expressionist fellows.

  Huh?

  See, got me talking out of my noodle. What’s your theory Marshal? Skinny McCullough asked.

  Well you know me, boys, why if I hadda been at that party the other night instead of at the Law Enforcement Convention up the creek there, it would have been me and the Kid. Hell, me and the Earp brothers use to ambush people and shoot em in the back like they wuz dogs. He’d better not show his snake in Yellow Back Radio.

  Big Lizzy the owner of the Rabid Black Cougar entered. A giant square-jawed woman with a tomboy haircut, her flabby breasts hung around her roped in waist. She wore an apron over a drab calico dress, with leggings and boots, and her hands were covered with hair. Below the nose bridge could be seen the faint print of a mustache.

  She spoke in a low husky voice that sounded like sand paper rubbing together. She carried a moose over her shoulder and under her arm a Winchester Rifle.

  Evening Big Lizzy, what’s that you got with you? Well I’ll be, the Marshal said scratching his head, it’s a moose!

  Yeah, Lizzy answered, bagged him up in the hills while I wuz hunting. She swung the moose over her shoulder and onto the floor. Chinaboy go get me some beer mugs out of the latrine so’s I can give the boys a drink and clean up that ear that wuz shot off a couple of weeks back, it’s beginning to smell. I need a drink of Red-Eye after what I saw up there in the hills.

  Whaddya see Big Lizzy? Skinny asked.

  There was this woman cooking some smelly stuff in a cauldron. I came upon her about the third evening out. She was stirring with some long pole, when all of a sudden this black cowboy come riding out of the shadow and hitched up her skirts and whipped his pecker on her right on the spot. I had to put my hand on the dying moose’s mouth so he wouldn’t make no noise, cause then things really started to freak out.

  What happened then Big Lizzy? one of the steerbusters gambling at the table asked as the others put down their cards and gathered around the bar to listen closely to Big Lizzy’s strange narrative.

  Well they were on the ground making out and she started to writhe and hiss like a serpent and say skerry things like: mash potatoes all over my mother
fucking soul. Then after it was over he gathered her up and they rode off to the cemetery where tombs shone against the moon like white plates.

  How did the woman look? Skinny asked.

  She was wearing shades even in the night, a black velvet dress and a jade locket. Had long black hair and olive skin. A real beauty. Bilt like a brick shit house.

  Hey that sounds like the boss’s old lady, one of the hands said. Let me go up to the ranch and tell him he’d better see about his old lady.

  The foreman grabbed the man by the collar:

  Hold on you idiot, wait until the season’s over. The way he’s wasting away like he might be in a vile mood. You see how he flogged us the other night, next thing you know he’ll be asking us to milk the cows or something harebrained like that. Be cool till the eagle flies, that way we won’t get in Dutch.

  The cowpokes who had gone outside with Royal Flush returned loaded down with goods. One went to the group at the bar.

  Geez you know he cleaned us out. Had a little stand set up in the street and had Royal Flushes in poker four times straight, never seed nothing like it!

  The Marshal, foreman, Big Lizzy and the bartender chuckled.

  What happened to the last wife? Big Lizzy inquired.

  She’s up in the hills Big Lizzy, tomato, in the plural these days.

  O I see.

  Big Lizzy ever since we burnt down the circus strange things have been happening. There was this nigger bulldogger guy who performed. He could bring down steer with his teeth and he used a whip like most men fire a pistol. Anyway he rode off and the townspeople haven’t come down from those devil’s pills them wicked kids gave them, them horrible urchins we knocked off.

  Town 50 miles from here the kids were found in caves smoking injun tobaccy and the herd Drag sent up the Chizzum was stampeded by Giant Sloths which is crazy as hell Big Lizzy, cause Giant Sloths haven’t lazed around the Plains of North America for thousands of years. Sometimes I think the whole continent is accursed.

  The Preacher Rev. Boyd is going around like the town kook. Nobody goes to his Church any more and he’s weaving some kind of allegorical prophecies.

  The Preacher Rev. Boyd entered the bar and through his three week old beard began to recite from a yellow pad attached to a clipboard. He reeled about the room.

  stomp me o lord!!

  i am the theoretical mother of all insects!!

  mash my 21 or so body segments!!

  tear the sutures which join my many abdomens!!

  make me a mass of stains of thy choice

  an ugly blotch under thy big funny clodhoppers!!

  The door swung open on the last line.

  The men seated dropped their poker cards and slowly moved away from their chairs. The moose got to its feet and clomped through the side of the building, sending splinters of wood flying.

  Hear you’re looking for me, Marshal.

  Big Lizzy, Skinny McCullough and the bartender eased away from the bar. The other cowpokes froze.

  Now Kid, the Marshal said, what’s a Western without tall tales and gaudy romance? Have a drink.

  Pretending to reach for his change the Marshal drew his shooting iron. Too bad. Too slow. Not fast enough.

