Tex rose up through a black sleep, startled and awake, but desperately keeping his eyes closed. The dream again. He took a deep cleansing breath, flushing out guilt and other toxins. The hum of muted conversation from the front seat of the car congealed.
“Hudson, you bring our liquid sustenance?” Newaygo asked.
“To be sure,” Hudson replied with an unforced camaraderie developed of years.
“Better have, you two-bit hack.” Newaygo brazened a sharp turn, then went back to drumming thick fingers along the steering wheel, keeping time with the meek performance of “God Is a Bullet” resonating from the CD player.
“One case of Heady Brew, on sale at Buckhorn, lovingly chilled in the cooler under two bags of ice, awaiting consumption. Give a hoot, don’t pollute. Think before you drink.”
Hudson gripped the edge of the dash to steady himself against Newaygo’s erratic driving.
Berkeley sat up in the back seat of the GMC Jimmy and calmly exclaimed, “I don’t live here.”
Berkeley always awoke from a sound sleep in the middle of a flashback.
“Wake that lazy sonofa–” Newaygo swung the wheel wildly to the left, launching everyone half a foot out of their seats. A Charlton Heston medallion, commemorating the NRA president, danced wildly below the rearview mirror. The Jimmy burbled over another pothole, crested a prominent hill, and slowed to a stop on the edge of a barren plateau speckled with half-dead live oaks.
Tex raised his eyes to a perfect blue sky, gently speckled with puffy clouds. The day was sunny and warm as a recently fired gun, stocked with the occasional breeze. He hesitated, knotting his white bandanna around his neck, then pushed open the door and stepped out, stretching and flexing just-woken muscles. “How come y’all didn’t wake me? Miserable dream had me in its clutches.” He thumbed sleep from his eyes. “I swear, that durn road puts me to sleep every time.”
Hudson arched thick eyebrows. Newaygo scowled.
Tex pursed his lips. “No teller of tales ought to let himself be pressured into using any other language than what he intends.”
“Obstinacy suits you,” Hudson agreed.
Berkeley jumped out of the Jimmy’s back seat, working the empty pump-action of his Remington 870 12-gauge from the hip, and yelled, “It’s a fine day, praise the Jolly Green Goddess!”
Newaygo grimaced. “Now this. Hell, Berkeley, that hippie cannon legal for shooting skeet?”
Berkeley grinned deviously and whooped again, brandishing the shotgun over his head like a pump-action bishop’s miter. He had painted tiny flowers in multiple colors all along the exhaust breach. They matched his daisy-speckled shooting vest.
Tex shouldered a timeworn Model 12 Winchester and heave-hoed a red-white-and-blue cooler the size of a small steamer trunk out of the back of the vehicle. Newaygo scooped up five folding chairs and Henrietta, his vintage over-and-under 20-gauge. Hudson was already scouting a shady spot under the edge of a live oak, casting an eye about for a good spot for launching the blue rocks.
“Not too close to the trunk,” Newaygo groused. “Last convention, Tex shot off a huge limb and nearly killed poor Berkeley here.”
“His head still bears the mark,” Tex breathed slyly, setting the cooler near the live oak’s trunk.
Berkeley looked up from unloading a case of blue rocks, the spring-loaded launcher and its tripod. “You mean that kind of professional accident isn’t covered under workman’s comp? What kind of assembly is this? That kind of mishap would be fully covered at Gavis Con Deep South.”
“Gentlemen,” Hudson intoned after dropping the ammo bag in the perfect spot, “who is our first master of the clay pigeon House? How should the decision be made? Perhaps,” he asked through a malignant display of teeth, “it should be who has struck the target least within the last six months?”
Berkeley and Newaygo turned slowly to Tex.
Tex squirmed. He didn’t belong here, working beside these men he’d known for years. “Bastards, you know I been short-sighted for months.”
“Perhaps the Con will liberate your muse.”
“Tex it is,” Newaygo said, presenting him with a chair.
