Once I went to Texas, became the mayor of a one horse town called Shitsville, and accidentally shot dead my young sweet cousin Roger in a thrilling duel. This is the harrowing tale of my soul-destroying journey through all of the crap and kitsch I found strewn along the quiet dusty backroads of Texas, and the idiot folk I met there.
Travelling east to west, the landscape of Texas gradually evolves from that of the Deep South into the desert Southwest, going from piney woods to semi-forests of oak and cross timbers, into rolling plains and prairie, then finally to desert in the Big Bend. Texas is the Lone Star State. I’m not quite sure what this means but it is written up everywhere. The State motto is “friendship”. Indeed, I have encountered many friends here. I have encountered seven friendly little rapes, sixteen friendlier than friendly truckies (that is how I get about, pulling tricks for food & speed, etc.), and a very friendly bull, veal, salmon, cod, chicken & wood pigeon sandwich. That is, three types of meat (if fish is a meat?). It is called the Noah’s Ark Bar-B-Q presumably because you are eating two of each animal. I’m not sure why you would do that. But as I said, it was friendly, all those animals all so cute and dead together. Read More
A Joint Outside of Town (Amarillo, TX).
It was in one of those Breakfast All-Day-and-All-Night joints so impervious to the movement of the sun & time in general there was nothing to indicate that it was no longer the 1940s; the daily paper was filled with a lotta talk about a lotta hostile Indians (boy howdy were they het up!) and Bob Wills and his Texas Playboys played on the radio behind the counter, A66ALX broadcasting from one of those towns otherwise known for its prison. Read More
Trail of the Lonesome Pine
In which some big Texas bastard leaves me to die on a mountain. Read More
Runnin on into Shitsville
Finally I run on into Shitsville, which as you know, was all wood, all sort of sagging in the middle — there was saloon with board walk and swing doors, a Chemist’s shoppe with a banner that wrapped around three sides — just about everything was short of plank and a few nails. Opposite was the Whorehouse, which was the best kept joint in town. It was an ornate 1870s confection with white lacy woodwork & green tiled roofs and turrets for a touch of chalet Romance; inside everything was polished redwood and porcelain and silk like a Chinky puzzle box; the front door with the knob in the centre kept shiny without a lick of paint on it. Read More
I Meet the Stranger
In which I meet my sweet cousin Roger which is the beginning of a series of small backstabbing betrayals that culminate in me shooting the dumb bastard dead.
I watched the stranger come up from a way away. He stopped just before me at the steps to the saloon and looked around as though considering what to do. The street was empty at that time of day – well it was always empty. Across the street the whores were in a line on the balcony redolent in the Summer sun in their long silk kimonos, smoking for once without irony – the smoke drifted like fine feathers in the blue air as they stood agape – still and silent – the lemon tree creaked against the fence – a tumbleweed coming from downtown got caught in a cross stream and switched directions. Read More