secret agent man

~

Inside The Bird Cage Saloon

chapter XVII

of

GUN 2013

the secret agent short novel

by Rawclyde !

     The double doors are a rattling in the big birdcage above our heads.  The log perch hanging from the cage’s arch is swaying.  Giant formidable talons move nervously back n’ forth on the swaying perch.  Of course it’s only my imagination gone beserk.  The bald eagle up there in the dome is a statue made of wood ~ and is still.  Maybe I’m the one having a nervous breakdown.

     “Now, baby, now!”

     Bang!  Bang!  The slick long-barrel derringer in Wayne Peeintheair’s spastic hand twirls thru the smokey atmosphere of the saloon.  And one of his ears disappears for good measure.  Agent Whapp, to the left o’ me, proves to be an expert markswoman!  And nobody else fires a shot ‘cuz she’s so damn scary.  A sullen skull chalked like a mask on her face contributes to making it so.

~

~

     “So be it!” shouts Ted Newscent, just a guitar player, to the right o’ me.  He covers all of ’em with his 45.  He’s no longer grinning.  His jaw muscles are taunt ~ working overtime ~ as his teeth grind.

     The floor is smokin’.  The boys are leavin’.  And the Bird Cage Saloon is burning down.

     The bristling cannon-ware of Submissivania (Has she’s grown 5 extra arms aiming all this stuff?) offers encouragement for all AR-15 conglomerates to fold-up and depart.  And so they do.  Some of these tough guys dance a little bit as they seek an exit, for the bullets fling & sing up outta the crackling ammo dump (I presume it’s a secret NRA ammo dump) in the cellar below.

     Peeintheair’s four bodyguards have become statues.  “Why don’t you guys move!” bellows my favorite old rock n’ roll star turned Obamasiah deacon.  He waves the barrel of his Colt toward the door.  Submissivania shoots somebody’s hat off ~ more encouragement.

~

~

     “What the…?”

     Peeintheair is doing a jig!  His clown shoes flip flop madly as he pyroots around & around, holding the ear-less side of his head as it spurts blood ‘tween his fingers.  He’s kind of like a twirling lawn sprinkler spraying red dew on the smoking, splintering planks around him.  The expression on his face is that of a grinning circus clown ~ even after having wiped off all his clown make-up.  He’s got a grin on his face so big his eyes are squeezed shut.  He seems to be in his element.  The racket below is deafening.  A carbon stench pervasive.  Smoke is slithering around him like out-of-body experiences.

     “Hell!” snarls Ted.  He waves farewell with his gun & exits in disgust out the back door, grabs his guitar on his way out.  A large section of the floor explodes behind him & flames leap up ~ begin waltzing with our NRA celebrity.

     Peeintheair’s bodyguards remain catatonic.  I guess they cannot decide whether they want to defend their looney leader or shoot him.  They haven’t moved a quarter of an inch for maybe five minutes.  One of them has a sawed-off shotgun half pulled out of his coat as if eternally posing for a camera that is not here.  Meanwhile his a-whirl dervish boss starts singing:

~

“What stops a bad man

with a gun?

What stops a bad man

with a gun?

Maybe nothin’ can stop him

but the rising sun!”

~

     The coat sleeve of one of Peeintheair’s bodyguards catches fire.  This snaps the feller out of his statue-like stillness.  He drops his guns & runs ~ like an Olympic torch-carrier for the front door ~ hollering.  But he doesn’t get too far.  The floor collapses under him in a burst of red sparks.  He tumbles head first into the spluttering tumult of ricocheting bullets below ~ then comes flying out riding a piano-sized fireball that propels him back over our heads across the room.  After that I lose track of this unfortunate individual.  He probably just lies on the floor some where behind a table, perhaps on top of a table, a sizzling charbroiled hamburger.

