[Editor’s note: Parts 1 – 8 of The Kibitzer and the Kidd are available by clicking on “Kidd” or “Kibitzer” in the tag section. This is science fiction western with more than dollop of humor and satire.]
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“The Boss wants to see you,” said one of the men blocking the Kidd’s way.
They were both tall, thick, and none too brightly dress. In other words, they fit the typical definition of goons.
“Tell him I have an opening next Tuesday and I’ll pencil him in.”
One goon looked at the other one as if they were seriously considering this offer, and that’s when the Kidd made his move. He ran toward then, feinted to the right and then to the left, and then charged right toward them, intending to split the space between them. But a loose board sprang up from the floor, tripped the Kidd, and he tumbled into one of the goons, almost knocking the goon backwards.
Soon the second goon was behind the Kidd, pinning his arms to his side with the first goon pulled a dark hood over the Kidd’s head and tied his hands.
Then they started jerking him across the floor.
The Kidd thought he heard a floor plank say, “Had to do it to keep the plot going.”
It was then the Kidd realized he was looking at the plank with his right eye. The left one was covered. Soon they were both covered and he was lifted up and shoved outside.
The air felt noticeably cooler, as if the evening were sighing at the folly of humans. But there were also sounds: clanging and banging, voices raised and footsteps running along the wooden sidewalk. Somebody bumped into the Kidd, slumped by him, and continued running without even saying “excuse me.”
The Kidd thought he heard someone shout “Fire!” and “Spreading!” but he wasn’t sure from which direction.
Were they headed toward the fire? Were these goons going to throw him into the flames?
“There’s somebody trapped inside.”
“It’s only that Kidd fella.”
Two voices, both soon gone.
He was being lifted again. One goon on each side.
“Open the door,” the goon on his right said.
“You open it.” the other one said.
“The Boss is waiting.”
“Then open it.”
The Kidd kicked his legs around until he felt his boot hit something.
The goon on his left groaned.
The Kidd kicked again, aiming as best he could.
The goon let go and cursed.
The Kidd turned and kicked at the other goon while he worked his hands free. They had not tied them well. He then reached up for the hood.
He was free of the hood and the other goon at the same time. He turned to run and immediately bumped into a third person, who looked uncomfortable and displeased.
“You have come all this way to see me and now you want to leave so soon.” It was a statement and not a question.
“I came here for cough drops,” the Kidd said, “and a hot toddy. Whatever festering range war you have is none of my concern.”
“Global warming is everybody’s concern.”
The Kidd stared at the man. He was tall, stocky, and looked very much like Al Wayne. A step-brother maybe? Or was this some sort of joke with the same guy pretending to be two different people? That way, he got all the good lines.
“Let me introduce myself.”
“You are Al Wayne’s evil twin, John Gore.” It was a statement and not a question.
“Don’t interrupt the Boss!” one of the goons said and shoved the Kidd toward the surrey’s open door.
The Kidd tripped and fell to the street. The air was clearer down by the dirt, not as much smoke and burning odor, though it stank of the shit recently dropped by the horse pulling the surrey.
“Goon!” Gore said. He then reached out and helped the Kidd back up. “Please excuse the manners of my aides. Sometimes their enthusiasm exceeds my expectations.”
Gore brushed some of the dust off the Kidd’s upper arm. He then climbed inside the surrey.
The goon’s nudged the Kidd toward the surrey’s door.
“Let me go so I can help a friend who might be trapped in that fire. Then I promise I’ll come back and we can talk all you want.”
The goons kept the Kidd boxed in. He nudged away from the door, but the goons clamped hands on him, lifted him up and threw him inside. They then slammed the door shut.
The Kidd scrambled around the tight quarters until he was up on the seat opposite Gore.
“I will send my aides,” Gore said. “They can handle the situation better than you or I.”
Everybody wants to talk to me, the Kidd thought, but nobody says very much.
Reluctantly, he agreed. If nothing else, once the goons were gone, he could escape, albeit, without his sidearms. No plan was perfect.
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(To be continued….)
[Editor’s note: Parts 1 – 7 of The Kibitzer and the Kidd are available by clicking on “Kidd” or “Kibitzer” in the tag section. This is science fiction western with more than dollop of humor and satire.]
