Seth MacFarlane - A Million Ways to Die in the West

Harper wiped his hands on a rag, tossed it on his patient’s leg, and strolled into the outer room. Albert had already seated himself in a chair, eager to take the weight off his injured limb.

“Hi, Doc,” he said. “I was wondering if— holy shit .” He stopped mid-sentence as he registered Doctor Harper’s hands, which were still shiny with fresh crimson blood.

“Oh, don’t mind this,” Doctor Harper reassured him. “I’m just in the middle of surgery.”

“I can come back,” Albert said, moving toward the door.

“No, no, she’ll be out for a while. It’s Mrs. Callaghan, poor woman. Her stomach devil was about to explode, so I had to take it out.”

It took Albert a beat to decipher that one. “Her appendix?”

“Yep, that’s the fella,” the doctor answered.

Albert wondered why he had even come here. A trip to the doctor’s office was likely to turn a hangnail into a desperate struggle for survival.

“Now, what’s the trouble?” Doctor Harper asked, allowing himself a swallow from one of the bottles on the shelf. No doubt such frequent behavior contributed to the heavily seamed face and unhealthy pallor that brought to mind Luke 4:23: Physician, heal thyself .

“Uh, it’s a bullet graze. Just need it checked out.”

“Oh, yeah.” The doctor smiled with a gossip-hungry glint in his eye. “I heard you turned yellow on Charlie Blanche.”

“Well, Doc, I know you’d rather be patching up a gaping chest wound than a minor graze, but unfortunately I value my life. Now, you wanna take a look at this, or should I limp out into the desert and let the fucking coyotes have at it?”

“All right, let’s have a look.” Doctor Harper laughed good-naturedly. The doctor rolled up Albert’s trouser leg, his hands leaving light bloody smears on the fabric, courtesy of Mrs. Callaghan.

“I notice you’re not big on the hand-washing,” Albert remarked listlessly. The doctor either ignored the comment or was too busy focusing on the injury.

“Ooh, that’s a nasty one,” he observed, examining the wound. “We may have to take that off, otherwise you could wind up with a case of toe-foot.”

Albert sighed. “Okay, first of all, I don’t think that’s a real thing, and second of all, it’s a graze, Doc. I’m not gonna let you cut my foot off.”

“Suit yourself. But I’ve seen toe-foot turn into knee-leg in less than a week.”

“Just a dressing, thanks,” Albert responded curtly, now even more anxious to get this over with as quickly as possible.

Doctor Harper pulled open a drawer and retrieved a roll of bandages as Albert surveyed the small office. The remains of a roast chicken were scattered on a plate next to an open jar of laudanum, and a recently lit cigar sat precariously on the edge of a side table, its pointy tip still darkened with saliva. As for any sign of official physician’s credentials, the sole candidate hung in a wooden frame on the far wall.

“Texas Territory Medical College,” Albert read the handwritten diploma aloud as the doctor went to work on his leg. “So, is that a pretty prestigious place?”

“Yessir, third in my class,” Harper answered with genuine pride.

“Ah. And was this an indoor medical school?” Albert asked without a trace of sarcasm or irony.

“All right, there we go,” said the doctor, straightening up and smiling down at the new dressing. “Try to stay off it for a bit.”

Albert looked at the results. “Just a dry cloth bandage? That’s it?”

“Well, what else would you like me to do?”

“Clean it, maybe?” Albert answered, feigning patience. “So I don’t get an infection and die?”

“Well, now, that’s up to the Lord God.”

Albert stared for a beat. “I guess I’m looking for someone more reliable.”

They wished each other good day as Jesus the cat helped himself to Mrs. Callaghan’s large intestine.

On any given evening, the Old Stump Saloon was packed to the gills with gamblers, boozers, and unshaven purveyors of various foul smells. At times, in fact, there seemed to be virtually hundreds of different odors, all fiercely competing for dominance in the confined and poorly ventilated space.

But at two o’clock in the afternoon, the place was mostly deserted. A couple of frail-looking old cowhands sat at the bar staring into their glasses, but otherwise the lower level was empty.

Except for Edward Phelps.

Edward sat patiently on a wooden chair at the base of the stairwell that led up to the brothel rooms. He probably should have brought a book or something, he thought, but the wait wouldn’t be too long. In his hand he held a lovely late-spring bouquet of daisies, lilacs, and daffodils. From upstairs, the raucous sounds of sexual intercourse could be heard as Edward’s girlfriend, Ruth, was fucked wildly by a dirty cowboy.

“Oh, yes! YES!! ” she screamed, her voice reverberating throughout the saloon.

“Yeah, you like me fuckin’ you, don’t you?” bellowed the dirty cowboy.

“Yes! Yes, it’s really terrific!” she shouted back between moans of ecstasy.

“I got dirt on my dick from workin’ outside all day!”

“I know! I love the scratchy feeling inside me!”

“Yeah, you like the dirt on my dick, don’t you?!”

“I do! I really do! It’s such a treat!”

Ruth’s sex talk had always been a bit clumsy, but her heart was in the right place, and as a prostitute she was exemplary: always on time for her shift, freshly bathed after every fifth customer, and willing to accommodate all types of fetishes. Edward admired her work ethic. The seriousness with which a person took professional obligations said a lot about their character. He was lucky to be with such a woman.

“Stick your finger in my asshole!” shouted the dirty cowboy.

“I’m excited to!” Ruth answered.

At that moment, Millie, the house madam, descended the stairs. She was plump, in her early forties, with the saucy, painted look of a career saloon whore. Her thick mound of done-up hair, no doubt once dark as onyx, now showed numerous streaks of gray. As she approached, she waved a beringed hand in the cobbler’s direction.

“Hi, Edward,” she said with a smile. Her cherry-red lips and heavily rouged cheeks, while undignified-looking in and of themselves, at least added some welcome color to the brown-on-brown room.

“Oh, hey, Millie.” Edward grinned, standing respectfully.

“You waiting for Ruth?”

“Yeah, I got off work a little early, so I thought I’d take her out for a picnic.”

“Oh. You’re a good boyfriend.”

“I try to be.”

Millie glanced toward the upper level. “Well, it sounds like she’s almost done,” she said, as the moans of orgasmic passion reached a dissonant crescendo.

“OH, GOD, I’M GONNA COME!” Ruth screamed.

“Those are pretty flowers,” Millie remarked.

Edward looked down at his bouquet with a proud grin. “I know, aren’t they beautiful? There are even a couple of tulips in here. They’re hard to come by this time of year, but Ruth is very particular.”

“OH, YES! SHOOT THAT DIRTY COWBOY CUM ALL OVER MY FACE!”

Edward adjusted his tie, hearing that Ruth was almost finished. “Do I look all right?” he asked, presenting himself to Millie for inspection.

“Yes, you’re… you’re fine,” she answered, unable to contain her curiosity any longer. “Say, Edward… can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Are you… okay with the fact that your girlfriend gets screwed by about fifteen guys every day and gets paid to do it?”

“Oh. Well, I mean, my job sucks too.”

“Yeah, but you repair shoes.”