~

editor / elvis bojangles

~

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cloyd’s tall-story campsite treat

~

THE ACTUAL REINCARNATION
of
DAVY CROCKETT
 
~
.
by
Cloyd Campfire
2003
 .
~
 .
Part One:
A Rudest Of Awakenings
 .
     The souls of the freshly killed swirled above the smoky Alamo in the vintage year of 1836.
     Among these swirling souls, the more spiritually ambitious, in no time at all, streaked like fiery comets thru the tunnel of God’s love, into yonder sea of light ~ that mysterious sea ‘tween our Earth-bound lives.
     Whoa! Please, kind reader, don’t think I mean to attack your imagination with unearthly scrawl that hopes to bloom above the more familiar blood and dust of ye olde Alamo. It’s just that, well, that’s where your imagination’s gotta go if you are going to really read this heart-squeezing patriotic drama that begins in yonder BARDO.
     But first, some of those dizzy souls in the smoke above Texas that sizzling day wouldn’t leave. Shocked & furious, they lingered, futilely wishing to avenge their own deaths.
     Still others, more amiable in disposition but with little if any spiritual ambition, immediately went to sleep & dreamed ~ as they more complacently floated up a rock-a-bye-baby river, so to speak, that emptied into the warm, glowing, euphoric sea that encompasses our islands of incarnate life ~ yonder mysterious BARDO!

~

~

     “David? David Crockett? Awake, eternal frontiersman, awake!”
     Upon sleeping over 100 years, the dream-creamed soul of one who had died at ye olde bullet poke-marked basilica, was thusly nudged by the smooth & divine voice of Angelic Lulu.
     “Not yet,” moaned the King of the Wild Frontier. “Let me sleep. Please. Please. Let me sleep.”
     “Awake!” persisted the demure damsel with wings aflutter ~ and she touched ye sleeping hero’s brow with a dab of purple tintillated lightning.
     Davy Crockett rocketed to attention, saluted Angelic Lulu & gritted, “Cruel. Cruel.”
     “I’m sorry, David. We have received for you a mission from God. We must move quickly. Come!”
     In the blink of a black hole & the flash of 1,000 stars, so to speak, they wisped across the BARDO of our other more tranquil side of life, and life, and more life, the euphoric discarnate side where we rest, recuperate, and are judged between lives. And that’s where the duo was now ~ The Judgment Place ~ which resembled a cathedral made of shining galaxies & misty clouds.
     “Wait here, David, I must go find Bishop Tumor & Polynesian Phil.”
     “No! Not them again! C’mon, Lulu! Where’s Jesus? I never see Jesus!”
     “In due time,” coyly curved Angelic Lulu. “In due time, David. You’re not spiritually evolved enough yet, to see Master Jesus.”
     And poof! She was gone.

~

~

     A timeless moment later, Crockett observed 3 pecks of light floating way endlessly out yonder, in ye expansive fathomless space ‘tween little islands of incarnate breathing, that space of no space & no time, called ~ EL BARDO!!!
     Closer & closer, bigger & more life like, grew the 3 forms ’til Davy, with a forlorn sigh, recognized that his judges had arrived: the old dumpy dwarf Bishop Tumor, the goo-goo eyed block-head Polynesian Phil, and the irresistible Lulu. Thank God for Angelic Lulu!
     After a few informal “Howdy do’s,” they commenced The Judgment. Let us be brief. Lulu was impressed with Crockett’s love of family. Phil liked the way the frontiersman led about 100 volunteers in a tense & highly justified desertion of General Andrew Jackson & his regulars during a winter lull in the Creek Indian War. And Bishop Tumor, generally speaking, thought Crockett should go straight to hell.
     “Well, it doesn’t matter one way or another,” admonished Lulu with one eye-brow demurely raised. “Because David is going on a Mission from God.”
     Phil click-clacked his wooden tongue excitedly. The bishop boisterously guffawed but said nothing. Then, out of El Bardo no-where, Moses appeared.

