Tag Archives: Wild West

Vinegar Village (2 of 2)

So, I was sort of sad about the unfortunate death of Mr. Hulk and was walking around the VILLAGE and it was getting a little later in the day and then I soon found myself inside this electric saloon and casino that looked like the old Wild, Wild West but with neon and crackling and rebel rousers in fancy pants and trollops in stilettos all smacking away and laughing really wild, like animals, and there was the smell of perfume and smoke all mingled like hot sex in the back seat of a silver Opal and there I was trying to sit by myself at a small table to smoke a ciggy wiggy and enjoy a few glasses of imported Scotch whiskey, but then people were bumping into me and stealing the other chairs from my table and laughing at me because there I was all alone in this wild crowd and no one seemed to give a damn that Mr. Hulk had just been killed by a yoga chick.

Yeah, no one ever really knows what’s going on inside your own world and why you be the way you be and their bimbo, bozo narrow-minded misunderstanding makes them just laugh and point like a bunch of spoiled bitches. And I grew tired of it all and saw that there was a staircase that went up, up, up and so I went up, up, up.

And up there it was a home-style country scene all warm and soft and peaceful that showed how people used to live like a century plus a go. There was a long hallway with a wooden floor and off the hallway there were several rooms where actors and such were all dressed up in fashion appropriate for the period of time they were portraying and they were pretending to live life like it was when it wasn’t the mad mess we have now.

I looked into the room at the very end of the hall. There was a girl in there wearing a long, green and white checkered dress, like old-fashioned armor for a sinewy body. There was a white bonnet upon her blonde head. She was holding a stuffed dog and walking around the room, a room sparsely furnished, with white walls, white curtains slapping around the frame of an open window. And as she walked around the room with the stuffed dog she talked about life back then and how it was and how she liked to churn butter the best because it was so “sexual” and then she sat on the edge of a squeaky bed clad in fresh, white linens, and then suddenly this young man dressed in similar time fashion and with thick curly dark hair stormed into the room right past me and he moved on her without any hesitation and kissed her right on her unadorned mouth. She looked a bit puzzled at first and then she seemed to get even angry. She stood up, threw the stuffed dog across the room, and started talking about how she would tell on him for his “indiscretion.” There was a momentary pause, and then they both turned to me, smiled, and then bowed like actors.

I went back downstairs to the noise and wild lights. I needed a drink and maybe something to eat. And while I searched for a table in all the hoopla, I saw Mr. Gorgon come in through the doors followed by Mr. English who was holding a girl in one hand and his bottle of Red Wine Vinaigrette Salad Dressing in the other. I moved through the crowd to greet them and to my horror noticed that Mr. Gorgon had big chunks of broken beer bottles sticking out of his stomach and chest. They were real nasty wounds and I could even look inside his guts and see a pile of broken glass there and Mr. Gorgon just laughed and whooped it up and acted like nothing was wrong.

I had to yell over the roar of the crowd to him.

“I think you better go to the hospital. Those are some nasty wounds you got there, Mr. Gorgon.”

He just smiled and looked down at his body.

“What? This? Aw come on, it’s just some bits of broken glass. Doesn’t hurt a bit.”

“It looks rather nasty,” I said to him. “It could get infected and then you’ll be in real big trouble. Maybe even dead like Mr. Hulk.”

“Ah, you worry too much Mr. Hat. Always worried about shit and you never take the time to just relax and have some fun.”

Mr. English leaned in then.

“What’s this about Mr. Hulk being dead then?”

“Yes, he’s dead all right,” I said to him. “That yoga chick shoved him into a tree and done him in.”

“What in bloody hell would she do that for?” asked Mr. English, looking at his chick and shaking his head. “Sounds like one of your friends killed one of my friends, sister. What the hell is up with that then?”

The chick pulled away from Mr. English and put her hands on her hips.

