Then one sunny afternoon when I was sitting back in the Mayoral offices smoking a big Texas Mayoral cigar I was roused from my mayoral reflections by the sound of a riot in the street. Next thing I knew the lowly residents of Shitsville were all streaming into the ground floor of the Council Chambers shouting for me to come on out.
I came out slowly scratching my head and looked down at them over the balcony with their potato noses and cretinous, uncomprehending faces, and hair sticking up on end because in Texas it’s the only place to wipe your hands.
‘What do you idiots want now?’ I said tiredly. ‘You really do have to stop coming in here of a noon demanding that Roger be mayor. It’s becoming next to impossible to get anything done. And that front door shrieks like the very devil when you throw it open. I think we were all out on the beano last night. Have you no respect for my nerves?’
Next thing Roger in his shining white get-up was being pushed to the front of the crowd.
‘Tell her what we come for,’ said chief vigilante / whorehouse owner Jack Daniels with a mouth full of big Texas cigar even bigger than my own.
‘Uh- er– um, I think I we should have a duel,’ said Roger looking at the floor.
‘Did you hear that, Mayor?’ Jack shouted up to me. ‘He said he wants a duel.’
‘Yeeeeha!’ said everybody. The Baptist banged his tambourine but it was hard to hear amongst the big Texas caterwaulin’, which even on fine sunny days when everyone’s in good spirits approximates the demented cries of souls in hell.
I didn’t raise my voice, only went on chewing at my cigar thoughtfully while I hooked my left thumb around my trusty Texas gun belt.
‘Roger, darling, sugar, sweet; listen to me, fool,’ I said at last. ‘In Texas duels are very decisive. And you’d have to be able to crawl out of your whore’s nest by midday. Not your strong suit.’
‘Yerr…’ said Roger doubtfully.
‘And of course you love Roger,’ I went on, speechifying to the simple townfolk. ‘–I love Roger — we all love Roger; his idiocy endears him to us! But Roger… Roger as we know is irreparably alcoholic… Most often to be found slumped over the bar in Ginger’s, if he’s not in the whorehouse tickling your best girl. He looks great in chaps and has a nice moustache… But are these really the qualities you seek in a mayor?’
‘YES!’ they shouted. It shook the very walls. (Admittedly the Council Chambers isn’t the best made building in Texas; my grandpappy Jack “Washington” Shitsville was a set designer and not above taking shortcuts legal or illegal if it would trim off a buck.)
A riot of gun shots filled the air; parts of the ceiling cracked fell down and dumped piles of plaster and asbestos on their idiot heads. It was the thunderously moronic cry for Barabus that has echoed down the centuries.
In the face of such opposition my words escaped me.
‘Alright you fucks. You fucking idiot retarded fucks,’ I said.
Cont’d here: Everyone is mad in Texas.