Berkeley piled the first cast of blue rocks and the launcher into Tex’s arms and mock-saluted. “At ease, son of the South.”
“Bunch of rat finks,” Tex mumbled. “Half-breed jackalopes. Which side you want me on?”
“Now Tex, do you see any southpaws here?” Berkeley pointed to a spot fifteen feet away. “Always to our left.”
Newaygo rummaged in the cooler, around the sandwiches in plastic bags, grabbing a Heady Brew. “Breakfast of champeens.” He popped the top with a squat middle finger and took a swig.
Hudson ignored him, unzipping a black leather case to reveal an ugly Savage 10-gauge. He held it up admiringly. “Like a mule’s kick,” he proclaimed.
“Yeah, yeah,” Newaygo dismissed, delicately breaking open Henrietta. “You’ll still need a teacup full of shot to hit a rock, not some overused simile.”
Berkeley noisily jacked shells into the Remington’s magazine. He shoveled more shells into his vest pockets, wearing an expression of deficient bliss. Hudson shook his head at this display.
Tex could just about read Hudson’s thoughts: Berkeley himself was a loaded gun. A wild dangling participle that threatened not only to cause subject and object to disagree, but send them to war.
“One of you marksmen pitch me a hops protein shake.” Tex craved an alcohol supplement to still his doubt. He had the first rock loaded, the launcher in front of his folding chair. The remaining blue rocks, six inches in diameter and exquisitely decorated, he’d stacked neatly to one side.
Newaygo dug a can of Heady Brew out of the cooler and pitched it to Tex underhand, like a bowler throwing a perfect strike–four feet off the ground. “No protein shakes here. Guess you’ll have to choke down this beer.”
“Nice form, Bowling-For-Dollars.” Tex caught the beer, wiped the sweat on his pant leg, popped the top, and took a deep swallow–all in one smooth, practiced motion.
“I should have brought my Jesu Cristo brand tequila,” Berkeley offered.
Hudson took the bait. “And what might that be?”
“You know, eat God, see the worm?” Berkeley laughed and clipped amber sunglasses on over his wire rims. “Let’s do it.”
Newaygo removed his John Deere baseball cap and used it to tap first one then the other of Tex’s shoulders. “Who hast died, good sir knight?”
“What?” Tex looked up from sorting blue rocks.
“Texas, if your face gets any more sour the beer’ll turn to wine.” Newaygo replaced the cap on his head.
Berkeley continued polishing his gun, listening. Hudson stood up.
Tex huffed. “Can’t help it. Feel like I’m unfulfilled lately, unsatisfied. Like I should be searching for something more.” He shook his head. “Hell, it’s the dream, that damned dream.”
“Let’s hear it.” Newaygo gestured at Tex. “If for no other reason than to borrow from the dream’s symbolism. I mean, we care and all, but …”
Hudson agreed. “This could be important. Tell us.”
“Alright.” Tex sighed. “I’m in a large building, very dim lights. As the dream goes on, the lights grow brighter. I can see I’m in some kind of cathedral, high vaulted ceilings, stained glass everywhere.”
He whirled an index finger in a circle. “Designs don’t look religious. Not pagan either, just strange and unidentifiable. No slashes or loops, all angles and sharp edges. I’m drawn to the front, where the altar is.
“There’s a single figure near the altar, a priest. He turns and begins walking to meet me, but I can’t make out his face. The light is shining on him so brightly that it appears he’s reflecting it.”
Tex scratched at his shirt’s shoulder padding, thinking. “Oh yeah. As I’m walking up this long aisle, I can hear pages rustling in the pews, but no one’s there. Sounds weird, but in the dream, it creeped me out.
“Finally, the priest and I get closer and closer. I begin to realize he isn’t a priest, might not even be male, just a figure bathed and disguised by bright light. We’re about ten feet apart when I hear another noise, again from the empty pews. It’s a rounded kind of clatter that I recognize as several pens or pencils being dropped to the floor, then rolling whichever way the floor slants. Really odd.