“Well, she wasn’t my friend and don’t get all nasty with me about it. I had nothing to do with it. For all we know, he was trying to rape her and well, then he got what he deserved.”

“Ah, piss off you bitch. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re just a drunk and a stupid girl,” Mr. English said to her.

I could tell the chick was steaming mad and about ready to haul off on ol’ Mr. English, but she clamped her mouth tight, looked up at the ceiling, frantically tapped her toes and then burst out like a tea pot come to boil: “Well at least I don’t chum around with a bottle of salad dressing all day, ya bloody freak!”

The entire place suddenly went silent except for some soft whispers and the shuffling of sleeves against sleeves. “You didn’t have to say that then did you?” a dejected Mr. English said to the chick. “That was a mean thing to say, and in front of all these people, too.”

Mr. English clutched his bottle of Red Wine Vinaigrette Salad Dressing, bowed his head and worked his way through the crowd, out the EXIT and into the night.

The noise began to roar again immediately like some great conflagration in a hip Albuquerque dancehall.

Mr. Gorgon tugged at my sleeve.

“I’m going to the bar; would you like me to bring you back a drink?”

“No, I don’t think so… You’re really not going to the hospital?”

“Hell no, it’s party time mate and I feel fine. I feel fit.”

“All right then,” I said to him. “I think I’m going to leave.”

“Aw, you don’t want to stay and see if I can get more broken glass in my belly?” Mr. Gorgon said with a laugh. “I bet we can find you a girl in here. You just need to loosen up a bit, like me.”

And he slapped me on the shoulder.

“There was a girl upstairs, acting out some scene with a guy who looked like Arnold Horshack.” I said to Mr. Gorgon. “He tried to make it with her, but she got all psycho and said she was going to tell on him. I don’t know who.”

“Well, that sounds bloody weird,” Mr. Gorgon said.

“Yes, it was weird, very weird, but it wasn’t a bad scene. They were reliving history, just for me.”

“Well, there’s a feather in your cap… Mr. Hat. Heh, that’s kind of funny isn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

I drained my last bit of Scotch whiskey and just dropped the glass on the floor.

 “So, Mr. Gorgon, how do I get out of this dream?”


Fiona Blood Orange (End)

I brought back two nice, fat fish and threw them into the earthen ice box. Fiona Blood Orange was still in the bed, and I kicked at it.

“Hey, wake up. I want some flapjacks. Did you not get my note?”

She stirred in the blankets and moaned.

“Yes, I got your note. I’m sorry, I must have fallen back to sleep. What time is it?” she asked, yawning, stretching her big mouth wide and showing off some chipped teeth.

“Time has no meaning here. Now get up and make me some flapjacks.”

I kicked at the bed again.

“You’re just plain rude, you know that? And where are my drugs?”

“Make me flapjacks and I’ll go get your drugs.”

“You don’t have them?”

“I’ll ride into town and get them… AFTER flapjacks.”

“All right, all right. I’ll make your damn flapjacks.”

She got up out of bed. She was completely naked as she walked over to the cooking area I had there in my cabin. I watched her as she bent over, reached up, exposing her fleshy cracks and crevices as she searched for cooking implements and ingredients.

“Is my little bunny cold?”

“Yes. Can you get the fire going again?”

I stoked the fire and added a few logs. Soon it was toasty, and the scent of flapjacks filled the air. She laid the plate out in front of me and set down some butter and the maple syrup.

“These are pretty damn good, Bunny. You should have some.”

She fixed herself a plate and sat across from me, still completely nude. I stopped eating and set my fork down.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“You’re naked and I am trying to eat.”


“It’s gross.”

She slammed her fork down and got up and put on her clothes. She returned to the table all huffy puffy.

“Don’t be like that,” I said.

“You said I was gross. That was very hurtful.”

“Well, I’m sorry. There’s good naked and bad naked. Sex naked is good. Breakfast naked is bad. That’s just how it is.”

After some quiet eating time, I asked her a question.

