David Ohle - The Pisstown Chaos

Dewey parted the canvas canopy at the back of the wagon, permitting Mildred and Charity to glimpse the pre-dawn sky and feel the chill of morning air. "You two better keep your voices down. There's a couple of Guards on board." He lifted Harp's bag into the wagon bed. "Hide the brick under one of those sacks. If they take a notion to look us over, and find this, it's the Purple Isle for all of us." He glanced away, then turned back, his face growing pale, his teeth set. "All quiet in there. Here come the Guards. Tuck that bar away."

Mildred acted quickly and the bar was out of sight, beneath a sack. Spreading her skirts, she sat on top of the sack and pulled Charity just next to her.

The Guards introduced themselves in a courteous and respectful manner as D.J. Purgeth, who wanted to be called Sasha, and D. St. Dizier, of the Reverend's Hookerite Guard.

"Good morning, people," Purgeth said. "Are we going to Bum Bay?"

"That was our intention," Mildred said. "My property has been appropriated. We have nowhere to stay on the Island."

"Who's the stinker?"

"I'm Charity. I'm only thirteen but I look a hundred. Isn't that funny?"

"I'm overcome with laughter," St. Dizier said, unzipping his tunic to reveal a spanking paddle affixed to his belt. "This paddle is made of hedge-apple wood."

"Sometimes known as bow d'arc," Purgeth added.

"No wood is stronger," St. Dizier said.

"With the notable exception of ironwood," interjected Purgeth.

"Yes, that's true, and these little spikes are intended to leave a bottom fairly bloody, even through the clothing," St. Dizier explained.

Dewey spoke up. "I'm just hauling teeth to Bum Bay. I've got all my papers, all my permits, all my licenses."

"Who is that person sitting up front, the one in the suit?"

"He says his name is Harp."

"Ask him to step down here. We need to have a confab…. Who's the old woman?"

"She says she's Mildred Balls."

"That's right, I am Mildred."

Harp climbed down and joined the gathering. "Have we done something wrong? I'm in unspeakable pain and in something of a hurry to get home for a long rest."

St. Dizier opened his tunic again and Harp saw the paddle, then Purgeth opened his, exposing an inside pocket stuffed with clean rags and another holding a bottle of liniment.

"I know you two," Harp said. "Purgeth and St. Dizier. The famous French spanking team. I've been to one of your shows."

"He remembers us," Purgeth said.

"Do you remember us, Mildred? What about you, Dewey?"

No answer came from either.

"Get out of the wagon, Miss Stinker. We're going to give these people a demonstration."

Charity clambered out of the wagon bed.

St. Dizier said, "My paddle has a hundred and one spikes. I'll give her two or three swats and we'll see the damage it can do."

"I'm ready with the liniment and rags." Purgeth held them out.

"Step out there in the open, Charity girl. Take down your skirt and your underdrawers."

By now, a small crowd of ferry passengers had gathered to watch.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Balls. It won't hurt." Charity raised her skirt. "I don't wear underdrawers. They stick to my skin. I wear skirts, so I can get air." She bent over.

St. Dizier slammed her bottom with his paddle three times in quick succession. The third blow knocked her off her feet. There was little bleeding, but quite a bit of torn and punctured flesh.

"That was fun," Charity giggled. "I think I felt something. A tiny, tiny little hurt. Can we do it again?"

"Sorry, girl," Purgeth said, "we've got fares to collect. Other wagons to inspect. You people go about your business."

The ferry's bell rang and the lumbering craft moved slowly away from the dock and across the gloomy straits without incident in just under twelve hours.

On landing at Witchy Toe, a small settlement on the West shore, Dewey drove the wagon off the ferry and to a roadblock for a cursory inspection by a Guard.

"Hey, there, Dewy. What's your load?"

"Teeth is all. They struck a new vein. I'm wore out. My mules are wore out. How much to let me pass?"

"Ten'll do."

"Here you go." Dewey handed him a ten.

"How far to Bum Bay?" Harp asked. "I'm in great pain, almost unbearable."

"It's not how far," the Guard snapped, "it's how long. In a rig like that you'll be four or five days getting there. You have to cross the Indiana Prairie, which, if you read the papers, is infested with rabid imps and pocked with the holes they live in. It's dangerous ground and the going is rough. You can hold a jar of urpmilk in your lap and make starch in about a half a mile."

"That ain't no fun," Dewey said, "even for somebody with a steel spine like me."

The wagon headed down Witchy Toe's main street and turned into an alley, passing a small crowd of men standing over a fallen stinker. Two of the onlookers, Major Peppard and Private Ratoncito, were in Guard uniforms. The Major wore thick-lensed eyeglasses and stood head-and-shoulders taller than his diminutive partner. Another onlooker, in a black suit, appeared to be a mortician. Shortly, a woman joined the group with a sketchpad and began sketching the stinker. "What stage?" she asked the Major. "Fourth?"

"Late fourth. He's been lying here three weeks, maybe five. The imps've been coming into town at night to feed on him. We're thinking we'll go on ahead with the burial tomorrow."

In preparation for casting a plaster likeness, the mortician applied hot beeswax to the stinker's face while an assistant stirred plaster into a pail of water with a wooden stave.

Dewey obeyed Private Ratoncito's signal and reined in the mules. For the first time in many hours, Mildred and Charity were able to part the canvas and look out. "It's nice to breathe fresh air," Mildred said. "Those teeth have a distinctive odor, like a stinker."

"I don't breathe any more," Charity sighed. "Or smell either."

The tall Guard tipped his hat. "Morning, all. Hello, Dewey."

"Hey, there, Major Peppard, Private Ratoncito. Got a load of teeth here and three passengers. How much?"

"Where you going?"

"Bum Bay."

"Let's say ten bucks."

Dewey handed down the money to Private Ratoncito. "Looks like one of your wheels is loose, Dewey. Better get on down to the blacksmith's. You don't want a broken spoke out there on the prairie."

Dewey spit cotton. "I'll be damned if bad luck don't follow me like my shadow. I guess I'll head over there right now.

Though the mules were dripping perspiration and foaming at their mouths, Dewey whipped them on. The wagon continued along the alley a few blocks to the Tooth Gold Exchange, pulling up to the loading dock at the rear.

As the sacks were being unloaded, Mildred and Charity availed themselves of a nearby latrine. "I do pass gas sometimes," Charity said, sitting on the hole beside Mildred. "But nothing solid ever comes." She stood and spit three teeth into the hole. "I don't need those anymore."

"Poor, girl," Mildred said. "Poor, poor girl."

When the wagon was empty and Dewey had collected a hundred bucks, the party continued to the blacksmith's, who was forging a part for a strange-looking wagon parked behind the shop. It had the general shape of a boat, with two wooden masts and light, thin wheels twelve feet in diameter.

The blacksmith rested his hammer on the anvil. "What can I do for you, Dewey?"

"What in tarnation kind of wagon is that out back?"

"That there is a wind wagon, my friend, made special for Reverend Hooker. You run them sails up, she'll roll over the prairie like a ship on water. I'm forging her brand right now before I burn it into the stern." He grasped the branding iron with his long-handled pliers and lifted it from the coals.

Charity said, "That spells RH."

"That's right, little stinker girl," the smithy said, "it stands for Reverend Hooker."