“So those last ten feet between us seem like a hundred yards they take so long. In addition to the light, there’s an intense humming noise. It’s, well, it’s a warm noise. I can’t describe it. I realize it’s been there the whole dream, I just filtered it out. Finally, whatever it is stands right in front of me.”
“Well?” Berkeley leaned forward.
“It’s awful. The figure is faceless, made purely of light. I can’t move. It reaches me, hands rising up to touch me. The hands press against my eyes, my vision shorts out, and for a split second it’s inside me. Then I wake up.” Tex rubbed his temples with heels of his hands.
Berkeley laid a gentle hand on Tex’s shoulder. “Today will be good for you. Revitalizing.”
“Sure.” Tex forced a meager grin.
“The nights before you have this dream,” Berkeley asked, “do you by any chance have a bean sprouts and spicy mustard sandwich as a midnight snack?”
Hudson stood, arms wide. “Esteemed colleagues, I bid you welcome to the Sixth Annual Hickory Convention of the Marksmen for Rational Thought.”
“Here there be paper tygers,” Newaygo enthused.
“Brethren,” Hudson continued, “we are gathered here today to shoot down beliefs, movements, and people who violate the standards of rational thought. Our weapons are wit, skeptic reasoning, lead shot, and the printed word. Powerful forces indeed.”
Berkeley snapped to attention, triumphantly pointing a manicured finger to the heavens. “Testify! The pen is mightier than the sword!”
Hudson sighed. “To continue. We are all veterans of many conventions, notably DEFinition Con and last year’s Gavis Con Deep South. We have stood on the firing line together; shared ideas and strategies. We are dedicated, and will not be dissuaded from our task.”
Tex waggled his trigger finger. “‘Dissuaded.’ That’s good.”
Hudson crossed his arms. “The four of us share the distinction of being outstanding in our field. Crack shots. Marksmen First Class. Others have flinched when the mark was in their sights and missed opportunities. Some have been too cocky and led the rock too much. Some have been timid and let the target escape. Possibly most damning, some have shot with a true aim, but their hearts weren’t in it, and the battle was lost. These are hollow men, who stand for nothing.”
He paused dramatically, looking in turn at Newaygo, Berkeley, and Tex. “But that’s not us.”
Newaygo waved a benediction. “Amen and pass the ammunition. Let’s crack open the hymnals and start the singing.”
Berkeley shot first, as his preferred targets were the Corporate blue rocks. Tex launched Nelson Rockefeller first, one of Berkeley’s favorites. His first shot split old man Rockefeller down the seam, and he worked the pump twice more, pellets from the second shot knocking chinks out of Rockefeller’s head, the third shot filling the sky with holes.
“That pump’s cheating, ain’t it?” Tex hassled Berkeley as he reloaded.
Berkeley winked at Hudson and Newaygo and stepped over to talk with Tex.
“Hey, Tex. You’ve lost something. I know.” Berkeley smiled uselessly. His voice was pitched low. “It’s not just some crisis, not just a trudge through a bramble of questions; no, this is a full-fledged kick-Buddha’s-belly kind of turnabout. Hudson and Newaygo think of me as some Age of Aquarius flake, which is true, but I can see. And what I see is your soul withering on the vine.” He flicked twice at Tex’s white bandanna.
Tex could only breathe, his tanned face a mask.
“The others are too snooty to speak up. In their worlds, no problem exists ’til you name it. And why do that?”
Tex grabbed his beer and took a long drink. Berkeley stepped back to his mark.
“Fling unto me another robber baron, Tex. Pull.”
H. R. Hunt spiraled into view, painted wearing an oil well T-shirt. Berkeley raised the gun to his shoulder and let loose three rapid-fire shots, the first shattering the rock into unrecognizable pieces, the second and third apparently just for the hell of it.
“Ha!” Berkeley grunted, cradling the hungry Remington as he fed it more shells.