“So, did you enjoy our lovemaking last night?”

“It was fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Well, if you must know the truth, I’ve had better.”

“Same here.”

“Then why did you even bother asking?”

“I told you, I am a very curious person who needs to know where I stand in the world and with the people in it.”

“You’re weird.”

“You can leave any time.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Because you love me or because I can give you drugs?”

“How could you possibly think I love you?”

“You told me in bed last night… When I was inside you.”

“It was the heat of the moment.”

“So, you lied?”

“No, I didn’t lie.”

“Then you love me right now?”

“God no! Get over this love shit and get me my drugs. I’m getting nervous.”

I finished my flapjacks and then went out to saddle up my fine horse, Chuck. I rode to Rock Ridge and tethered Chuck at the apothecary. I went inside and rang the little metal bell at the counter. A scrawny, wee man in a white lab coat came out of nowhere and looked up at me.

“Hello there Wild Rick… Wha, wha, what can I get for you?” he said, pushing his thick glasses back against his face.

I started to talk, but then some little old hobbly wobbly lady snuck in front of me.

“Excuse me sir, but is this a daytime face cream or a night time face cream?” She held out a little jar.

“Hey!” I said to the little old lady. “I don’t take too kindly to little old ladies cutting in front of me. I was here first. Now go bug off!”

“Now, now Wild Rick, just settle down, she ain’t hurting nobody,” the trembling, bug-eyed apothecary said to me.

“Hey! Mr. Apothecary,” I said. “I don’t take too kindly to you telling me what to do. I was here first, and I demand some service. My woman needs drugs!”

“Oh my, you’re just a big ol’ bully,” the old lady said to me, and then she kicked me hard in the shin.

I shoved her. She came back at me and kicked me straight in the junk. I grabbed my sack of marbles and nearly fell over.

The apothecary rang for the sheriff. Chuck was impounded and I ended up spending the night in the Rock Ridge Jail for disruptive behavior.

When I returned to the cabin the next morning, Fiona Blood Orange was climbing the walls like a wild monkey.

“Where in the hell have you been!” she screamed at me.

“I had a little bit of trouble in town,” I said. “Sorry.”

“Where’s my stuff?”

“I couldn’t get it.”

She flew into a rage and started knocking all my personal stuff around. I grabbed her by the wrists and pushed her down onto the bed. She broke my grasp and slapped and kicked at me.

“Get off me! Get off me!” she bellowed like a wild woman.

“Shut up! Shut up!” I yelled back. Then I tried to force a kiss. She bit my mouth. There was blood. I got off her, holding my face. I was spitting red, red juice from my head hole. She ran out of the cabin.

“Fiona! Fiona! Come back Fiona. I’m sorry.”

I stayed there in the cabin for several hours waiting for Fiona to return. Daylight was quickly fading. I stoked the fire and decided to fry up the fish I had caught the day before. There was crackling and sizzling and the smell of good food. Then there was a soft knock at the door. Fiona had returned.

“Fiona. I was worried about you.”

She came into the cabin looking like a prostituted zombie.

“Are you okay? Where were you?”

She shuffled over to the bed and sat down on the edge of it. She lifted her legs, rolled in, and covered herself up.

“Fiona? Would you like some fish?”

She didn’t say anything. I left her alone and ate everything myself. After eating, I sat by the fire and smoked cowboy cigarettes real slow and just thought about stuff. Fiona fell asleep. I crawled into the bed later. She didn’t move. I had rough and wild dreams about some faraway place called Las Vegas.

When I woke up, the door was open, and Fiona was sweeping the floor.

“What are you doing? Are you okay? Why is there so much sun? I hate the sun.”

“It’s spring. You’ve been asleep for a very long time,” she answered.


And as I held my left hand before my face to shield my eyes from the bright light of day, I noticed there was a ring on my finger. I studied it for a moment. I twisted it with the fingers of my right hand.

“What is this?”