~

~

     “Moses?” gaped Crockett in a small voice.
     Ye olde patriarch’s eyes were fierce like an eagle’s. And he rumbled like a bear, “David Crockett, ye are beseeched by God to reinstitute the 10 Commandments in the United States of America ~ so that a new generation knows right from wrong. Are you willing?”
     Crockett stammered & turned to Lulu with a beggar’s lack of coin a-drip in his eye. Lulu threw back a haughty look that let him know she had no spare change for him, so to speak, and crossed her arms over her breasts.
     “C’mon, Lulu, help me out here,” begged Crockett.
     The divine damsel slightly smiled. “It IS a mission from God, David.”
     “Yeah, but, but,” whined Crockett. He fell to his knees. “I don’t wanna go back to Planet Earth! I wanna go back to sleeeeeeep!”
     He tearfully kissed Lulu’s knee.
     “Davy!” She blushed.
     Then the desperate American Folk Hero sprang to his feet and took off running.
     Moses & Angelic Lulu watched him futilely seek oblivion in el depthless BARDO. The 2 divinities looked with dismay at each other. They slowly shook their heads.
     “I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He used to be so brave,” sighed Lulu.
     “He just has a case of Jonah-itis,” mused Moses. “He’ll be okay. I’ll sic the Earth Demon on him.” And ye olde patriarch raised his miracle staff.

~

~

     In response, a beam of brightness ricocheted thru a stained-glass galaxy of The Judgment Place, and transformationed into said demon ~ a rollicking creature actually, full of menace & mischief & resembling a dragon of medieval yore. Plus, the critter was very large. And swift. The Earth Demon took off after Crockett like a locomotive.
     Polynesian Phil & Bishop Tumor, who were still hanging around, clapped with glee, although Phil’s clapping was a bit spastic, since he was made out of wood. Angelic Lulu more gently placed her hands together ~ and prayed for poor Crockett as he ran like a rabbit, like a deer, like a shock-stricken squirrel thru the brush & the gullies that weren’t really there.
     When the demon was close enough, it hurled Planet Earth, which it had been clutching in its claw, at the back of Crockett’s head.
     And the planet ~ with all its dirt & rock & trees & critters & cities & peoples & rivers of joy & valleys of sorrow & plains of justice & mountains of liberty ~ this planet spun thru the Bardo toward its target, the back of Davy’s head as he rapidly fled.
     Then, and then, an awesome splash of light was all that was left of the panicked frontiersman & our spinning football, Earth.     An instant later ~ nothing, nothing but the fabulous BARDO ~ was all around.

~

~

Part Two:
Thy Kingdom Come
 .
     Davy Crockett, reincarnated & 52 now, baby, now ~ pulled the makings outta his shirt pocket & rolled himself a cigarette. He leaned against a porch beam of Veterans Campus. Ye olde historical root lit-up & inhaled gratefully. T’was a crispy Sunday morning in the early spring of 2003.
     He was trapped now, baby, now, by Lady Poverty in this live-in facility that assisted homeless military veterans in their heroic transition into a formidable workforce. Crockett still didn’t have a real job. He’d been slacking here for nearly 2 years. But it wasn’t HIS fault. He slowly exhaled before his raggedy face a meandering smoke sculpture ~ of an angel ~ with a halo around her head & with a trumpet pressed in a most immaculate fashion to her lips. “How amazing,” whispered the eternal frontiersman under his breath to whatever invisible entities might be hanging around. “How’d I do that?”
     Now, baby, now, across the asphalt parking-lot plaza, the head honcho of this Transitional Zone stepped out of his office & gazed up at the clear blue sky as if having spied something strange floating around up there. Then he shrugged & got into his truck & drove out the gate, which was attended by homeless military-veteran fire-guards wearing neck-ties.
     The brief appearance of this gentleman got Crockett to thinking about his failed campaign for mayor of the Queen City of the Rio Grande & how close he had come to winning the election & how it had been foiled by this, uh, gentleman who’d just driven out the gate, this crusty old javilina who was none other than Andrew Jackson, God have mercy, reincarnated! The eternal frontiersman had already had, in his previous life-time, enough of this crusty critter as an unreasonable hot-headed general & a cheatin’ lyin’ political opponent.
     The shadow of what Crockett took to be a jet or a crow or plain irritation, crossed his brow, as he remembered more recent events…

