Ishmael Reed: Yellow Back Radio Broke-Down

There was a stir and the Chieftain and two warriors leaped over the fence yelling consonantal war whoops and whirling their maces .

Skinny had just enough time to mount his horse’s sore back but even on foot the barefooted Germans were almost able to overtake him .

He found Drag asleep on the velvet couch, the historical romance, The Life and Times of Catherine the Great, lying on the floor. Skinny waded through the empty bottles of Red-Eye and tapped the boss on his shoulder .

Drag! Drag! Some kind of half-naked unsaddled infidel white men attacking nesters from the north blond-haired blue-eyed devils wearing bearskins!

Aw go on Skinny, you some kind of folk nut or something? Drag answered half asleep .

No boss, he said running to the laced green curtains. They’re coming up the path right now .

Soon Drag lay on the floor, his head resting on the ankles of his dead foreman .

When the rest of the hands and the servants were scalped the warriors headed for the stable to steal the horses .

The barnyard was in an uproar with much cackling squealing barking braying neighing clucking meowing and even some strange new noises (the revenge of Horrible Hybrid! ).

When they reached the entrance to the stable the Chieftain stumbled backwards, his hands shielding his eyes .

Ugh! Vor crying oud loud! I hate green! Vill you get rid of mit der green. I tink I’m going to get kranky .

The warriors obediently walked over to the horse’s stall and were about to chop off its head when it awoke — wringing wet and snorting from the affects of its recurrent nightmare.

A black villain with unusual attributes was standing over it. A white snake moved around Loop Garoo’s neck, green with envy. It frowned above its pink eyes and whistled its pink tongue. From then on the Hoo-Doo cowboy would hagride the night holding the horn of the lone green horse.

Rocking on its axles, the Black Swan Stagecoach rumbled to the front of the Hotel the next evening. Mustache Sal held the hem of her dress and was helped down by a cowpoke the foreman had sent from the Purple Bar-B to fetch her.

I be from Drag Gibson’s Purple Bar-B, ma’am. Are you Mustache Sal, da one who answered da ad: old ugly ignorant cattlerancher with lots of acres wants woman with unusual habits?

The woman nodded at the fool and smiled as the man helped her into the buckboard that was to take them to the ranch. The two occupants faced forward not noticing the horseman who could be seen riding behind them as soon as the moon appeared.

How long have you been working for the Purple Bar-B, driver? Mustache Sal asked Drag’s hand, who sat next to her, whipping the horses.

The man’s senses reeled from the heavy perfume Sal wore imported from Gay Paree, “Hogcalls in Nocturne.” Her busts were about to break out of the top of her velvet dress as he could well see when he turned to answer her.

Duh, I been here for two years, mahm, I likes it swell.

Mustache Sal removed a cigar from her purse and began to moisten it with her tongue darting through her round beckoning lips. What’s his Dun & Bradstreet rating?

Duh, don’t know no fellers go by that handle working up here. Miss Sal you sure you haven’t gotten da Purple Bar-B mixed up with some other place? the driver said, an itchy feeling creeping about his groin.

What is your job here driver? Mustache Sal continued realizing that further probing of this hick would reveal him to be as simple as they come.

I’m da assistant to the wranglers. I pumps da spring water for da horses.

Mustache Sal removed her hat and lay her head in the driver’s lap. Her silky black hair hung between his knees.

What’s wrong Miss Sal you gettin sleepy? the driver asked straining to keep his eyes in front of him.

Can you pump good, driver man?

The driver felt the words become hot breath. Steam edged about his already inflamed lap.

Well I tries my best Miss Sal da hosses don’t complain.

Mustache Sal unzipped his pants and rubbed the bulb of his organ about her gums.

The horses went crazy and ran about the edge of a cliff.

The driver pulled them to a halt.

Whoa there whoa you fillies.

He smacked Sal’s hand.

Hey duh stop that you…you…female you I’m trying to keep my eyes in my teeth, I mean my nose has to be on da trail so that my ears won’t break da harness I mean…

Mustache Sal had expertly pulled off the man’s britches shoving him into the rear of the chuck wagon parked on the side of the road and soon that section of the vehicle began to yodel as if a hundred Memphis hillbilly bands had teamed up with a locomotive.

The moon smiled from crater to crater.

When they were inside the Big Black House of the ranch the cowpoke started bowlegged up the stairs. He reached the top, his hands weighed down with bags, his eyes downcast — too bad, because Drag appeared on the top landing. He scared the cowpoke so, he stumbled backwards. No wonder, because Drag was quite a sight. He wore a flat black hat with a string dividing his chin into two huge beery lumps, laced trousers, a red sash around his waist, tight-fitting shoes, and as he came down the stairs he began to snap some castanets together.

Mustache Sal raised her head and did a double take.

What have I gotten myself into this time? she thought.

A rose between his teeth, Drag continued down the stairs. When he reached the suitcase which had opened in the cowpoke’s fall, he slipped and rolled down the steps like a huge barrel.

The servants who had been peeking from behind the curtains broke up. Drag rose to his feet, an aging buffalo patriarch with ragged stumps for legs, and fired into the curtain. Sounds of little feet could be heard running down the hall.

The cowpoke edged out of the room leaving it to Drag and his prospective bride.

Hi sweet stuff, you must be the mail order bride, here let me see your teeth. He held Mustache Sal by the jaw and she complied by opening her mouth. Good, he said sitting across from the woman. I’m a big man in these parts, fish fill my full I mean full fish my swim.

Yeah Mac, Sal said, I read your scrawl in the newspaper.

Good then you know that I’m really what counts, Drag said sitting on a tack and bouncing up his hands holding the seat of his pants.

What’s in it for me? Sal asked. I mean, you know, what about my piece of the action?

Well there’s a messy part to it, but we got separate bedrooms and I won’t bother you. You don’t have to worry about me and women. I got my Bible and as much Dharmas as the next fellow. Although I do hope you’re warmer when I bang you than the last one who wuz so cold she give one frostbite of the penis as if your prick was on an excursion in Antarctica go in like a normal organ come out a seal haw haw…o igloo pussy—

O.K. O.K. I got yooz, Sal said.

It’s a deal, he said crunching her fingers between his huge hairy hands. I’ll have the little chink show you to your room.

The man came in picked up the baggage and started upstairs. Drag stroked his chin and gave the chinaboy a dollar bill, and pondered the figure shaking its hips as it went up to the second floor of the building.

Strange creatures, women, Drag thought. Well, wonder what’s for chow?

Thunder stabbed the night. Long yellow daggers. It rained on YBR-on the swinepit behind the gallows. Hogs in trench coats. Downstairs of the Big Black House the Dr. was playing poker with Drag Gibson on the eve of his wedding.

Drag I’ve been thinking, you don’t think the Loop Garoo Kid could have anything to do with these strange events — the black cow found with its neck broke this morning? Drag, those were peculiar people — those circus folk. Think they got some tricks up their sleeves, making plans out there beneath the sod where we buried them?