Ishmael Reed - Yellow Back Radio Broke-Down

stomp me o lord!!

i am the theoretical mother of all insects!!

mash my 21 or so body segments!!

tear the sutures which join my many abdomens!!

make me a mass of stains of thy choice

an ugly blotch under thy big funny clodhoppers!!

The door swung open on the last line.

The men seated dropped their poker cards and slowly moved away from their chairs. The moose got to its feet and clomped through the side of the building, sending splinters of wood flying.

Hear you’re looking for me, Marshal.

Big Lizzy, Skinny McCullough and the bartender eased away from the bar. The other cowpokes froze.

Now Kid, the Marshal said, what’s a Western without tall tales and gaudy romance? Have a drink.

Pretending to reach for his change the Marshal drew his shooting iron. Too bad. Too slow. Not fast enough.

The lash whistled across the room and popped off the Marshal’s holster, a second lash flicked the gun from his hand, a third lash cracked off the Marshal’s hat, a fourth lash unbuckled his belt with its persuader, which caused the Marshal’s pants to fall, and came within a thousandth of an inch of his shirt, unpinning the star, which dropped to the floor.

The moose peeked in through the big hole he had made in the wall, but seeing no improvement in the situation, galloped towards a lake in the distance.

Loop Garoo the lord of the lash walked over to the end of the bar to where the Preacher was crouched on the floor.

He was scribbling furiously on his yellow pad.

When he saw the Loop standing over him, Rev. Boyd brought forth his crucifix. Nothing happened. He took out a pocket mirror and aimed it into Loop’s face. Loop used the opportunity to straighten his fedora which had slid to the side of his head when he gave the Marshal such a good behind whipping.

Finished? Loop asked.

The Preacher backed away a few paces with a dipshit grin on his face.

Loop lashed the crucifix from his breast without tearing into the man’s flesh. The crucifix dropped to the floor and the little figure attached to it scrambled into the nearest moose hole.

Didn’t you say something about spade poets having gone up in tinder when I walked into the party the other night? Come on Preacher don’t start your thing, I don’t want to hear anything about Matthew Chapter and Verse in ditty bop talk. I get sick of “Soul” sometimes. All right then, Loop said.

(CRACK!) Whenever you say something like that. (CRACK!! CRACK!!) In the future. Check out some sources. (CRACK!! CRACK!!) Motherfucker!! (CRACK! CRACK!) Ask you mama. (CRACK!) Yo wife. (CRACK! CRACK!) Guillaume Apollinaire. (CRACK! POP! CRINKLE! SNAP!) Anybody you want to ask. (CRACK!) But get your information right next time. (NICK!) O.K.?

The Preacher lay on the floor a quivering mumbling heap.

Loop folded his whip and looked about the room. He winked at Big Lizzy. Anybody else want some of this ringing stinging?

The cowpokes shook their heads.

Loop put a rolled cigarette into the Marshal’s mouth and walked outside the bar. The townspeople who had been peeking through the door ran in different directions.

Loop mounted his green horse which kind of did a slow high-stepping trot out of town.

The Marshal just stood there for a moment taking a long swig of whiskey. Big Lizzy’s eyes were two lights she was so much in glee. Her jaws swelled with laughter. The cowpokes all stood, pushing their feet around the floor and eyes downcast in embarrassment.

The Marshal picked at the edges of his mustache. His eyes became moist. He knelt and picked up his badge. He pulled up his pants, covering his red and black colored BVD’s.

Well folks, I’m not going to make excuses. The Kid made a fool of me. Got nothing on but my shorts. I’m a scoundrel, a rogue and a bully. Later for Yellow Back Radio. I’ve met my match here so now it’s time to move on down the line.

He shook hands with everybody in the bar then walked outside and stood in front of the saloon.

The street was a dumpheap of Brueghel faces, of Hogarth faces, of Coney Island hot-dog kissers, ugly pusses and sinking mugs, whole precincts of flat peepers and silly lookers. The sun’s wise broad lips smiled making the goats horny with cosmic seed as monstrous shapes who could never unbend their hands all looked as the Marshal ripped off his badge, boarded his horse and rode out of town. Each side was lined with spectators. He rode past his beloved Hat and Boot store, the Feed store and on into the Black Forest.

Chief Showcase sat on the porch of the Big Black House puffing on his water pipe and nodding. He was getting some cool. The sky was packed full of stars and once and a while one would speed across the heavens.

It was in the quiet of the night and one lone light could be seen in the bunk house where some of the cowpokes had stayed up to play a hand of cards. From far away came the low howl of a coyote.

Mustache Sal walked out on the porch. Her black hair, alluring and glossy, hung down to her waist. She leaned against the post and stared at the stars.

Do you know those visitors who were here to see Drag, Chief Showcase?

Chief Showcase’s eyes slowly opened.

You talking to me, Mrs. Gibson?

Yes Showcase, those men who were here, what did they want?

O it’s some of those men who were your husband’s Vice Presidents of the great Atrocity Corporation that tumbled into Hell after the last crash.

O I see Chief, thanks for the info. What are you doing out here this time of night? I thought Indians were afraid of the dark.

We’re not as afraid of the dark as some of these strong he men type cowboys around here. Some of these fighting quarrelsome demons sitting on the top of the Big Black House that have been appearing have really gotten the help shook loose.

O you don’t believe in all of that, do you Chief Showcase? I mean a handsome redman like yourself could never be taken in by a loony nigger. My husband will have his scalp in no time. Besides the lease to the underworld is in my name. I tricked him into signing it with my wily charms.

Let’s just say that I’m not taken in as much as the Loop Garoo Kid was taken in by you.

What did you say Chief? Mustache Sal said, walking with her hands on her hips towards where the Indian sat.

Nothing Mrs. Gibson.

Mustache Sal slid down next to Chief Showcase. Call me Sal, Injun, she said her huge bright eyes shining behind her shades. What is that you’re smoking?

The Chief handed his employer’s wife the water pipe. Mustache Sal’s brain began to tingle.

Whew, what kind of tobaccy is this? Mustache Sal said closing her eyes.

Tobaccy hell! Bought a mule caravan full of the stuff when I flew over to Nepal last year.

You travels a lot Redskin.

Sure do.

Next time Drag calls you up to the Big House for one of those conferences he’s always having with you maybe you can drop in and tell me about your travels.

Drop in like what you did to Drag’s cups with those little pills?

Who told you about that?

Just a half hour before you came downstairs you dropped them in his cups. I saw you on Drag’s closed circuit TV I routed through to that little teepee servant’s quarters they built for me down near the outhouse.

You won’t tell will you? Mustache Sal pleaded, rubbing against Chief Showcase and starting to unbutton her blouse.

What does white folks business have to do with me, Showcase said lifting her long black skirts and placing his hand upon her creamy thighs. The white man has the brain of Aristotle, the body of Michelangelo’s David and the shining spirit of the Prime-mover, how would it look for a lowly savage and wretch such as me meddling in his noble affairs? Showcase said piledriving into Sal so that her spine rammed up against the wall of the porch banner and her legs wrapped about Showcase’s hips.