~

~

     Sure, the campaign had been somewhat of a rickety old jalopy, so to speak, but it had got to rollin’, and although Crockett was a penniless stranger to the city, he knew he could have won the election (yes, sir!), that is, if Andrew Jackson Reincarnated hadn’t thrown this politically ambitious program of Crockett’s out the window and, with lies & deceit, fandango-ed him instead into fire watch, 12 hours a night, 5 nights a week, at the RS&VP office.
     How could Crockett run an adequately cranked-up campaign for the best job in the city when he then had to stumble around everyday ~ a graveyard-shift zombie?
     The eternal frontiersman foamigated into a seizure of coughing. He staggered over to a trash can, spat into it several times, returned to his supportive porch beam, against which he leaned once more. He inhaled more tobbacky smoke into his trembling lungs, not so gratefully this time.
     And what the albushmurkee was that floating above Crockett’s head? It looked like a weathered wooden ammo box ~ descending from Heaven ~ perhaps carried by a couple of invisible cherubs ~ and finally placed at Crockett’s feet! A breeze carelessly caressed his cheek. And ye olde settler felt so mysteriously meek. What, in the name of Saint Pete, was going on here?
     “Looks like you got Special Delivery, Davy,” announced Frank & Joe Hardy, a resident of Veterans Campus who had 2 first names. He happened to have been strolling by in his church clothes when the box landed. Now he stood along side Crockett peering dubiously down at it. On the top of the box, which was oblong, these words were written:
 
~
To: Davy Crockett Reincarnated
From: Angelic Lulu
~
 

     “Yeeeap, that’s definitely Special Delivery,” said Hardy.
     Crockett had nothing to say ~ which you might call “speechless.”
     “Well, you going to open it? It’s addressed to YOU,” said Hardy.
     Crockett squatted, undid the simple latch & lifted the lid, which had squeaky hinges. He stood back.
     Inside were two stone tablets with writing on them.

~

~

     Crockett gulped. Strange memories began stirring the biscuit mix in his brain, but he wasn’t quite sure what was frying.
     “I am the Lord your God. You shall not have strange gods before me,” read out-loud another resident who went by the name of Gon Weeners & who had approached out of curiosity & had been standing there for some time.
     “My God,” said Hardy. “That’s the 10 Commandments! You just received the 10 Commandments from Heaven, Davy!”
     Crockett scratched his head and had a sudden urge to run away but didn’t. “Destiny,” he mumbled.
     “Wha?” chorused Hardy & Weeners & about 7 or 8 more residents in their church clothes & rags, who had curiously gathered around.
     Crockett looked up & beheld that he was surrounded by homeless dry-drunk & abstaining crack-head military veterans who were all never-do-wells & of absolutely no account.
     “It’s my destiny,” explained Crockett in a voice many many miles away. He blinked. “Why should you fellers care? Why don’t you all leave me alone?”
     “Yeah, but, but you just received the 10 Commandments from Heaven!” said Frank & Joe Hardy, who, you may remember, had two first names.
     “It’s a miracle!” added Gon Weeners.
     There were roughly 30 residents of Veterans Campus gathered around now. That’s about half the people who lived in the place, which, incidently, was a spread-out 100-room ex-motel that had been partially refurbished by other homeless veterans who had come & gone.
     Anyway, the residents began voicing their opinions resonately, until finally one of them, Michael Jackson, a buff unemployed boxer from Boston, said, “Whahhh don’t yuh jus’ go to a skoo somewheh & hang ‘dem ‘dings in duh fwont of a classwoom n’ be done wit’ ’em, Davy?”
     “Wha?” said Crockett.
     Jackson repeated himself, more or less, and did so about 3 or 4 times.
     “That’s a good idea,” said Crockett. He tossed his cigarette butt into a nearby tin can & lifted the two tablets, which were made of Sinai stone, out of the box. “Here,” he thrust the stone tablets at Jackson. “You do it.”
     “Davy, hold on!” spoke-up Hardy. He extended one hand in a pleading manner. “They were delivered to you, so YOU should do it.”
     “Yeah, damn democrat,” said Weeners, who was republican ~ a damn republican.
     Now there were about 50 curious residents gathered around here. And they all started voicing their opinions louder & louder. And they all had the same opinion, that is, that Davy should hang-up the 10 Commandments in a Wilson Middle School classroom, which could be found nearby on San Pedro Avenue.
     “And we’ll all go with you to make sure you do it right,” declared James Praitoree a French immigrant from Texas. His sidekick, an artist also from Texas, Wil Gauguin, slapped Crockett on the back & hollered, “Let’s go, patriots!”
     All the suddenly God-fearing homeless veterans pushed out the gate before them the dubious Davy Crockett, who verily verily reluctantly cradled in his arms the Laws of Almighty Jehovah ~ and without signing out ~ alleluia alleluia!
     Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna (Remember the Alamo? Remember who led the Mexican army that killed all the defenders of the Alamo?), reincarnated and 2nd in command at Veterans Campus, came running out of his office hollering, “Hey! Banditos! None of you signed out! You’re all getting extra doo-teeeeeee!!!”
     Santa Anna’s words bounced off the neo-empty walls & faded away ~ so much mulch in the wind.

