Anyway, I got to Shitsville. It was very small, all wood, all sort of sagging in the middle. The Town Hall, library, Court House, whore house and civic square are on one side of the main street; on the other side is the apothecary, general store, lawyer’s offices, post office, the saloon (actually there are two saloons – one at each end on the same side of the main street) and, uh, some resident’s houses are behind that. As soon as I got to Shitsville I went to Ginger’s, which is the first saloon you get to on entering town.
When I told them what my name was they instantly made me mayor and gave me the keys to the city. It was good, they said, to have a Shitsville back in Shitsville. I moved into the mayor’s residence in the courthouse and I was also sheriff and postmaster general. In short, I held the legislative, judicial and even religious power all in my one person. That is a great privilege and despite never having had real qualifications or experience in these areas before I swore I would do my best because, I thought, I instantly loved Shitsville and so Shitsville instantly loved me.
I had to divide my day up between all of my jobs, so, from 9 to 11 I was at the mayor’s office, drinking brandy from cut crystal glasses and instructing my sexy secretary to type carbon copies of letters appertaining to important council matters. From 11- 12 I was sheriff and the sheriff’s office is also an internet service provider, so I was administering that. I drank straight scotch in stout tumblers and spent a lot of time oiling my rifle. I stopped by Ginger’s for lunch from 1-2 and we played poker and drank JD and coke with NASA-engineered icecubes for a refreshing afternoon break. Then I was sheriff again for another hour and then from 3 o’clock I was postmistress at the Shitsville General P.O. and on my way home I would drop all of the letters around Shitsville so the residents would get their mail by 6. I think I did a good job. People were always saying, Miss Shitsville, you do such a good job. So I got that impression. I did what I had to do and in the down times I smoked Marlboros and chewed tobaccy and laid in stores of peyote in the cellars of the council chambers, or fucked around with the jokebox that is in the P.O. playing Bonnie Tyler and Spandau Ballet and Duran Duran and Bananarama.
It had occurred to me by this time (since I had all of the archives at my disposal in the council chambers and the mayor’s office & the P.O.) that my pioneering grandpappy Jack “Washington” Shitsville had a lot more on his mind than knock-up architecture and real-estate swindles when he founded Shitsville. He was also a photographer and experienced cameraman, passions left over, I suppose, from the days in Hollywoodland with the voluptuous Gloria. He had spent some time capturing the harem of Hollywood starlets he brought to Shitsville with him on early colour film. A lot of these photos were in frames around the mayor’s office & the council chambers; some of the women wore more clothes than others.
Everything was just fine & dandy. Oh how I loved Shitsville. Bright days shaded into purple nights, stirred by zephyrs and the scent of lemon trees, magnolias and crepe myrtle… until one blue day… one blue, blue, brilliant, cloudless day….
A boy called Roger Shitsville rode into town.
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