The Peacemaker

It’s High Noon in Doomstone, embedded deep in the southern Bible Belt like a crapulous cancer coagulated in the country’s colon, where the only discernible difference between the local Pastor and a radical Mad Mullah is the colour of the robes and the shape of the headgear: in the former’s case, conical. Even the hardware is the same - lethal rifles festoon the shoulders of their respective followers like garlands on a Christmas tree - or dates from a palm tree, depending on the adherents’ particular beliefs and prejudices. Palpable hate swings spectral from the haunting gallows at the end of the street, where dirt road meets empty desert lined now with razor wire glinting evil in the sharp edged sun.

Tumbleweed bowls slowly along Main Street - the only street - to the low keen of wind, spinning lazy dust devils in the tired, insipid, earth. Clapboard shacks swing nail sick planks to the guttering breeze … and a hesitant piano essays a sudden, tinkling, and tuneless, rendition of The Star Bangled Banner in the saloon.

The swing doors burst open. One of them tears from its hinges and falls to the sidewalk, unheeded, as a huge orange-hued figure with crazy yellow hair swaggers through the doorway, casting a black umbra across the already sombre interior of the No Hope saloon. Belligerently, the figure unholsters a pair of gold plated Colt 45’s and casts a supercilious eye over the lacklustre town. “This here is my town,” he sneers, and twirls his six-guns inexpertly on pudgy fingers. “This here is all my doing,” he proudly proclaims to no-one in particular, casting a proprietary arm across the vista of the decaying town. “And anyone who says different,” he continues, proudly polishing a self-awarded Marshall’s badge with his shirt sleeve, “is gonna have to fight me for it! They don’t call me The Peacemaker for nothing!” he roars. A ragged cheer erupts from behind him as Marshall - and Mayor - Dump turns to face his fawning followers.

He reholsters his guns with an extravagant backward flip, firing an unexpected shot that further splinters the already splintered floor. One chip flies up and nicks his ear, drawing blood. Manfully, he ignores the wound, drawing gasps of admiration from his ragtag followers, most of whom are hard put to avoid prostrating themselves in beatification on the beer and spittle stained floor, as the saloon girls line the stairs, some expectantly, some cynical as only saloon girls can be.

The marshall regards his followers with a steely eye that has some of them almost writhing in ecstasy. He smirks approvingly and hooks his thumbs through his suspenders. “But Doomstone ain’t enough. I got myself a De-vine vision. The Lord spoke to me last night. What say we hook ourselves a new Municipality? I do hear tell that Dodgy City would benefit from some Dump phee-los-ophy.”

The saloon erupts with whoops, hollers and yee-haws - all except for one dissenting voice from the rear, which comes from a ten-year old boy grasping the hand of his younger sister, whose clear and innocent gaze nevertheless hints at the cynicism inherent in the most hard-bitten of the saloon girls lining the stairs.

“But that ain’t hardly fair, Marshall,” the boy quavers. “Dodgy City already has a Mayor. My momma says he’s only just been elected … on a Democrat ticket.” His sister nods her head vehemently, fixing Dump with a disconcerting stare as the Saloon draws a collective, horrified, breath.

Dump starts back, unaccustomed to dissent from any quarter, hawks at the mention of the word ‘Democrat’ and then spits extravagantly on the floor. He narrows his eyes and looks suspiciously at the pair. “You got some Mexican in you, boy?” he asks.

“No sir,” answers the boy, certain in his convictions. “Me and my sister here are more American than you. We’re full blooded Navajo.”

Dump glares at his deputy. “How’d these two get through the razor wire, J.D. - and how’d they even get off the reservation anyways? You got your men patrollin’ or what?”

“They ain’t on the reservation no more!” comes an indignant voice from the top of the stairs. “They’s my kids now! They’s a visitin’ town and I get to take care of them when they couldn’t get back through that razor wire to their folks after you put it up in two minutes flat” The speaker makes her way down the stairs and spreads her arms protectively around the childrens’ shoulders. “They’s good kids and don’t let no-one tell you no different. And, anyway, Dodgy City don’t need none of your fixing up, God given or not. Just look at Doomstone. While you live it up in your fancy mansion down by the river, we can’t even get nails to fix those damn swinging planks all ‘cos of your shipments blockade. Goddam banging keeps me up all night.”

Dump fixes the woman with a lascivious stare, focussing on the prominent decolletage. “I ‘spect that’s not the only thing that keeps you up all night,” he leers. “You saloon girls all the same, if’n you even a girl and not some hairy hombre with tits. Never can tell nowadays. But banging’s your business - should be used to it. Anyways, only one way to find out what’s what.” He swaggers over to the woman and thrusts a meaty hand between her legs. “Well, what do you know? We got a real live one. I always say, ‘grab a woman by the pussy and you can do anything’, and I can do anythin’ I want!” he leers, to a crescendo of approval from his minions.

“No sir. Not any more,” a tiny voice says from his knee as, with the speed of a rattlesnake, the little girl whips out one of Dump’s six guns in both hands and neatly shoots him in the head. “Not any more,” she repeats as Dump looks back at her with fearful eyes, before collapsing in an untidy heap at the feet of the abused saloon girl, to a howl of anguish from the bewildered crowd.

Quickly, the saloon girl turns and produces wire cutters from a cupboard under the stairs which she hands to the boy and his sister. “Go, kids,” she urges. “Go get your people. They sure can do a better job at running this town than this bunch of clowns - and they don’t have much school learnin’ at all.” She turns to address the crowd as the children make their escape. “Babes and sucklings, people. Babes and sucklings.”