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The Kibitzer couldn’t help himself. The flames were everywhere. Smoke embraced the air and made it suffocating.
He didn’t believe in the devil or demons – other than the ones you create or marry into – but the unholiness of the air made him wonder if there wasn’t something otherworldly afoot.
Then there was the quote running through his head, the one where the fat comedian turns to the skinny one with the big chin and doofus grin, and says, “This is a fine mess you’ve gotten use into.”
At a time of impending death, one shouldn’t be thinking of comedy, especially when you couldn’t remember the names of the comedians, especially the one with big chin and the doofus grin.
He heard voices beyond the flames, or at least thought he did. One voice kept yelling over and over: “Swallow the lozenges!”
The Kibitzer wasn’t sure what to make of the voice. The fire was loud and crackling. He never realized how much noise a fire made. If there was a hell and there were people in it and it was composed of fire, the people would not be able to talk to each other. Would not be able to listen to their own thoughts.
He felt for the lozenges. They were in a paper sack in his shirt pocket, but they felt soft, like warmed candle wax. Not yet liquid, but would soon be.
A new wall of flames sprouted up around him, forcing him to run further into the stable.
“Trust the lozenges.”
It sounded like a woman’s voice.
He heard the whinnying of a horse. The Kibitzer glanced around. He thought he had freed all the animals, except himself.
“Trust the lozenges.”
This time the words came with an image. It was the comedian with the doofus grin. The fat comedian with the small bowler hat standing next to him was breathing fire at him, smoke spewing out of the comedian’s ears. But the skinny comedian kept the same big grin.
The lozenges felt very soft when he touched his pocket.
Flames were everywhere. The air was hot, smoky, and unbreathable. But he was still breathing. Sweat flowed off the end of his nose.
The Kibitzer reached for the lozenges. Nobody was going to rescue him. Not now. Not ever. Not even the Kidd.
He heard the whinny again. Louder this time. Followed by kicking.
He had the lozenges out. They were oozing out of their wax paper wrappers and onto his fingers. The liquid was warm, but he could not feel its warmth.
He brought his fingers up to his lips.
The wall in front of him exploded inward, toward him. A part of the wall hit him, knocking him backwards, toward the wall of flames.
He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t feel. He wasn’t sure he had swallowed. And as he started passing out, he heard the fat comedian say, “Well, Kibbey, this is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into.”
Except the comedian wasn’t talking to him, unless he was a … duacorn?
(To be continued.)
[Editor’s note: Parts 1 – 6 of The Kibitzer and the Kidd are available by clicking on “Kidd” or “Kibitzer” in the tag section. This is science fiction western with more than dollop of humor and satire.]
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Al Wayne handed the Cough Drop Kidd a hot toddy. They were in Wayne’s private office off the mezzanine in the saloon.
Given the scuffed look of the saloon, this office was opulent with upholstered seats and an intricately carved fireplace mantel. There was no fire in the fireplace, and the Kidd wondered if it worked. Wayne assured him that it did, but that he rarely used it because it was an inefficient way to heat and added to the carbon footprint.
Wayne handed the Kidd a copy of his book, Global Warning. The Kidd wasn’t quite sure what to do, a warm drink in one hand and a cold tome in the other.
He laid the book on a side table by the chair, He was almost certain he heard the table sigh and mutter, “Oh, no, not another one.”
“Drink up,” Wayne said, raising his own drink to his lips and taking a sip. “It’s not often we get a toddy drinker in this town. It’s good to have a little sophistication every now and then.”
The Kidd didn’t think of himself as a sophisticate, only somebody with a sore throat from coughing too much.
“What about what the Kibitzer said. Is it true?”
Wayne smiled.
“That Bonnie can whip up some mighty powerful cough drops. Sometimes a whiff of those apothecary fumes can make you say things you normally wouldn’t.”
“So, it’s not true?”
Wayne shrugged. “Many folk around here have claimed they’ve been struck by lightning and then resurrected some time later. I don’t put much stock in it myself.”