~

~

     Carmelita Granada, 1 of 2 worried women staying at the campus, caught up to Crockett at the head of the marching column, down the sidewalk a ways. She handed him a coonskin cap & long-barreled flint-lock musket. She said, “These also were in the box from Heaven. But nobody noticed.”
     “Thank you, Carmelita,” stonily said Crockett as he shuffled along. He handed the 10 Commandments to somebody else & donned the cap & hoisted the musket.
     “This too.” The little Latina pulled from around her neck a dangling powder-horn & gave it to him.
     “And this.” She poured several small lead balls into the palm of Crockett’s hand.
     “Here’s some more,” she almost whispered as she poured some more into his other palm.
    “Thank you, Carmelita.”
     “Good luck, Davy.” She then took off back to the compound. All the marching men noted that Carmelita seemed pretty plump these days, which was kind of strange for a woman who claimed to be of the 3rd persuasion. Never-the-less, she was a cute little stinker, they also noted, as waving “adios” she flurried by.
     The ringed tail of the coonskin cap on Crockett’s head swayed back n’ forth in such away now, baby, now, that all the homeless veterans marching behind this crown of the column, couldn’t help but burst out in jubilant song. And as the swinging raccoon tail kept the beat, this is what they sang:
~
 
“Off down the street
he’s sneakin’ along ~
Gettin’ all embarrassed
as we sing this song ~
He’s gonna show em’ what’s right
so they won’t do wrong ~
An’ he’s startin’ to shine
as we spirit him along ~
Davy
Davy Crockett ~
King of the wild frontier!”
 
~
     San Pedro Avenue led them to the back of Wilson Middle School, where they brutally broke down the fence, continued marching & singing across the athletic field, then ferociously smashed in the door to a classroom bungalow. It was, indeed, an ethereal Sunday morning.

~

~

     Then, after they solved a few complications, and then, after too much ballyhoo, and THENNNNNNN, Crockett hung-up the 10 Commandments in the front of the classroom.
    “There!” said he.
     They all hurrahed and forgot to pray.
     On their way out of the bungalow, a young police officer, standing tall & square in their path, pulled his revolver and… Davy Crockett realized he hadn’t loaded his musket yet… and the perfect knee of Angelic Lulu suddenly, explosively, was illuminated in his memory… as the cop shot him in the forehead ~ a bull’s eye.
    “You’re all under arrest!” baritoned the cop.
     Fifty homeless veterans stood still ~ still and silent as death.
     The mass media of the United States, AND OF THE ENTIRE WORLD, grabbed the ball and ran with the story. A subsequent tumult of debate led to legislative change in Washington D.C. It became legal to hang the 10 Commandments in the front of every classroom in the public schools of America ~ as long as the Bill Of Rights was hanging next to them. After that, with these two origins of law glaring back at them, the young men & women in the classrooms of the #1 super-power bully nation of the planet, knew exactly what their rights were, & what was right, & WHAT WAS WRONG.
     Meanwhile, women of all ages all over the country became infactuated with homeless veterans, because of the handsome way the residents of Veterans Campus had helped Crockett fulfill his destiny ~ as reported in the media.
     But before all that happened, there was Davy Crockett Reincarnated’s funeral. They held it in the little park that James Praitoree & Wil Gauguin had just built & planted in the middle of the asphalt parking-lot plaza of Veterans Campus.
     In the middle of Crockett’s funeral, a helicopter piloted by Russ Hyder, an ex-resident of the campus, landed next to the park. And out stepped U.S. President George W. Bush, on a break from his avengement of September 11th, 2001.
     The President’s eulogy to The Beloved American Folk Hero Who Saved The United States From Hell, was quite touching. And when the President hung the Medal of Honor on the coffin, more than a few veterans cried.
     Especially Andrew Jackson Reincarnated. He fell apart. He howled with grief & sank to his knees & wrung his hands.

