It’s sundown in Kyiv, and all the cowpokes have corralled their cattle. The dust kicked up by sundry hooves traversing the ancient capital’s streets still hangs in the air, held ransom by a burnt orange dusk descended on the city.
“So you feed here, too, Zippy?” says Pony Boy, his fat ass sticking out of a stall and visible to all passersby passing by the stable on the street.
“Yup. Can’t afford a proper meal. Outta work, see? Got fired by a city slicker – a veritable grease ball partial to people serving him drinks.”
“Know what you mean. Things ain’t all purdy at the Kyiv Poster, either. But I don’t have to tell you that, do I?”
“No, you don’t… and please stop peckin’ into my oats.”
“I ain’t peckin’ into your oats.”
“Yes, you are, and I don’t like it.”
“All right, now. Simmer down. We gotta stick together, you know – both being from the Ukrainian Disapora and all.”
“I guess so, but just stay away from my oats, all right?”
“All right. I didn’t mean nothin’.”
“So, is the new fella at the Poster fixin’ to hire any new hands, Pony Boy?”
“Nope – we only take on real professionals, if you know what I mean.”
“I think I do, and I don’t like your tone, cousin. I used to be the chief editor at that there paper, and have had my face pictured in a whole mess of other important publications.”
“Well, we ain’t hirin’ and that’s all there is to it. Boss Lard’s in the saddle now, and he don’t cotton to greenhorns.”
“I ain’t no greenhorn…”
As the two equine brethren continue to bicker and bump each other from the feed trough, the fast and furious gallop of a rider entering the town rumbles into earshot.
“The Ferret’s robbed the stage. The Ferret’s robbed the afternoon stage.”
“Dag blasted. That’s the third time this month. What’s our sheriff doing about it?”
“I just saw him over at the saloon, sweet talking with Miss Pussy.”
“Dag blasted. Let’s call a town meeting.”
Town Meeting, chaired by Josh Davies, dressed like he normally would be in any literary setting:
“Now folks, I know you’re all riled up and all. And I’m here to tell you all that you’ve got a dog-gone right to be. That critter has got to be rounded up, given a fair trial and then lynched with no great fanfare.”
“Let’s put a bounty on his head… er… or whatever a fella would call that thing settin’ atop his shoulder.”
“I’m prepared to offer a cash reward for the capture of The Ferret,” continues Davies. “And I’m sure that I can count on other leading citizens of this fine town, such as Boss Lard, and the gambler Rico Soiree, to follow suit.”
“Can’t we just get liquored up and head out like a posse?”
“Now hold on to your hats there, fellas. No need to be going off half-cocked and all. As a leading merchant – owner of the general store no less – I am no less wrangled by this outrageous outlaw than the rest of you.”
“I say we lynch that little turd!”
“Yeah. I hear he’s a cattle rustler, too.”
“Naw. That don’t make no sense. He ain’t no bigger than a prairie dog himself, so how in tarnation could he rustle a man’s cattle?”
Meanwhile, in the hills just outside the pleasant prairie town, a stiff-haired figure in loincloth and war paint dances the dance of war.
“Ah , wah, wah, wah. Ah, wah, wah!”
“Jim, do you think he’s fixin’ to kill us?”
“Dunno, but I don’t like the way he’s eyeballing that there reading material of mine…”
“Sweet Molasses – that varmint’s got hold of your owl poem!!!”
“Dag blasted – I told you not to pack that!”
Then, back in the saloon.
“Miss Pussy. I know that them there folks all think I’m a coward and a drunk. But I’m tellin’ you that I’ve been hankering to squash The Ferret like a Mexican cockroach so long that I’m all tuckered out. He just don’t come out and fight fair and all.”
“Now, don’t you fret none, Billy. I know you ain’t no coward. But I do declare you ain’t missed a meal as long as I’ve known ya. And how did you get that star on your chest, anyway? Folks round here wanna know. I ain’t saying you stole it or anything. But you look about as much like a sheriff as I do a schoolmarm.”
From across the saloon, the cards slap smartly across the dark varnished tables, but not as smartly as Rico Soiree is dealing them.
“You fookin’ leusy Wop – I’m gang rip yar blooody noo-guid fookin’ guts aut eef you don’t pute that card back on da table.”
“Now see here, my kilted companion, this is a gentleman’s game, and I might reasonably expect that you try and comport yourself to something approximating a man of respectable upbringing.”
“Fer fookin’ sake, you sneaky son of a snake oil salesman. Ay dunno what yer tryin’ to pull auf here, but Ay wasn’t born yesterday, and this ain’t no skirt Ay’m wearin’.”
Out on the porch of the saloon, the hullaballoo of angry and intoxicated townspeople waving a noose and Ferret Wanted posters is being observed by two of the less noteworthy citizens of this fair town.
“If I were still covering this beat, I’d have at least a half-dozen teeny bopper journalists doing vox populi among the lynch mob… Boss Lard’s cowed this town into an anti-democratic mob. There’s no freedom of speech. For the love of journalism, there aren’t even any FemGirl protests!!!”
“Hey, white man. Can you spare some change for a chicken sandwich? It’s hot in this wooden Indian suit, and I’m all out of cigars.”
“Huh? Can’t help you partner. I’m out of a job.”
Filed by Dirk Dickerson, June 15, 2013