The smile on Wayne’s face didn’t ease the feeling of disquiet the Kidd felt rippling just under his skin. Particularly since it was at Wayne’s insistence that the Kibitzer had to sleep I the stable on the edge of town. Not that it was a large town, and a few of the buildings only had facades and nothing behind them. One or two had signs that read: “Coming soon,” but nothing else. At one point in their travels together, the Kidd had heard the Kibitzer use the term Potemkin Village and he wondered if this might be that. The name of this place was Potomac. But there was no river nearby.
“You haven’t touched your toddy.”
The Kidd quickly took a sip. It was tepid now, but still tasted amazingly good. He took a second, long sip.
“Now, I have a question for you, Mr. Kidd.”
Kidd smiled. He rarely heard anybody call him Mr. Kidd. Kidd or hey you was more likely. For the moment, he couldn’t remember what the Kibitzer called him. Probably nothing he wanted to repeat.
Kidd wasn’t his real name, at least not the real name his parents gave him. But he abandoned that name shortly after he abandoned them.
“My question is in your travels have you heard anyone mention or met anyone by the name of John Gore?”
At that moment, the floor-faced man barged into the room. He spotted The Kidd and curled his lip.
“Fire. There’s fire down at the livery.” He said it breathlessly, but not in a good breathless way.
The Kibitzer, the Kidd thought.
“Save my horses. My prize Walkers,” Wayne said.
Wayne was at the door, shoving the floor-faced man out in front of him.
The Kidd put down his toddy on the book and headed for the door.
“Don’t forget your book,” the table said.
The Kidd hesitated.
“Take it, fool,” the table said.
The Kidd snatched it from under the toddy. The cup tipped over and smashed against the floor. Breaking china and escaping toddy skittered and splashed about.
“Oh, Mr. Wayne’s going to be mad. That’s not eco-friendly.”
The Kidd didn’t hear the table. He was down the stairs and almost to the saloon’s swinging front doors when two dark figures stepped in front of him, blocking his way. The Kidd tried going around them, but they would have none of it.
(To be continued…)
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It wasn’t fair. Not only did he have a nickname he didn’t like – Kibbey – but he was also sleeping in the stable with the horses. Horse and hay, flatulence and flies, though it seemed odd that there were so many flies at night. He wondered if a fly got zapped by lightning, would it be resurrected.
Even the popcorn they delivered to him was stale and a little soggy from the humidity it picked up from the air. He had a bag of his own, but it had started raining again, so he couldn’t pop it outside. He looked around to see if the blacksmith’s workshop was part of the stables or nearby.
There was not a blacksmith’s forge, so he was on his own to create a fire.
He understood that the Kidd was the hero, having shot the pistol out of the floor-faced man’s hand. He knew that kibitzers were not easily or fully accepted into society. They were witnesses and scribes, and they reported to an authority most didn’t know about or understand. He certainly wasn’t sure why he had been selected. His family were not kibitzers. Nor any of his friends. And when they came in the middle of the night and told him he was selected, they did not give him a chance to say goodbye to his wife and two sons. Only a short note, quickly scribbled. It read: I’ve been selected. Don’t wait up.
He wasn’t sure how long ago that was, what his wife was like now, if his sons even remembered him.
The Kibitzer piled some hay in one area of mostly dirt. It was turning cold. He’d need the fire for more than popcorn.
Popcorn was his only solace. Bags of it turned up at the oddest times in the oddest places. He took it as a sign he was doing a good job.
He kept a book of matches dry and buried deep in a saddle bag. They were hard to get and he usually sparked a fire with a piece of flint and a piece of steel he carried; but they were both wet from rain. He was also too tired to try.
He added a piece of dried horse manure to the hay pile.
He found the matches, walked back to the pile of straw and dried other things and selected one from the box.
It was then somebody, head draped in a hood, stepped into the stable and tossed a torch on a larger pile of hay nearby. As the man left, he said, “Don’t wait up.”
At least that’s what the Kibitzer thought he said. The words were muffled by the hood. The words stunned him. By the time the Kibitzer recovered, the fire had spread to other parts of the stable, and the culprit was gone, and the Kibitzer was trapped.
(To be continued.)
