ONE
A stranger came into town on a hot and windy day, just as drifters did in the Old West, well over 100 years ago.
"Howdy, stranger," greeted the bartender, the tops of her breasts showing above scooped low neck of her flimsy top from Celine's of Paris (Texas). The height of the bar concealed her bare belly and scruffy tennis shorts.
"Beer, or whisky?"
"A soda, thank you ma'am."
The bar fell silent, nothing could be heard but the, um, patter of tiny feet of cockroaches.
"That accent, young fellow," sniffed Hank Bellows, nursing a cold. "Is it Canadian? Canadian's are not welcome here as they steal our foreign wheat markets."
"No sir," said the young man respectfully. "Never been to Canada."
"Is it Australian? Aussies are not welcome here as they steal our women."
"No, sir. I'm from New Zealand."
"Oh, then that's all right. New Zealand, Switzerland, Austria – anyone from those tiny cheese-making places up there in the mountains pose no threat to us. We're plainspeople."
"Come and sit with us, son, bring your soda," said one of the bar prostitutes, a motherly woman. "Now, have you been enjoying yourself between the ample thighs of someone like me, lately?"
"No ma'am, I'm saving myself these past two years for Bridie McGuire."
The bar fell silent; the cockroaches fled.
Everyone jumped when Hank Bellows snorted to clear nostril blockages before speaking.
"Say that name again, son."
"Bridie McGuire. I'm sorry that you have a hearing deficiency."
The religiously knowlegeable in the saloon who'd already crossed themselves for the young man knowing he was bound for certain death at the hands of the McGuire brothers, crossed themselves again because his death was very much more imminent.
Hank Bellows pushed back his chair and stood up...and stood up...and stood up until all six foot eight of him was brushing the ceiling.
"Listen here, punk..."
"Excuse me, would you please desist in calling me names." " Why you insolent little foreign wheat germ," snarled Hank, sending a bunched fist straight between the eyes of the stranger. But those eyes were not were they were supposed to be. Slower only just less than the speed of light, the stranger had side-stepped, somersaulted over the card table, strode up behind Hank and with a powerful slam of the sole of his cowboy boot into Hank's ass, sent his attacker crashing into the solid wood bar.
The bar fell silent, and the cockroaches scampered back to watch the action.
The stranger helped Hank to his feet and dusted him off.
"Sorry sir, but according to Western Lore – that's spelled L-o-r-e – I'm obliged to defend myself otherwise forevermore I'll be known as the coward of the county."
"Quite right, son. I understand fully. Lucy, get this man another soda; it's on me."
"Son, allow me to introduce myself. I am Hank Bellows and I own most of this town including this saloon and thirty percent of all the wheat you see growing from horizon to horizon."
"Excuse me Hank," called a skinny fellow in a dark suit and bowler hat, he rushed up to Hank and whispered in his ear.
"Correction," said Hank. "Silas tells me we've finished harvesting – well then, I own thirty percent of the wheat-growing land you can see from horizon to horizon."
"Pleased to meet you Hank, I am Hal Court from Auckland."
"Oakland, San Francicso?"
"No, Auckland, New Zealand."
"Where's that."
"You head Down Under towards Australia but just before you get there you divert to the left a bit."
"That's Antarctica?"
"Don't go quite that far south, Hank."
"Why do you choose to die early, Hal?"
"I don't. It's still another fifty-three years before I take possession of my pre-booked burial site."
"No, I mean going after the McGuire sister. You know the score, don't you?"
"That she's a virgin – I do."
"No, that twenty-three young fellows have come courting the irresistible Miss Bridie McGuire and those same twenty-three unsuccessful suitors now rest in our Boot Hill."
"Golly, does she have something contagious?"
"Not her, my son. It's her five brothers – Tom, Joe, Bill, Luke and Little Joe. They want their sister to live a pure life, at home. So anyone coming calling to take her away from them gets stabbed, shot, buried alive, garrotted, poisoned, quartered – and that's only some of the more acceptable ways of eliminating vermin in these parts.
"Why haven't the McGuire Brothers being jailed for the murders?"
"No evidence, my son. The boys give each other an alibi and remove all evidence."
One of the gamblers stretched, belched and asked: "How did you find out about Miss McGuire when you live in Nowhere?"
"New Zealand?"
"Is there a difference?"
"I suppose not."
"I get 'Playboy' to read the stories, and there was an article about her and her unsuccessful suitors."
"So you thought you would accept the challenge to outwit this cordon of brotherhood?"
"No, I just fancied her name. Bridie McGuire sounds rather cute. I'll let her keep that name when we marry next month."
A deathly silence hit the saloon. Two cockroaches sniggered first, and then the whole building shook and bottles rattled as the barwoman and her patrons – with the exception of Hal – laughed tears into their eyes.
"When are you going out to the McGuire place, Hal?"
"In the morning, Hank."
"Come on Hal," said the motherly prostitute. "Come and have a bath with me and then just cum. This will be your last time, so it's complimentary."