  The lash whistled across the room and popped off the Marshal’s holster, a second lash flicked the gun from his hand, a third lash cracked off the Marshal’s hat, a fourth lash unbuckled his belt with its persuader, which caused the Marshal’s pants to fall, and came within a thousandth of an inch of his shirt, unpinning the star, which dropped to the floor.

  The moose peeked in through the big hole he had made in the wall, but seeing no improvement in the situation, galloped towards a lake in the distance.

  Loop Garoo the lord of the lash walked over to the end of the bar to where the Preacher was crouched on the floor.

  He was scribbling furiously on his yellow pad.

  When he saw the Loop standing over him, Rev. Boyd brought forth his crucifix. Nothing happened. He took out a pocket mirror and aimed it into Loop’s face. Loop used the opportunity to straighten his fedora which had slid to the side of his head when he gave the Marshal such a good behind whipping.

  Finished? Loop asked.

  The Preacher backed away a few paces with a dipshit grin on his face.

  Loop lashed the crucifix from his breast without tearing into the man’s flesh. The crucifix dropped to the floor and the little figure attached to it scrambled into the nearest moose hole.

  Didn’t you say something about spade poets having gone up in tinder when I walked into the party the other night? Come on Preacher don’t start your thing, I don’t want to hear anything about Matthew Chapter and Verse in ditty bop talk. I get sick of “Soul” sometimes. All right then, Loop said.

  (CRACK!) Whenever you say something like that. (CRACK!! CRACK!!) In the future. Check out some sources. (CRACK!! CRACK!!) Motherfucker!! (CRACK! CRACK!) Ask you mama. (CRACK!) Yo wife. (CRACK! CRACK!) Guillaume Apollinaire. (CRACK! POP! CRINKLE! SNAP!) Anybody you want to ask. (CRACK!) But get your information right next time. (NICK!) O.K.?

  The Preacher lay on the floor a quivering mumbling heap.

  Loop folded his whip and looked about the room. He winked at Big Lizzy. Anybody else want some of this ringing stinging?

  The cowpokes shook their heads.

  Loop put a rolled cigarette into the Marshal’s mouth and walked outside the bar. The townspeople who had been peeking through the door ran in different directions.

  Loop mounted his green horse which kind of did a slow high-stepping trot out of town.

  The Marshal just stood there for a moment taking a long swig of whiskey. Big Lizzy’s eyes were two lights she was so much in glee. Her jaws swelled with laughter. The cowpokes all stood, pushing their feet around the floor and eyes downcast in embarrassment.

  The Marshal picked at the edges of his mustache. His eyes became moist. He knelt and picked up his badge. He pulled up his pants, covering his red and black colored BVD’s.

  Well folks, I’m not going to make excuses. The Kid made a fool of me. Got nothing on but my shorts. I’m a scoundrel, a rogue and a bully. Later for Yellow Back Radio. I’ve met my match here so now it’s time to move on down the line.

  He shook hands with everybody in the bar then walked outside and stood in front of the saloon.

  The street was a dumpheap of Brueghel faces, of Hogarth faces, of Coney Island hot-dog kissers, ugly pusses and sinking mugs, whole precincts of flat peepers and silly lookers. The sun’s wise broad lips smiled making the goats horny with cosmic seed as monstrous shapes who could never unbend their hands all looked as the Marshal ripped off his badge, boarded his horse and rode out of town. Each side was lined with spectators. He rode past his beloved Hat and Boot store, the Feed store and on into the Black Forest.

  IV. If It Had Been A Snake It Would Have Bit Him

  Chief Showcase sat on the porch of the Big Black House puffing on his water pipe and nodding. He was getting some cool. The sky was packed full of stars and once and a while one would speed across the heavens.

  It was in the quiet of the night and one lone light could be seen in the bunk house where some of the cowpokes had stayed up to play a hand of cards. From far away came the low howl of a coyote.

  Mustache Sal walked out on the porch. Her black hair, alluring and glossy, hung down to her waist. She leaned against the post and stared at the stars.

  Do you know those visitors who were here to see Drag, Chief Showcase?

  Chief Showcase’s eyes slowly opened.

  You talking to me, Mrs. Gibson?

  Yes Showcase, those men who were here, what did they want?

  O it’s some of those men who were your husband’s Vice Presidents of the great Atrocity Corporation that tumbled into Hell after the last crash.

  O I see Chief, thanks for the info. What are you doing out here this time of night? I thought Indians were afraid of the dark.

  We’re not as afraid of the dark as som
e of these strong he men type cowboys around here. Some of these fighting quarrelsome demons sitting on the top of the Big Black House that have been appearing have really gotten the help shook loose.

  O you don’t believe in all of that, do you Chief Showcase? I mean a handsome redman like yourself could never be taken in by a loony nigger. My husband will have his scalp in no time. Besides the lease to the underworld is in my name. I tricked him into signing it with my wily charms.

  Let’s just say that I’m not taken in as much as the Loop Garoo Kid was taken in by you.