Filed under humor, kibitzer, kidd, science fiction, story, storytelling, western, word play, words, writing
[Editor’s note: Parts 1 – 4 on the blog. You can click on “Kibitzer or Kidd in the Tags below to reach he previous entries. I am working to make this a monthly feature on the blog. Hope you enjoy this science fiction western with a dash or two of humor set in a quirky time and place: not quite and not quite there.]
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The Kibitzer didn’t know what to make of the situation when he stumbled though the swinging saloon doors and everybody was staring at him. Normally, he was the one doing the staring.
Rain dripped off his hat and clothes.
He smiled. No one smiled back, not even the Kidd. As he stepped the rest of the way into the saloon, he heard a voice say, “Donut go there.”
He looked down at the floor, certain that’s where it came from. But how could the floor speak?
“Did you get them?” the Kidd asked.
“Wipe your feet,” the robust saloon woman said.
The Kibitzer pointed outside. He made a slash like lightning, raised his knee, and then spread his arms wide.
“Speak. You know I don’t read pantomime.”
“Maybe I can help,” Al Wayne said. “He probably saw one of our fair citizens zapped by lightning who then got up and walked away. The first time somebody witnesses it, it tends to leave them at a loss for words.”
The Kibitzer pointed at Wayne and nodded.
“I talk about it in my book, Global Warning. Though I’m not quite sure what the raised knee means.”
The Kibitzer turned slightly red.
The saloon doors swung open again. This time Bonnie came through, carrying a bag. She, too, dripped rain on the floor, but the Kibitzer didn’t hear anything from the floor, or what he thought was the floor, as she approached.
“You forgot these.” She held them out toward him holding the bag between her finger and thumb as if trying to be ladylike or as if what was inside was as foul as fresh dog poop.
The Kibitzer nodded toward the Kidd.
Bonnie didn’t move.
The Kibitzer nodded again. He wasn’t sure why he wasn’t speaking. He had been able to after she kneed him. Was the big guy with the bent sheriff’s star on his chest right? Was it the excitement of seeing somebody zapped by lightning, then being told he would rise from the dead, then begin to see the dead stir as he ran across the wide street of mud that left him, the Kibitzer dumbfounded? He had witnessed many things, even eaten some bad popcorn while witnesses them, but he had never been at a loss for words – until now.
“Don’t worry, Kibbey, I won’t knee you again.”
Kibbey? No one called him Kibbey!
The entire room broke out in laughter. Even the big guy with the bent star chuckled.
Nobody told Bonnie to wipe her feet.
(To Be Continued…)
Previously, parts 1 – 3 have been published here, but I thought I would include them along with a new part 4. More to come in this continuing offbeat story. If you enjoy it, let me know. If you don’t, you can let me know that, too.
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The Cough Drop Kidd and the Kibitzer rode into town. It would have been in a cloud of mentholated dust, but because it was raining, it was in a slosh of mud and a cough laced with glycol. They were almost out of cough drops and the Kidd was not happy.
“Kibitzer,” he said between sniffles, “go get us some.”
“I’m only here to watch,” the Kibitzer said, “and for the popcorn.”
The Cough Drop Kidd pulled his six-shooter and pointed it at the head of Kibitzer’s horse. “You wanna observe riding or walking?”
The Kibitzer’s horse’s ears flicked back and forth as if trying drive away a fly. The Kibitzer blinked a couple times and finally said, “I’ll go watch the apothecary mix up a batch.”
The Kidd nodded and raised the barrel of his pistol skyward. “Be quick about it. I’ll be in the saloon getting a hot toddy. A little honey will help my throat.”
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The Kidd entered the saloon. It was beat up ol’ place with chairs that had legs that didn’t match and a bar rail so wobbly it had a hand printed sign hanging from it that said: Donut touch. That means u.
The floor creaked to the point he was sure it was talking to him, saying something like, “Donut go there.” But he paid it no heed as he stepped toward the bar. This part of the Wild Side was full of things that spoke when not spoken to. Some said it was haints. Others said it was spirits. And some even said it was bottled spirits. Even though he was wet all over, the Kidd was parched.
“Hey, dandy boy, wipe your feet. What do you think this is, your corral?”