Hudson shot Newaygo a cognizant look. Tex saw it and again knew exactly what Hudson was thinking: Berkeley had talent, but it was raw, uncontrolled. Sentence fragments overflowing with brilliant detail. But oh that talent, Tex thought, still a bit rattled.
“Good girl.” Newaygo caressed Henrietta while reloading. He’d completely obliterated the first four blue rocks: Goldwater, Karl Rove, Gerald Ford, and a Bush family composite.
Tex watched Newaygo wiggle his shoulder. It was probably beginning to warm up, feel good. He knew the feeling, like physical pride at a job well done. Tex noted the logo and text emblazoned across Newaygo’s faded jacket: “Jack’s Roustabout and Backhoe Service.”
Newaygo eased Henrietta’s breach closed. “Pull!”
Berkeley launched a gleeful Nixon decorated with bulbous ears and devil horns. Newaygo snapped Henrietta to his shoulder and fired, missed, and fired the second barrel. Nixon continued across the horizon, untouched by either shot, but broke his neck upon touching down.
“Spiro Agnew on a crutch,” he cursed. “Bullet-proof sonofabitch even as a clay pigeon.”
“There ain’t no justice,” Tex chimed in.
Hudson nibbled lazily on a sun-warmed Reuben sandwich and sipped his Heady Brew, shotgun cradled between his legs, safety on. He nodded a vacant agreement.
Tex eyed Newaygo and Henrietta, the beer clenched in his right hand momentarily forgotten. “You really satisfied with that 20-gauge kiddy gun?”
Delicately slipping two shells into Henrietta, Newaygo spared an upright middle finger. “Pull!”
The clay Reagan arced skyward, swastika carved in its forehead. Newaygo led the rock too much, pellets blowing away Reagan’s right eye and temple, sending the blue rock tumbling end over end. He squeezed again, disintegrating Reagan’s left foot, the blue rock still intact.
This time, Newaygo didn’t curse. He reloaded quietly. “Pull!”
A disgustingly clean-cut blue rock appeared in Newaygo’s sights. He violently jerked Henrietta sideways, stubby finger tensed on the trigger.
“Hey, that was Buddy Holly,” Tex exclaimed.
Newaygo followed Buddy’s trajectory as it crumpled into the dirt next to a desiccated cactus. “How the hell did he get in there?”
Berkeley giggled.
“Hell no, I wouldn’t have squealed like a piggy. I’d have fought the bastards or taken a bullet or something. Deliverance, my ass!” Newaygo pantomimed the actions. “No sir. My pants would never have dropped and no hillbilly would have greased my cornhole.”
Berkeley wrinkled his nose at imagined smells. “I still don’t believe it. You might have fought, but nobody takes a bullet instead of a Cuban missile up his South Beach. I wouldn’t. What about you, Tex?”
“I’d take the bullet. That area’s departures only.” Tex grinned. “Exit only, no entry. The red zone is for unloading.”
Berkeley laughed. “Hudson?”
Hudson stared at the ground. Tex noted again that Hudson had worn a deep green brushed-denim shirt so fancy that the collar corners had their own buttons. It was steam-pressed with perfect creases.
Despite the conversation’s potential, Hudson remained serious as he loaded his gun. “A man can endure anything if it means survival. Anything. For me, the only truly painful part would be enduring someone’s warm hard Jim Dickey spreading my pucker and penetrating my Poet’s Corner.”
He didn’t look up. “But I would endure it. To survive.”
Newaygo whistled and took his place at the blue rock launcher. “Well. I’d say that pinches off that colophon of speculation.”
Tex settled back into his chair, chewing through a ham-and-cheese sandwich, trying to relax. He brushed crumbs off his jeans and from the folds in his shirt. The twinges had begun tickling at the edge of his brain, like the feeling a paleontologist gets when he realizes the fossil record is over eighty percent incomplete.
“Okay, Hudson, show us the manliness of your blunderbuss.”
