CIERTAS EXTRAÑAS COSAS

Big Bart was the meanest man in the West. He had the fastest gun in the West and he'd fucked a larger variety of women in the West than anybody else. He wasn't fond of bathing or bullshit or coming out second best. He was also boss of a wagon train going West, and there wasn't a man his age who had killed more Indians or fucked more women or killed more white men.

Big Bart was great and he knew it and everybody knew it. Even his farts were exceptional, louder than the dinner gong, and he was well-hung. Big Bart's gig was to get the wagons through safely, score on the ladies, kill a few men and then head back for another wagon load. He had a black beard, a dirty bunghole, and radiant yellow teeth.

He had just hammered hell out of Billy Joe's young wife while he made Billy Joe watch. He made Billy Joe's wife talk to Billy Joe while he was at it. He made her say, "Ah, Billy Joe, all this turkeyneck stuck into me from snatch to throat, I can hardly breathe! Billy Joe, save me! No, Billy Joe, don't save me!"

After Big Bart climaxed he made Billy Joe wash his parts and then they all went out to a big dinner of hamhocks and limas with biscuits.

The next day they came across this lone wagon running all by itself through the prairie. Some skinny kid of about sixteen with a bad case of acne was at the reins. Big Bart rode over.

"Say, kid," he said.

The kid didn't answer.

"I'm talkin' to ya, kid . . ."

"Kiss my ass," said the kid.

"I'm Big Bart," said Big Bart.

"Kiss my ass, Big Bart," said the kid.

"What's your name, son?"

"They call me 'The Kid.' "

"Look, Kid, there's no way a man can make it through this here Indian territory with a lone wagon."

"I intend to," said the Kid.

"O.k., it's your balls. Kid," said Big Bart, and he made to ride off when the flaps of the wagon opened and out came this little filly with 40-inch breasts and a fine big ass and eyes like the sky after a good rain. She put her eyes upon Big Bart and his turkeyneck quivered against the saddle horn.

"For your own good. Kid, you're a comin' with us."

"fuck on", old man," said The Kid, "I don't take no mother-fuckin' advice from an old man in dirty underwear."

"I've killed men for blinkin their eyes," said Big Bart.

The Kid just spit on the ground. Then reached up and scratched his crotch.

"Old man, you bore me. Now lose yourself from my sight or I'll assist you in resembling a hunk of swiss cheese."

"Kid," said the girl, leaning over him, one of her breasts flopping out and giving the sunlight a hard-on, "Kid, I think the man's right. We got no chance against those motherfucking Indians alone. Now don't be an asshole. Tell the man we'll join up."

"We'll join up," said The Kid.

"What's your girl's name?" asked Big Bart.

"Honeydew," said The Kid.

"And stop staring at my tits, mister," said Honeydew, "or I'll belt the shit out of you."

Things went well for a while. There was a skirmish with the Indians at Blueball Canyon. 37 Indians killed, one captured. No American casualties. Big Bart bungholed the captured Indian and then hired him on as cook. There was another skirmish at Clap Canyon, 37 Indians killed, one captured. No American casualties. Big Bart bungholed . . .

It was obvious that Big Bart had hotrocks for Honeydew. He couldn't keep his eyes off her. That ass, mostly it was that ass. He fell off his horse watching one time and one of the two Indian cooks laughed. That left only one Indian cook.

One day Big Bart sent The Kid out with a hunting party to score on some buffalo. Big Bart waited until they rode off and then he made for The Kid's wagon. He leaped up onto the seat and pushed the flaps back and walked in. Honeydew was crouched in the center of the wagon masturbating.

"Jesus, baby," said Big Bart, "don't waste it!"

"Get the hell out of here," said Honeydew, withdrawing her fin­ger and pointing it at Big Bart, "get the hell out of here and let me do my thing!"

"Your man ain't takin' care of you, Honeydew!"

"He's takin' care of me, asshole, it's just that I don't get enough. It's just that after my period I get hot."

"Listen, baby . . ."

"fuck off!"

"Listen, baby, lookee . . ."

And he pulled out the jackhammer. It was purple and flipped back and forth like the weight in a grandfather's clock. Driblets of spittle fell to the floor.

Honeydew couldn't keep her eyes off that instrument. At last she said, "You're not going to stick that god damned thing into me!"

"Say it like you mean it, Honydew."

"YOU'RE NOT GOING TO STICK THAT GOD DAMNED THING INTO ME!"

"But why? Why? Look at it!"

"I am looking at it!"

"But why don't you want it?"

"Because I'm in love with The Kid."

"Love?" said Big Bart laughing. "Love? That's a fairytale for idiots! Look at this god damned scythe! That can beat love any­time!"

"I love The Kid, Big Bart."

"And there's my tongue," said Big Bart, "the best tongue in the West!"

He stuck it out and made it do gymnastics.

"I love The Kid," said Honeydew.

"Well, fuck you," said Big Bart, and he ran forward and threw himself upon Honeydew. It was dog's work getting that thing in and when he did, Honeydew screamed. He gave it about seven slices and then he felt himself being roughly pulled off.

IT WAS THE KID. BACK FROM THE HUNTING PARTY.

"We got your buffalo, motherfucker. Now if you'll pull up your pants and step outside we'll settle the rest."

"I've got the fastest gun in the West," said Big Bart.

"I'll blow a hole in you so big your asshole will look like a pore in your skin," said The Kid. "Come on, let's get it done. I'm hungry for dinner. This hunting buffalo works up the appetite . . ."

The men sat around the campfire watching. There was a definite vibration in the air. The women stayed in the wagons, praying, mas­turbating, and drinking gin. Big Bart had 34 notches in his gun, and a bad memory. The Kid didn't have any notches in his gun. But he had confidence such as the others had seldom seen before. Big Bart seemed the more nervous of the two. He took a sip of whiskey, draining half the flask, then walked up to The Kid.

"Look, Kid . . ."

"Yeah, motherfucka . . .?"

"I mean, why you lost your cool?"

"I'm gonna blow your balls off, old man!"

"What for?"

"You were messin' with my woman, old man!"

"Listen Kid, don't you see? The female plays one man against the other. We're just falling for her game."

"I don't want to hear your shit, dad! Now back off and draw! You've had it!"

"Kid . . ."

"Back off and draw!"

The men at the campfire stiffened. A slight wind blew from the West smelling of horseshit. Somebody coughed. The women crouch­ed in the wagons, drinking gin, praying, and masturbating. Twilight was moving in.

Big Bart and The Kid were 30 paces apart.

"Draw, you chickenshit," said The Kid, "draw, you chickenshit woman molester!"

Quietly through the flaps of a wagon a woman appeared with a rifle. It was Honeydew. She put the rifle to her shoulder and squint­ed down the barrel.

"Come on, you tinhorn rapist," said The Kid, "DRAW!"

Big Bart's hand flicked toward his holster. A shot rang through the twilight. Honeydew lowered her smoking rifle and went back into the covered wagon. The Kid was dead on the ground, a hole in his forehead. Big Bart put his unused gun back in his holster and strode toward the wagon. The moon was up.

CHARLES BUKOWSKI