A few people looked his way and a couple of folks chuckled, but most kept doing the mopping and card playing and lying they were doing before.
The woman yelling at him was tall and a little on the heavy side, which meant this business had been good to her. The Kidd liked that about her. She was standing behind the bar, so thus far what he liked was only from about the waist up. She was wiping out a glass.
When he was up near her, he whispered, “I’ll have a hot toddy.” His voice was about gone.
“Well, I do declare,” she said, “the dandy wants a hot toddy.”
“A what?” somebody at the bar asked. His back was to the Kidd, so the Kidd didn’t know what he looked like.
“A toddy. A hot toddy.” She said the words again and winked back at the Kidd. He wasn’t sure if it was a friendly gesture, or a twitch.
The man turned around. His face was as scuffed as the floor and as beaten up as the chairs. Tobacco juice ran out of one of the corners of his mouth. One eye was lazy and one earlobe looked as though a coyote had chewed on it.
“Dandy,” the man said, spitting on the floor, “we don’t serve your kind.”
It was that moment that the saloon went quiet, except for the gentle swinging of the saloon doors and the floor saying, “Told you.”
“Package,” a voice said. “Package for a Cough Drop Kidd. Is there a Cough Drop Kidd here?”
All eyes turned toward the Kidd.
The Kidd turned toward the delivery boy in his granny spectacles, gray cap with a black bill, and clothes too starched and too new to have been worn much in this town.
“One D or two?” the Kidd asked, lightning still flashing just outside the saloon doors.
“Ah,” the delivery boy looked down at the package, “two.”
“Good. The Kid with one D works the lower territory south of the divide. We call the divide the D-M-D for short.”
“And for long?” the boy asked.
“His D ain’t that long,” some cowboy shouted.
The others in the saloon chuckled.
The delivery boy turned bright red, dropped the package, and skedaddled out of the saloon, getting immediately struck by a lightning bolt. The box hit the floor and broke along one of its sides. It bulged open, spewing books across the hardwood, every last one of them different, one of each and each one about vampires.
“So, you a blood sucker, Dandy?” The floor-faced man stepped away from the bar and his hand rattled toward his holster. He had rattlesnake rattles in a band around his wrist and his hand twitched slightly.
The Kidd glanced around. The card games had stopped. The lying had stopped. Even the moping had stopped. The woman behind the bar twitched him another smile and then ducked down behind it. She moved quick for a big woman.
This town is cursed, thought the Kidd. But he didn’t have much time to think anything else. The floor-faced man’s hand was at the top of his holster.
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The apothecary was almost done making the cough drops, but the Kibitzer was tired of watching. He ho-hummed to himself, took another bite of some slightly stale popcorn, and decided watching was not always what he had pictured it would be. It was a very unpleasant observation and it did not sit well him or his stomach. The popcorn didn’t help. He belched once in hopes of relief.
It was during the descent of the belch out of his mouth that he heard what sounded like a pop, saw the delivery boy run out of the saloon, and then watched as lightning tripped the light fantastic across the kid’s body.
He then saw another two or three people scurry out of the saloon as if escaping an unpleasantry, like a distant relative’s interminable funeral or a spelling bee where they were next up and the word was interminable.
The Kibitzer forgot all about the cough drops and stepped outside, glancing toward the sky as if somehow he could observe a bolt of lightning before it hit him, and then considered running through the rain to the other side of the street.
That’s when a young lady came up and kneed him in the groin.
The Kibitzer dropped to the wooden sidewalk, balled up, and began rocking back and forth as if it might dissipate the pain.
“My name’s Bonnie,” she said, leaning over him. “No man leaves my apothecary without payin’ for what he ordered.”
“I wasn’t leaving,” the Kibitzer said, his teeth still clenched.
Finally, he rolled over onto all fours.
“Didn’t you see the kid out there? He got struck by lightning?”
Bonnie shrugged. “Happens a lot lately. He’ll be okay. Nobody in this town dies anymore. Been bad for my business, I tell you.”
The Kibitzer was again standing fully erect, if feeling a little tender. The rain had slackened to almost a light drizzle.
