©2018 David Morgan — 1318 words
The wind picks up slightly and blows a little more dust in through the open door. The coating of dust on the floor hasn’t been disturbed for over an hour. We’ve stood here that long without moving an inch, without saying a word. The only disturbance in the air is labored breathing and the occasional fart. I’ve seen this happen before. It’s usually kind of funny, but not this time. This time it somehow feels final, like watching a guest who has overstayed his welcome finally packing his suitcase.
At one end of the room stands Percy Beauregard, A.K.A. The Arizona Kid. Everyone calls him “The Kid” even though he’s pushing ninety years old. Facing him at the other end of the room is Sheriff Clevon Hornytoad. Everyone refers to him as “The Piddler.” The folks in Peeling Blister Gulch aren’t always kind to their incontinent lawman. They see him as an embarrassing relic of a bygone era. I think everyone still votes for him simply out of habit. At one hundred and three years old, Sheriff Hornytoad is older than the town itself. Besides being a bit of a joke, he’s seen as a fair enforcer of the law. He is also known as a kind and gentle man who is slow to anger, very slow. In fact, he is renowned all over as “The Slowest Gun in the West.”
These two gunslingers are all that’s left of an extinct culture. Neil Armstrong stepped onto the moon just a couple of years ago. These two refuse to believe it, though. I remember the day after it happened, I ran into the Sheriff right here in this very same Baskin Robbins. I asked him what he thought about seeing man go from horses and wagons to flying in space. He mumbled something about it being a Mormon conspiracy and tried to spit at me. Instead, his teeth fell into my sundae and he drooled down the front of his shirt.
“This town ain’t big enough for the two of us!” Growled The Kid.
“You say that at least once a year, Percy, and the town’s population grows every year.” Clevon snickers in response, “Just how big does this town have to get to shut you up?”
Percy thinks for a second, then answers, “Well, it has got so big I had to ride the bus and transfer at Appleton Street to get here to kill you. Remember that time I shot you in the middle of Appleton?”
“That wasn’t you, you old fool! That was your wife.” Clevon has had to explain this several times before. He shakes his head with frustration, causing his big cowboy hat to slide down over his eyes. He pushes it back up, a move he makes countless times everyday. His giant ears might be the only things keeping that hat from completely swallowing his head.
“Which wife was that?” Percy asks. He doesn’t wear a hat. Percy still has most of his hair and likes to show it off. Instead, he wears a bandana tied around his collar. It almost hides the huge goiter growing out of his neck. It looks like there’s a baby vampire clamped to his neck and the handkerchief is its diaper.
“The fourth one, Alani. You know, the one from Hawaii.” Clevon explains.
Percy scratches his head and the goiter jiggles like a giggling infant. “Oh yeah. You know, when I was a kid, Hawaii hadn’t even been discovered yet. And now kids can eat fruit anytime they want.”
“What the hell are you babbling about, Kid? You mean Hawaii wasn’t a state yet, and I think you’re talking about pineapples or something. Did you take your pills this morning?” Clevon glares angrily at Percy through his Coke bottle glasses. “If you’re here to kill me, then hurry up and draw.”
Percy isn’t sure he heard that right. He digs his finger into his ear to make sure there’s no blockage. “Draw? But we had art class yesterday. I thought today was Scrabble. I hope they give us that green Jello for dessert tonight.”
I liked it better when they stared at each other silently for an hour. They’ve been working on drawing their guns, but they both tend to get a little distracted. Every couple of years, Clevon tries to arrest Percy for train robbery, a crime he already did time for. He finished that prison sentence back in the 1920’s. Percy sneaks out of his nursing home from time to time with the intention of gunning down his old adversary. The town has gotten so used to the display that it’s become a tourist attraction.
“Hey, give me a hand with this young man.” Percy gestures to me.
His pants are hiked up so high, his holster is in his armpit and he can’t reach the gun. There are around twenty people in the ice cream store including myself and the two old men. There are parents with their children, teenagers on date night, and even a tourist family from Japan. All of whom are watching intently as the world’s saddest gunfight unfolds. I take pity on The Kid and help him free his gun.
The Sheriff must be part praying mantis. His hand has been moving very slowly, but very steadily toward his gun for an hour. At the sight of Percy’s freed pistol, suddenly Clevon’s reflexes kick in and he scoops up the six shooter from his own holster.
*POP* *POP*
The Arizona Kid squeezes off two shots before the Sheriff can get his hand to stop shaking long enough to take aim. Clevon looks down and sees his trousers are soaked.
“Oh my God! You shot my dick!” The old man panics.
“Relax, you just wet yourself.” One of the patrons explains. “He only has a cap gun.”
All eyes turn toward Percy, who is lying on the floor clutching his chest. I lean down to check on him.
“I’ve been shot.” He wheezes weakly, “I can’t believe he beat me. Did I hear him say I shot him in the dick? Serves him right for sleeping with Eleanor.”
“Alani!” Clevon corrects him.
His last breath seeps out before anyone has time to call for an ambulance. The sound from the cap pistol must have caused him to have a heart attack. Suddenly, there is a loud thud. The Sheriff hits the floor. He lays flat on his back with an arrow sticking out of his chest.
I turn around and see a wrinkly old Apache man in warpaint and a feathered headdress crawling past the open door on an electric mobility scooter. He has a bow in his hand and a look of great satisfaction on his face.
A year later, Joseph Freeman was tried for the murder of Sheriff Hornytoad. Freeman demanded he be referred to by his given name during the trial. He claims his tribal name is “Boy with Horse Cock”. Freeman has a reputation for being rather forward with the ladies. In fact, his own caregiver, Lucy Gardner, even refused to be a character witness for him. The judge sentenced Freeman to life in prison, which ended up being about two months.
Peeling Blister Gulch was pretty shaken up over the incident for quite a while. However, a new tradition has begun to pay respect to the beloved Sheriff Hornytoad. Every year on the anniversary of the Baskin Robbins Massacre, the town holds a celebration. The Piddler Parade takes place in front of the ice cream shop where he was shot. Townsfolk of all ages, the fire department, the high school marching band, and the staff of the sheriff’s department all wet their pants and then march from one end of the parking lot to the other. In honor of Clevon Hornytoad, sheriff of The Gulch for seventy three years, it is the slowest procession on Earth.