“What is what?”

“This ring upon my finger.”

She set the broom aside and came over and sat down on the bed. She held my hand.

“It’s your wedding ring, dear.”

“Wedding ring? What… Who… I’m married? To whom?”

“You’re married to me jackass, who else. I’m Fiona Blood Orange hyphen Wild Rick.”

“What? How is that possible. How long have we been married?”

“Thirteen years. What’s wrong with you?”

Then two little kids – a boy, a girl – came scampering into the cabin going “Daddy, Daddy,” and they jumped into the bed with me. They started crawling all over me and they smelled like piss and dirt.

I pushed them away and jumped out of the bed. I slapped at myself as if there were bugs crawling all over me. The kids started crying.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Fiona snipped.

I started jumping up and down like a madman, holding my head in agony.

“This isn’t real! This isn’t real!”

“Now just stop it Wild Rick, you’re scaring the children.”

Then I heard familiar singing coming from another room that I never knew was there.

“What’s that door for? What is that?” I demanded to know.

“It’s the bathroom. What the hell is wrong with you?” she asked again.

“A bathroom? I don’t have a bathroom. Not inside.”

I went to the door and tightly pressed my ear against it – my solid black eyes were darting around all wild. I could hear splashing and then the singing came again… “I’m screaming in the rain,” – splash, splash – “just screaming in the rain…”

I backed away from the door and started spinning around like crazy.

“Ahhh! Ahhh! Ahhh!” I yelled, slapping at my own head as everything was tilt-a-whirl madness. “What the bloody hell is going on here!?”

“Stop it Wild Rick! Just stop it!” Fiona Blood Orange hyphen Wild Rick shouted.

She roughly pushed the children out the door.

“Run children, run! Your father has gone well nutty!”

I stumbled and fell to the floor. The door to the bathroom that was never there opened. The Sunday peacock came strolling out wrapped in a white bath towel.

“Top of the morning to ya Wild Rick,” he said, and then he hopped up on a chair set at my roughly hewn table and began reading a newspaper, going “Ah, Hmmm, Oh,” as he scanned the headlines.  

“Care for flapjacks Sunday peacock?” Fiona asked the wild bird and then she kissed him.

“Why yes, that would be wonderful.”

“Are you sleeping with that god damn peacock?” I bluntly asked Fiona.

Fiona bowed her head in shame.

“Yes, Wild Rick, it’s true. I’m so sorry.”

“The kids then?”

She said nothing, but merely glanced at the door. I went to it and looked out. The kids were romping around in the yard way out and when their backs were turned to me, I noticed the wonderful plumage sprouting out from them, much more pronounced and colorful on the boy mind you, but both had plumage indeed.

“This is a nightmare,” I mumbled, and then everything was black.

It was a few days later and I was sitting in the Rock Ridge Saloon drinking whiskey and playing cards with my cowboy friend Ralph Red Mustard.

That’s when Fiona Blood Orange came in and plopped down her wedding ring on the bar.

“Were done,” she said. “I love the peacock.”

“I bet you do,” Ralph snickered.

“Fuck off Ralph,” she snapped. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“Now, now Fiona, just simmer down. He ain’t bothering nobody.”

“Of course, I’ll want support from you. Money that is. Lots of it.”

“You’re fucking a peacock and you want money from me? You’re crazy. Those aren’t even my kids. Hell, they’re not even real kids, they’re part bird. Oh, and one more thing, I want my Fiona Apple CD back.”

“You’re the meanest son of a bitch I’ve ever known Mr. Wild Rick… And by golly, I hope you rot in hell.”

She spat in my face and walked out of the saloon.

I wiped her slime off my face, and I ordered up another drink. Ralph and I just laughed and went back to playing cards. Someone started playing the piano and more cowboys came in and then the showgirls came out and we all had a real good time, and it didn’t take me long at all to forget about Fiona Blood Orange. Not long at all.