“We already lost two undertakers and the saw bones has gone back to yankin’ teeth. If it weren’t for medicinals for that, I’d probably be blowin’ in the wind, too.” She then slipped him the bill for the cough drops.
The Kibitzer looked at it. “What, no discount for the laying on of hands?”
She smiled at him, then raised her hand. In the muddled light of the evening, she still looked quite menacing. “I didn’t finish.”
The Kibitzer paid her and gave her a generous tip.
He then dashed out into the rain, forgetting the cough drops.
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“Now, now, gentlemen, there’s no need for fisticuffs.”
The voice preceded the groaning of the stairs behind the floor-faced man. A barrel-chested man appeared as if stepping out of an office built half-a-floor above the saloon.
The floor-faced man slid his hand down to his gun anyway, pulled it, and was aiming when the Kidd fired a shot that hit the gun, knocking it out of the floor-faced man’s hand.
The gathered crowd moved back and the floor-faced man scurried away. The man on the steps descended the rest of the way to the floor of the saloon.
“Some pretty fancy shootin’ there, pilgrim.”
The Cough Drop Kidd was as surprised as anyone, but he did his best to hide it. He slipped his pistol back into its holster.
The barrel-chested man walked up to the Kidd and extended his hand. “My name’s Al, Al Wayne, but you can call me Al.”
The Kidd extended his hand, keeping it clenched until the last second in order to keep it from shaking.
“You new in town, Kidd?”
The Kidd nodded.
Al looked over at the dropped box of books. “We don’t allow those type books in town. Frightens the children and some womenfolk.”
The Kidd looked over at the box. He thought about saying, again, it wasn’t his, that he hadn’t been expecting a package of any sort, but he didn’t want somebody else coming forth and accusing him of being a liar and challenging him on it, so instead, he said, “Well, Al, what sort of books do you allow?”
“Why, nice of you to ask,” Al said, reaching behind him and snatching a copy of the book from one of the saloon patrons. “This is the only good book we’re allowed to read here on the West Side. It’s called Global Warning. It’s one I wrote myself, before the collapse.”
Collapse? The Cough Drop Kidd didn’t know anything about a collapse. This was the only world he knew. He was about to ask when he heard the saloon doors swing open. He thought he better turn and take a look. Everybody else was.
(To Be Continued…)
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The apothecary was almost done making the cough drops, but the Kibitzer was tired of watching. He ho-hummed to himself, took another bite of some slightly stale popcorn, and decided watching was not always what he had pictured it would be. It was a very unpleasant observation and it did not sit well him or his stomach. The popcorn didn’t help. He belched once in hopes of relief.
It was during the descent of the belch out of his mouth that he heard what sounded like a pop, saw the delivery boy run out of the saloon, and then watched as lightning tripped the light fantastic across the kid’s body.
He then saw another two or three people scurry out of the saloon as if escaping an unpleasantry, like a distant relative’s interminable funeral or a spelling bee where they were next up and the word was interminable.
The Kibitzer forgot all about the cough drops and stepped outside, glancing toward the sky as if somehow he could observe a bolt of lightning before it hit him, and then considered running through the rain to the other side of the street.
That’s when a young lady came up and kneed him in the groin.
The Kibitzer dropped to the wooden sidewalk, balled up, and began rocking back and forth as if it might dissipate the pain.
“My name’s Bonnie,” she said, leaning over him. “No man leaves my apothecary without payin’ for what he ordered.”
“I wasn’t leaving,” the Kibitzer said, his teeth still clenched.
Finally, he rolled over onto all fours.
“Didn’t you see the kid out there? He got struck by lightning?”
Bonnie shrugged. “Happens a lot lately. He’ll be okay. Nobody in this town dies anymore. Been bad for my business, I tell you.”
The Kibitzer was again standing fully erect, if feeling a little tender. The rain had slackened to almost a light drizzle.
“We already lost two undertakers and the saw bones has gone back to yankin’ teeth. If it weren’t for medicinals for that, I’d probably be blowin’ in the wind, too.” She then slipped him the bill for the cough drops.
The Kibitzer looked at it. “What, no discount for the laying on of hands?”
