Norman Partridge - The Man With the Barbed-Wire Fists

Even though we’ve got the heater cranked full blast, I’m shivering behind the wheel — leather coat zipped up tight, face numb as the hide of a zombie that stumbled off a midnight movie screen. Mitch is a hardcase, of course. No coat for this boy — he’s wearing that T-shirt. The one he got up the street from the Bucket of Blood Saloon while I bided my time, stretching the last sip of a three buck beer that I couldn’t afford.

It’s an eye catcher, the shirt is. Bullet holes cratering high on the chest, bright red blood driving over the legend:

SLOWEST GUN IN

VIRGINIA CITY, NEVADA

The sign over the batwing doors said Bucket of Blood Saloon. Inside, Big John Dingo stood straight and tall, black eyes shining like fresh tarantula blood, lips twisted into a snarl.

“Fill yer hand, ya sorry sonofabitch!”

“Hold on,” Mitch began. I’m not ready — ”

“Not with yer pecker, idiot!” the gunfighter growled. “Fill yer hairy palm with a six-gun, ’cause I’m about to blow yer pimply ass south of eternity!”

The batwing doors swung open. Big John clutched a fistful of Colt .45 while Mitch made a grab for his pistol.

Mitch missed the holster entirely. He was laughing way too hard — one hand searching for his pistol, the other wrapped around a beer.

The gunfighter’s pistol sparked. “HAHAHAHAHA!” he screeched. “Another pencil-dicked pilgrim eats it! No one outdraws Big John Dingo! I can fuck longer and draw faster than any man alive! I never come up for air! I live on pussy and hot lead! Drop a quarter, ya redneck peckerwood! Try your luck! HAHAHAHAHA!”

Mitch swigged beer and turned away from the mechanical gunman.

“More quarters?” the bartender asked.

“No.” Mitch laughed at the mannequin as the batwing doors closed on the tiny booth. “Where the hell did you get this thing?”

“Used to be in a drug store over in Carson City. A kid’s game, right along with the gum machines and the fiberglass pony ride. Of course, the gunfighter didn’t talk like that when he was outdrawing six-year-olds. My boss hired a fellow who did a little work on him. He juiced the gunfighter’s speed a little, recorded a new tape and — ”

“You think your boss would sell it?” Mitch interrupted.

“Well, I don’t know… ”

Mitch drained his beer. “What do you think, Kurt? Would the crowd down at the bar love this thing, or what?”

I nodded. “Sure they would. But what about you? I mean, can you imagine listening to Big John Dingo all night long, every night?”

The mechanical gunfighter kicked into gear as if on cue. “C’mon ya candy-assed cocksuckers! Yer dicks are wrapped in Tom Jones’ old socks! Ya got cojones the size of goober peas! Ain’t a one of you man enough to take on Big John Dingo!”

Mitch set his empty beer on the counter. “I guess it would get old pretty fast.”

“Good Tom Jones line, though,” I said.

Mitch did some business with the bartender, stocking up on Bucket of Blood Saloon souvenirs. A T-shirt, a coffee cup, even a cassette tape featuring Big John Dingo’s witty repartee. In just under three minutes, Mitch dropped thirty bucks and change.

And he wasn’t done yet. “Want another round?” he asked, his wallet still open.

I shook my head.

“C’mon. I’m buyin’.”

“No. I’m okay.”

“C’mon.” Mitch sidled up on the barstool next to me. “Ease off a little. Stop worrying. I thought you were going to leave all that money shit behind for the weekend. Sure you’re hurting now, but what was it you said?”

“This too will pass.”

“Yeah. It fuckin’ will. Things will come around for you, same way they came around for me. Right now you’re hurting, and I’m not. It’s as simple as that. So let me buy you a — ”

Mitch left it there. Suddenly, he was staring over my shoulder, transfixed, and I knew that look.

I knew what I’d see before I even turned. She’d be tall and dark. Thin. That was a given. When it came to women, Mitch definitely favored a certain type. Genus Gen X, species Morticia Adamsette.

But this one wasn’t dressed in black, which was kind of a surprise. She wore a white T-shirt with faux bullet holes that streamed equally faux blood.

“Hey,” Mitch said. “Where’d you get that shirt?”

“That’s not the question,” she said.

Mitch raised his eyebrows. “What is?”

“The question is what you’ll give me for it.”

They laughed. Mitch bought her a drink. Her name was Doreen. Past the expected pleasantries, I kept my mouth shut and didn’t get in the way. Hell, I could barely afford my own drink, let alone someone else’s.

Mitch and Doreen talked about T-shirts until that went dead, and then they found something else to talk about, and pretty soon I noticed that Doreen’s hand was on Mitch’s thigh.

Doreen made the inevitable trip to the Ladies’, and Mitch got down to business.

“You mind?” Mitch asked.

“No, man,” I said. “Go for it.”

“You okay? I mean, you’ve got enough money, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Go on. Have fun. If I’m not here, I’ll be in the car.”

Mitch and Doreen left together, heading for the shop that sold the SLOWEST GUN IN VIRGINIA CITY’ T-shirts, which was where Doreen worked. She said that she lived in a little apartment above the place, and there was only one reason I could think of for her to impart that particular information.

The bartender and I traded grins as Mitch and Doreen crossed the plank sidewalk outside the saloon. The old guy was all ruined around the eyes and someone had stove in his nose a long time ago. Even though he worked in a saloon, he looked like he managed to spend a lot of the time in the sun. According to his nameplate, his name was Roy and he hailed from Albuquerque, New Mexico.

That info didn’t do me any good — I’d never been to Albuquerque. But Roy knew how to keep a conversation moving without any help. Just as smooth as Johnny Carson, he asked, ‘“Nother round?”

I thought about my wallet first.

Then I thought about Mitch… and Doreen.

“Why not,” I said. “Maybe I’ll be here awhile.”

“Knowing Doreen, I can practical guarantee it, amigo.”

Roy grinned and opened a bottle. I had four bucks in my pocket, the last of the money I’d brought on our trip. A weekend getaway — some gambling, a few thrift shops, a few tourist traps. We were heading home tomorrow, anyway. If Mitch got lucky with Doreen and I ended up spending the night in Mitch’s Mustang, eating crackers and cheese and drinking Pacifico, that would suit me just fine. Most nights I didn’t do that good at home.

Feeling fuck-it-all magnanimous, I peeled off three bucks for the beer, tipped Roy my last dollar, and raised my bottle.

“Here’s to true love,” I said.

“Yeah,” Roy said, soaping Doreen’s lipstick off her empty glass. “Right.”

My hands are angel white in the moonlight. Mitch — head back, eyes closed — wears the beatific expression of a saintly corpse. Trapped between his Converse All-Stars is a change bucket, the kind slot players use to collect their winnings. This one’s from the Bucket of Blood Saloon. A first class souvenir. It’s half full, brimming, contents gleaming in the moonlight.