Fiona Blood Orange (1)

I saw some Wild West cowgirl chick smoking crushed Opana off a piece of foil through a swirly, glass sarsaparilla straw as I turned the dusty corner from the Main Street drag to the side road leading out of the town of Rock Ridge and into the wilds beyond. I nearly tripped over her, and she looked up at me with the look of being way out dazed and far out confused.

“Hey mister, do you have any of that fine, fine cowboy money?”

I fiddled around in my big pockets like a fool.

“Nope,” and I tipped my 37.9-liter hat her way and politely said “Mam.” Then I strode off all cool like with my rock-hard silver pistols dangling from my waist and ready to spit.

She came scrambling after me, nearly knocking loose from my grasp my packages of sundries I had just purchased at the local general store.

“But mister, I just need a little money, that’s all. Surely you got a little bit to spare?”

“I’m sorry drug girl. I do not have any money to spare. Now please, leave me be so I can get home and build a fire before it rains ice.”

I shoved her to the dusty ground and walked off.

I stood at the banks of the stream that ran across the land not too far from my homestead. I studied the cool water as it rolled over the rocks. I bit into an apple. I hoped it was not a poison trick from the town witch. I thought about an old gun-slinging pal from back east who was in love with a chick named Fiona Apple. The air was full of autumn chill. I looked around for some good firewood. I spit out my cowboy-rolled smoke and gathered the wood. A colorful peacock wearing a fur coat slyly followed me back to my log cabin — when I turned quickly to catch him following me, he ducked behind a tree or some brush, but hell man, I knew he was there.

“You’re not fooling me Mr. Peacock!” I said aloud to the ice-cold and wounded sky of the Wild, Wild West. “I don’t know what you want, but I know you’re following me… I hear peacock tastes like chicken, so you better watch your step, or I’ll cook you.”

There was a colorful flurry in the brush and the peacock came out of hiding and then just started pecking at the ground as if he didn’t even see me there holding wood and breathing out frosty fog from my face.

I turned and walked away. The wood was getting heavy, and I needed to dump it.

And I dumped it right where I stored my wood right outside the cabin. It was a late afternoon of a Sunday somewhere around the year 1879 or perhaps 2079 — I had no calendar or sense of time and therefore did not know. Sorry about that, but let’s just say the world was completely different then you probably know it right now.

I piled some wood in the fireplace and fondled it with flame and tinder. There was warmth and orange light. I lit some oil lamps and unbundled my bundles of sundries and laid them out nice and neat atop my roughly hewn wooden table. There was tobacco. There was rolling papers. There were matches, soap, biscuits in a tin, coarse twine, honey, paperback novel, small slab of meat, sugar, flour, fishing line, hooks, jerky, a Fiona Apple CD called Tidal, corn husk oil, bullets, new red pajamas with footies, wool socks, sharp knife, chilled butter, three eggs from a chicken, three bottles of root beer, candles, lamp oil, pencil and paper, map, big whiskey, maple syrup and black licorice.

The Sunday peacock pecked at the window as I rolled a fresh ciggy wiggy.

“What the hell do you want? Why don’t you just piss off and leave me be to my peace and being alone.”

The damn thing started to talk to me.

“But sir, it’s getting awfully cold out here and I was hoping you’d let me sit by the fire for a while. I won’t be any bother, I promise.”

I rubbed at my wicked, scruffy face and pondered the words of the Sunday peacock.

“You’ve got a fur coat on, that should be bloody well enough to keep you warm,” I barked back at him.

There were a few moments of silence.

“All right then sir, I’ll be on my way. Sorry to have bothered you. Good night then.”

I went to the window to watch him to be sure he was indeed leaving. And he was indeed leaving, but he was singing a common tune from the new old world as he walked away … “I’m screaming in the rain, just screaming in the rain …” is how it went.