She smiled at him, then raised her hand. In the muddled light of the evening, she still looked quite menacing. “I didn’t finish.”
The Kibitzer paid her and gave her a generous tip.
He then dashed out into the rain, forgetting the cough drops.
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The Cough Drop Kidd and the Kibitzer rode into town. It would have been in a cloud of mentholated dust, but because it was raining, it was in a slosh of mud and a cough laced with glycol. They were almost out of cough drops and the Kidd was not happy.
“Kibitzer,” he said between sniffles, “go get us some.”
“I’m only here to watch,” the Kibitzer said, “and for the popcorn.”
The Cough Drop Kidd pulled his six-shooter and pointed it at the head of Kibitzer’s horse. “You wanna observe riding or walking?”
The Kibitzer’s horse’s ears flicked back and forth as if trying drive away a fly. The Kibitzer blinked a couple times and finally said, “I’ll go watch the apothecary mix up a batch.”
The Kidd nodded and raised the barrel of his pistol skyward. “Be quick about it. I’ll be in the saloon getting a hot toddy. A little honey will help my throat.”
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The Kidd entered the saloon. It was beat up ol’ place with chairs that had legs that didn’t match and a bar rail so wobbly it had a hand printed sign hanging from it that said: Donut touch. That means u.
The floor creaked to the point he was sure it was talking to him, saying something like, “Donut go there.” But he paid it no heed as he stepped toward the bar. This part of the Wild Side was full of things that spoke when not spoken to. Some said it was haints. Others said it was spirits. And some even said it was bottled spirits. Even though he was wet all over, the Kidd was parched.
“Hey, dandy boy, wipe your feet. What do you think this is, your corral?”
A few people looked his way and a couple of folks chuckled, but most kept doing the mopping and card playing and lying they were doing before.
The woman yelling at him was tall and a little on the heavy side, which meant this business had been good to her. The Kidd liked that about her. She was standing behind the bar, so thus far what he liked was only from about the waist up. She was wiping out a glass.
When he was up near her, he whispered, “I’ll have a hot toddy.” His voice was about gone.
“Well, I do declare,” she said, “the dandy wants a hot toddy.”
“A what?” somebody at the bar asked. His back was to the Kidd, so the Kidd didn’t know what he looked like.
“A toddy. A hot toddy.” She said the words again and winked back at the Kidd. He wasn’t sure if it was a friendly gesture, or a twitch.
The man turned around. His face was as scuffed as the floor and as beaten up as the chairs. Tobacco juice ran out of one of the corners of his mouth. One eye was lazy and one earlobe looked as though a coyote had chewed on it.
“Dandy,” the man said, spitting on the floor, “we don’t serve your kind.”
It was that moment that the saloon went quiet, except for the gentle swinging of the saloon doors and the floor saying, “Told you.”
“Package,” a voice said. “Package for a Cough Drop Kidd. Is there a Cough Drop Kidd here?”
All eyes turned toward the Kidd.
The Kidd turned toward the delivery boy in his granny spectacles, gray cap with a black bill, and clothes too starched and too new to have been worn much in this town.
“One D or two?” the Kidd asked, lightening still flashing just outside the saloon doors.
“Ah,” the delivery boy looked down at the package, “two.”
“Good. The Kid with one D works the lower territory south of the divide. We call the divide the D-M-D for short.”
“And for long?” the boy asked.
“His D ain’t that long,” some cowboy shouted.
The others in the saloon chuckled.
The delivery boy turned bright red, dropped the package, and skedaddled out of the saloon, getting immediately struck by a lightning bolt. The box hit the floor and broke along one of its sides. It bulged open, spewing books across the hardwood, every last one of them different, one of each and each one about vampires.
“So, you a blood sucker, Dandy?” The floor-faced man stepped away from the bar and his hand rattled toward his holster. He had rattlesnake rattles in a band around his wrist and his hand twitched slightly.
The Kidd glanced around. The card games had stopped. The lying had stopped. Even the moping had stopped. The woman behind the bar twitched him another smile and then ducked down behind it. She moved quick for a big woman.
This town is cursed, thought the Kidd. But he didn’t have much time to think anything else. The floor-faced man’s hand was at the top of his holster.
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