Hudson winced. “Thank you for that image, Tex. Pull!”
Newaygo triggered the launcher, slinging Lyndon LaRouche upward. Hudson raised the Savage and fired, sending LaRouche flying in three distinct directions.
“Another Nazi bites the dust,” Berkeley declared. “Righteous shot.”
Hudson stepped out of character, grumbling as he reloaded. “Pull!”
A blue rock in the shape of Herbert W. Armstrong jumped into view. Hudson jerked the Savage up and fired, breaking Herbert W. into more than six pieces.
Newaygo laughed. “Kind of fun shooting down the Worldwide Church of God.”
“Each workaday brings its own pleasures.” Hudson fondled his trigger guard. “It is a tough fight, but someone has to preach the truth. Pull!”
John Birch flew through the air, and Hudson appeared to lead the blue rock too much, waiting too long, then he fired just as Birch began to fall. The blast pulverized the rock, leaving only a diffuse powder drifting to the ground.
“Very inspirational, Hudson,” Berkeley sniggered while popping open another beer. “Your blunderbuss is a Force for Good.”
“So you were alone in the middle of the lake, wrestling a full-grown gar, which you thought was the Holy Mackerel, using only fifty-pound test line?” Tex doubted this particular point, if not the entire story.
Hudson flushed. “Enough. I won’t hear of anyone blaspheming the sweet name of the Holy Mackerel.”
Tex lifted his hands. “Fine.”
Satisfied, Hudson tried to backtrack his story. “Now this was upstate. Cold, deep waters.”
“Ah, that’s five quarts of ship in a four quart bottle,” Newaygo called out as Hudson loaded the blue rock launcher. “You wouldn’t know a fish from Jonah.”
“Truly a whale of a tale. Pull!” Tex lifted the Winchester to his shoulder, leading the rock like a pro. He squeezed the trigger, thoroughly shattering the whirling Pope John Paul.
Newaygo stifled a belch. “Nice shooting, Tex.”
“Score those chakra points.” Berkeley devoured a beans-and-sprouts on pumpernickel double-decker, washing it down with still another ice-cold Heady Brew.
“S’okay,” Tex acknowledged. The flesh was willing, but the spirit was weak. “Pull!”
A chubby blue rock Buddha mumbled skyward. Tex slammed the shotgun to his shoulder and blew the fat smile off the Buddha’s pudgy face.
“Welcome back, Tex.” Berkeley grinned, taking another swallow of his beer. “Behold the man.”
“Just getting lucky,” Tex mumbled, reloading.
“What’s your problem, Texas?” Newaygo frowned. “Hell, I know they’re easy targets. But somebody’s got to do it. Might as well be us. You did hear Hudson’s sermonette?”
“Yeah, I heard it.” Tex walked over to the cooler and leaned his gun against the live oak. “I dunno. Some days this seems just too damn easy. So much smashing of ants with a sledgehammer.” He unraveled the white bandanna from his neck and plunged it into the ice water melt-off in the cooler. “I know it’s a calling, but… Sometimes, I lie awake at night, lonesome even though the wife’s asleep next to me, an unholy ache in my chest.”
Drenched bandanna in hand, he closed the cooler and stood. Newaygo and Hudson watched; Berkeley bowed his head. Eyes closed, Tex tilted his head to the sky and sprinkled water from the bandanna across his head and face. He worked the bandanna back around his neck, wiped his hands on his pants, and took up his gun and his place.
He smiled, and peace filled his eyes. “That felt good. Pull!”
The clay Jesus arced in the air, crown o’ thorns spinning madly; Tex brought the butt of the gun to his shoulder and squeezed the trigger in one fluid motion, exploding the heavenly target with a mighty shot through His holy left side.
An odd yet comforting warmth rushed through his soul. Tex shook his head as if clearing away useless thoughts. “Aw, forget all that other shit. Pain was probably just indigestion.”
Copyright 2004-2005 :: The New Pantagruel The New Pantagruel.