~

~

     “I should have never stopped him from becoming mayor!” stormfully, sorrowfully, sobbed Jackson. “My God! I was so cruel to this man who was born & born again an American folk hero! Please, oh God! Please please forgive me for my lying, my jealousy, my two-faced back-stabbing bull-shit!”
     “Here, here, Andrew,” murmured Santa Anna Reincarnated, who was standing next to the kneeling Andrew Jackson who was also Reincarnated. Santa Anna leaned over & quietly said in the old man’s ear, “You’re a good hombre. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Angeles del cielo!”
     Santa Anna tried to lift Jackson to his feet but Jackson would have none of it. The old codger flailed his arms in the air and, still on his knees, desperately reached for Crockett’s coffin, which was too far away for him to touch, and on top of which, incidently, royally sat the regalia of Crockett ~ his cap & his musket (somebody had unscrupulously stolen the powder-horn). With steaming melting glaciers of guilt gushing down his reddened cheeks, Jackson blubbered, “So much more apt would it have been if You, oh God, had taken I, this piss-ant fricking pig, rather than have killed America’s favorite living breathing folk hero ~ Davy, Davy Crockett!”
     The old man collapsed to the ground, shaking spastically.
     Santa Anna knelt down on one knee beside him, patted him on the head.

~

~

     “Andrew! Andrew!” T’was Carmelita Granada calling as she ran from her room, carrying a bundle in her arms, heading for the prostrate old man. Weeners was right behind her. Remember Gon Weeners, the republican?
     Carmelita knelt on both knees next to the distraught, disheveled, disgusting Andrew Jackson, who was lying face-down on the ground, eating tender blades of grass.
     “Look! Look! Andrew!” Carmelita partially lifted a blanket from her little bundle, trying to show the beleaguered Jackson what was inside. He finally lifted his head, and thru red red eyes he saw.
     T’was a baby boy ~ fresh out of the holy womb!
     Gon Weeners stood tall behind the kneeling Carmelita. Apparently he was the father. He turned to the crowd. “We’ve been married for sometime,” he confessed, afire with pride.
     “This is quite a funeral,” said President Bush to a brand new acquaintance. “I’m very very touched, Frank & Joe.”
     “It is truly an event to remember, isn’t it, Mr. President?” beamed Frank & Joe Hardy.
     Andrew Jackson, with green drool trickling out the corner of his mouth (due to eating the grass), smiled at the baby. The old general & president from the Antebellum Days of America then turned to the baby’s mother. “I thought you were a lesbian, Carmelita,” said he.
     “Shut-up!” said Carmelita. “And wipe your mouth!”
    The baby was damp & bald & pink. His eyes were tightly shut. And drool was trickling out the corner of his mouth too, but it wasn’t green. It was more of a ~ well, nevermine what color it be.
     Andrew Jackson, still lying on the ground, but on his elbows now, like he was at a picnic instead of a funeral, fawned over Carmelita’s baby. Jackson expansively grinned & chortled, “So tiny!”
     Then the little papoose opened his eyes. They were depthless ~ full of flashing stars & planets & winking blinking black-holes ~ and angels singing scripture & other assorted divinities humming in harmony. Aye, like all baby eyes that open for the first time, these eyes were infinitely filled with what many ancients knew & what many of us have forgotten ~ EL BARDO! And these eyes stared right back at Andrew Jackson.
     Then, and then, amazingly, with a tiny voice the infant spoke, “I’m back, Andy. There’s no rest for the wicked, huh?”
     “Wha?” said Jackson, his spine suddenly a-tingle.
     “I’m Davy,” said Carmelita’s infant. “Davy Crockett Reincarnated again!”

