Put on your spurs, grab your hat, and saddle up that bronco, Pardner! This here story will run for two whole days, so come around often and channel your inner Zane Grey, y' hear?
The sun cast a golden glow over the distant mesas. Clive "Cactus" Hoskins watched in silence, then swung himself into the saddle. He patted the neck of his horse, Trumpet, and scanned the horizon. Finally he saw it--a faint cloud rising from the dry earth into the morning sky. Was it the drovers, bringing the cattle he had won from Blackheart Bartholomew in an all-night poker game? Or was it just a dust devil?
He was about to find out...
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Oh, yes I remember this well.
I remember when Clive got his nickname 'cactus.' Believe me, you don't want to know.
But that's the way of the West, pardner.
It was his Destiny.
The dust storm approached. Spinning dust all over the place. it finally came to a halt.
Coughing, Clive waited for the dust to settle to see what the cloud was.
'How can I serve you, my master?' A bronze goddess stood before him, clad in.....very litte. 'I am the Genii of the dust storm. What is your desire?'
Clive rubbed his eyes. He'd been up late, but not THAT late.
woof, woof!!!
Clive thought about THAT for a minute.
Suddenly, a howling came from the cliff above.
The Cowboy Ghost stood. It was sunset. He waved his hat in the air. It was a white hat.
"True love rides again!" he cried.
Hi
There's a ghost and a genie?
Cool.
Shadow
Hi
Is the ghost Clive?
Shadow
The ghost glared at the genie. "I got here first!"
"No you didn't!" said the genie.
"Yes I did!" said the ghost.
"Did not!"
"Did too!"
"Didn't!"
"Did so!"
"Hold it!" Clive put up a hand. "There's enough of me to go around. Y'all."
Meanwhile, in town, Blackheart Bartholmew, got his gun.
BB (as he was affectionately called by all who hated him. And who didn't?) climbed onto his Pinto and set off to settle last nights score. No one was going to take his herd of ostriches, fair wager or no!
"Hi ho,Pot Metal, away!" he shouted, clapping his spurs together beneath his poor skinny beasts belly.
Heh, heh, and Clive thought he was getting cattle...
Those ostriches smell, thought BB, but I love 'em just the same.
He patted Lulu's neck. Lulu was his favorite ostrich. She had raised him when he was left stranded in the desert, alone and friendless as a baby. Rescued by this pack of wild ostriches, BB had grown to love them beyond all measure. But at the same time, the hatred in his heart for humanity, those that had abandoned him, grew and grew.
A tornado was coming!
"Oh drat," said the Cowboy Ghost.
He hated tornadoes. They messed with his ability to materialize on the top of the cliff and look together.
"Oh drat," said the Genii. She hated tornados. They messed up her hair.
Pot Metal like them because tjhey picked him up and carried him so he didn't have to gallop with this great galloot on his back.
Pot Metal also didn't like ostriches.
Pot Metal didn't like much of anything.
Except maybe tornados.
Pot Metal was a good old ride.
But he took his lalagagling time getting anywhere.
BB sat back in his seat. It was now a convertible since the tornado had whipped the top down, kind of like a can of sardines. He let the tornado wash through his dusty hair and beard.
Nothing like a day out on the ostrich range, he thought.
While they were waiting out the tornado, The Cowboy Ghost–who had pulled himself together enough to rematerialize–and the
genie–holding her hair do together with both hands– took refuge in an old whiskey bottle that had been left by the side of a recently abandoned and still smoldering campfire.
Clive stood there looking at them.
What about me? Don't I get some whiskey?
I thought Pot Metal was a horse. Is it a car?
Or is it both!!??
Pot Metal is a horse but if he happens to kick that bottle, and break it, the genii might appear and give him three wishes. The poor old Pinto could well wish himself into being a car,or maybe a shiny mustang. The idea of eating gas instead of grass is the only drawback.
Djinns, or "genies" as you call them, don't give wishes. That's just a fairy tale.
You granted my wish, Kalila.
No, Ricky. You granted mine. Let's be clear on that point.
Back to the story...the genie was tired of hanging around in the bottle. She had better things to do. She emerged in a blaze of djinn glory and informed Clive that if was ever to achieve his ranching dreams, he needed to quit relying on whiskey and poker winnings and get on with things.
Clive didn't take well to this.
"Tarnation," said the Ghost Cowboy from the bottom of the whiskey bottle.
"Dadnabit! I jus don't get no respect around here."
There was a drop of whiskey and he saddled up to it and put his ghostly lips over it and sucked it in.
Being, that inside the bottle, he was miniature, so it was the same as drinking a whole bottle in his normal size.And being that he was on the inside of a magic formula (the one that the genie used to regulate herself to bottle size), he was only too glad to take advantage of his reclaimed ability to have a drop to drink.
He sighed with satisfaction and wiped the side of his mouth with his dusty ghost glove.
Feeling a much improved attitude, he blew a hole in the bottle with his six guns and stepped out.
"I'm a gonna challenge you to a gunfight, you genie stealing, ostrich loving varmit," he spat.
He took a moment to pat the Pinto.
(everybody in this story loved the friendly old Ford.)
A rootin tootin time was had by all! The Genie, the Cowboy and the Ghost passed the bottle of whiskey until they all felt like singing.
Then they sang 'Home on the Range' until tears came to their eyes. They fell into each other's arms weeping.
"I love you," "No, I love you more."
"I love you both."
At that point BB rode up in his pinto and pulled out his gun.
"Hey, thar you varmints.I'm gonna blow a hole in each of you and leave you all to rot on your lone prairie. Dang it, Pot metal. quit that dancin'. I cain't aim straight." Bang! Bang!
It just so happened that Cactus was a vampire cowboy!
"Ha, ha, ha!" he said. Unless those are silver bullets, you can't hurt me!
Bang! Bang!
BB rustled in his pocket. "Silver bullets. Silver bullets. Where'd I put those dag nam things?"
BB didn't find any silver bullets. While looking, he pulled a sock out of his pocket.
Well that's useless. He threw the sock over his head. The cowboy ghost dove on the sock and held it up triumpantly.
'Finally!' The ghost began to weep, 'My daddy's long lost sock. I've been searchin' for it for these 20 long years. Now I kin go to my finally restin' place.
The tornado was wondering if it really wanted to be around these people. They were nuts.
Everyone looked around.
The genie, the ghost, the cowboy, BB and the pinto. One of them said:
"It's awfully quiet around here, pardner. That's not a good sign 'round hereabouts.....maybe somethin's a-coming."
Suddenly the pinto pricked his ears, so did BB, the cowboy and then everyone had pricked ears except for Genil whose ears were held down by the enormous rings she wore. "What's that thar noise?" growled BB squirting tobacco from the side of his mouth.
It was the squawking of a hundred ostriches coming toward them at full pelt.
'The otriches are 'a coming! The ostriches are 'a coming!'
"Waddle we do now????"
old pot belly cried.
Waddle
lol
Well, howdy y'all. I now pronounce this darn tootin' installment of this here Western near perfect.
But what happens to the ostriches, Clive, the ghost, the genie, the pinto and the tornado?
Stayed tuned for next week's installment of: How the Wild West was buffaloed.
That's all fer now - g'night folks!
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