It wasn’t even raining though. It was darkening clouds of ice cubes and a biting wind that began to kick up when I went out to fetch some more wood. It was then I realized something was out there — something, someone, some living, breathing being ducked behind the thick trunk of my favorite poplar tree.

“Come out from there now!” I yelled. “Come out or I’ll find you and gun you down.” 

“No!” some weepy devotchka shrieked and she jumped out of the shadows.

I reached for my horny, rigid pistol.

“Don’t come any closer or I’ll blast you!”

“No sir, please, no sir.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m the girl you met in the street today, in town. You pushed me to the ground you mean bastard.”

“What’s your name, and what do you want here?”

“My name is Fiona sir, and I’m cold and hungry. I’m sorry, I followed you.”

I strained to look. “Fiona Apple? Is that you?”

“No sir, my name is Fiona Blood Orange.”

“You some kind of Native American chick?”

“My father was, but my momma was from New York City.”

“New York City! Did she eat Pace picante sauce like a bitch?”





“I’m cold. May I please come inside?”

“Yes. Just don’t try to smoke everything in my cabin.”

She sat near the fire wrapped in a thick blanket I gave her. She rubbed at her nose with the back of her hand and just stared at the flames. I sat at my table mindlessly gnawing on jerky and thinking about what it would be like to snuggle up with this little bunny.

“Are you a bunny rabbit?” I asked aloud, not thinking.

She turned and looked at me strangely.

“What did you say?”

“I was just wondering if you liked bunny rabbits.”

“They’re fine, I suppose. Do you?”

“They sure do taste good…  You just got to cook them right. You have to know how to retain the juices and keep the meat tender. I like juicy, tender meat. I don’t enjoy dried out bunny rabbit.”

She licked at her lips and tried to smile.

“I don’t eat meat.”

“You don’t eat meat? Then what do you eat?”

“Nuts, twigs, grains, plants… Apples.”

“Blood oranges?”

“When I can get my hands on one.”


“Love them, but only when they are nice and brown.”

“Are you a woman lover?”


“Do you lie down with women? Sexually speaking.”

“No, I do not sir, and even if I did, I don’t see how it is any business of yours.”

“My apologies. I was just curious. I need to know things.”

She said nothing to me and went back to staring at the fire, clutching the blanket closer to her body as if it were some sort of shield.

After several minutes passed, I broke the sexually tense silence.

“I only have one bed.”

She turned to look at me.


“I only have one bed. It’s my bed and I plan on sleeping in it tonight.”

“That’s fine sir. I won’t deny you your own bed. I can sleep on the floor.”

“That will be awfully cold.”

“Not near the fire.”

“The fire will go out at the coldest hour of the night. Your blood will lock up and cease to flow.”

“I’ll keep the fire going, sir.”

“You can stop calling me sir. My name is Wild Rick.”

“If you are trying to get me to share your bed, you can just put that thought out of your mind… Wild Rick.”

“What if I gave you some drugs?”

Fiona Blood Orange’s eyes suddenly widened.

“You have drugs?”


“You’re a liar Wild Rick. You don’t have any drugs.”

“What would you do if I did?”

I could tell her inner thoughts were fist-fighting within her own head.

“I don’t know!” she yelled. “That’s a terrible thing you are trying to do though, just terrible — seducing me by means of my own demons. You should be ashamed of yourself!”

“You’re the drug addict, not me. I have nothing to be ashamed of.”




“Kiss me.”


I rolled over in the bed and my hand fell upon her bare breast. She stirred in her dream beneath the covers. I looked at her face as the first mellow yellow glow of dawn worked its way into the cabin. She was beautiful, yet strained and sickly. Pale yet flushed. Young yet old. Crippled yet full of boundless energy. I crawled out of bed and got dressed. I scribbled her a note and left it on the pillow beside her. It read: Dear Fiona Blood Orange, I’ve gone down to the river to catch some fish. I want you to make me some flapjacks when I return, that is, if you want more drugs. Best wishes, Wild Rick.