~

~

Cloyd Campfire’s Tall-Story Campsites

~

kiss of democracy theatre II

~~~

A Love Story

Clyde Collins

~~~

A place of ultimate contentment, the Pure Zone, existed in a corner of the mind of PFC Donald Duty, inspiration specialist, Poetics Lab.

In this Pure Zone between his ears, there blew a gentle cool breeze over a limitless field of green, green grass.  The grass cheerfully, constantly waved “howdy” while an infinite herd of fat cows, dumb and content, munched on it.  The sun always shined.  It never rained.  There were no flies or cow paddies.

Somewhere in the midst of the lackadaisical cows, under a tree on a small knoll, Duty and Sp5 Denise Daisy, assistant ward master, Ward Pluto, sat together.  They sat upon a colorful, smartly designed, afghan blanket knitted by Duty’s grandma in another age.  In the Pure Zone of the PFC’s mind, he and Daisy picnicked eternally.

When the cows mooed, they did so in cohesive chorus and created the ultimate melody.  Occasionally a bird perched itself on a branch of the tree on the little knoll and chirped, which did nothing but add even more charm to the scene.

Not too far away was Duty’s hometown, Buttermilk, Kan.  But nobody could reach Daisy and Duty because the cow herd, being infinite, surrounded everything.

The Pure Zone in Duty’s head was largely responsible for the charismatic grin that was always (well, almost always) dancing around on his face as he accomplished mission after mission at Tripler Army Medical Center.

However, in actuality Daisy married Sgt. Mickey Kandoo, bad dude, 25th Infantry Division, Schofield Barracks.  She moved out of the TAMC barracks to live with her infantryman in Aliamanu Military Reservation (AMR).  When she did this, Duty’s Pure Zone was shattered.

Duty could not sleep.  Duty could not eat.  One day at noon a few weeks after her wedding, in the TAMC dining facility, Daisy happened to notice that her little buddy looked like death warmed over.  She parked her tray of good Army chow on the table next to Duty’s and said, “Hi.”

“Hi,” moaned Duty.

“What’s wrong, Donald?” she inquired with a deep furrow of sincerity upon her brow.  “You look like death warmed over.”

Duty tried to swallow a mouth full of fresh buttered peas and coughed it up.  “I’m sorry, Denise.  Ever since you got married I haven’t been able to eat or sleep.  I guess I love you.  But since you got married there’s nothing I can do about it except roll over and die.”

“Oh Donald,” said Daisy in a barely audible whisper.  Tears suddenly sparkled in the corners of her eyes.  She was speechless for a long moment.  Finally under the table her hand touched Duty’s hand and squeezed it.  This was the only time Daisy and Duty had ever touched.  “You’re the best friend I have,” said Daisy.

The juices in the PFC’s brain gushed like a refreshing cloudburst and in the Pure Zone a single flower radiantly bloomed.  He attacked the peas on his plate with a new fervor and successfully swallowed every one.

“Oh boy, am I hungry!” grinned Duty.

            ~~~

~~~

eternity, where do you roam?

~

The Road Princess & Eternity
a short novel
~
This is a tall tale of one beautiful go-go dancer’s confrontation with the stark landscape of Arizona.  An outlaw finds her out there and intrudes upon this kaleidoscope of a lost hot babe in the wilderness scenario.  The dang thing turns into a romantic comedy.  Or is it a mystical journey?
~
free read

~

compliments of

 Rawclyde’s Code Room

~