jesnails

little pigaloo, usa 1875 (part 1)

The train chugged proudly and boldly forth through the desert, leaving in its wake the thick, dark smoke of grand industrial achievement. The driver leaned out of his locomotive and enjoyed the ride, allowing his balding locks to blow freely in the wind until a speck of dirt got in his eye and he had to retreat back into his cabin to deal with it.

He therefore didn't notice the ropes tethered across the track at curious angles to the few trees that stood either side. The train shuttled blindly into them; the trees bent back and the ropes snapped, leaping like thrown snakes into the air.

The driver stumbled back to see why his train had slowed, blinking watery eyes.

Then, with a thump, the train hit a wall of hay.

And another.

And another still.

The driver waved away clouds of straw as the train finally came to a stop just short of, strangely enough, a goat, indifferently chewing on some shrub.

The driver, rubbing his eye, squinted with his other and looked around with the vague expression that suggested something which was not supposed to happen had done so. The boilerman, appearing behind him, was apparently feeling the same way. There were wagons, they noted. Why were there wagons here?

The driver was then shot in the chest and promptly fell to the ground.

There were shrieks of hooliganish glee as a look of horror appeared on the boilerman's face. He turned to seek shelter within the train and an excitable group of ambushers, appearing from nowhere, followed after him.

'Take it awl!' shouted a satisfied voice as a final gunshot sounded. With various whoops and yeehaws, the men proceeded to plunder the train carriages of their cargo, taking crates and sacks and the boilerman's boots.

The goods were loaded onto the wagons; several tired, weedy-looking horses had the privilege of pulling them away.

Coals were shovelled into furnaces, knobs were tweaked and the train was set in motion once more. Those responsible jumped off, the last of whom was a fairly portly man dressed in black: black shirt, black trousers, black boots, black hat; and, mounting a stubbornly grey-white horse, he shouted, 'Got ma lucky goat? Good. Alright, back to town, y'all! Good work!'

And back to town they went.

* * *

The Shotgun'n'Spur saloon bar was, as usual, heaving. Most of the clientele were of the typical cowperson mould, flashing status symbols of varying monetary worth, style and importance; the only thing they all had in common was that they were all extremely clichéd. Shotgun'n'Spur patriots were your genuine non-Indian Wild Westerners. Pairs of guns were worn slung low around the hips, in case of emergency duel. Spiky spurs glinted on the back of nearly every pair of pointy-toed boots. All the men wore hats. All the women wore tall hair with feathers. Whatever it was, it did not matter. As long as you looked the part, you were in.

The saloon doors swung inwards, indicating the arrival of another thirsty mouth. The bartender glanced up. A white cowboy hat made its way through the crowd. The bartender looked back to his glass. A moment later, he frowned and looked up again. The white cowboy hat seemed to be accompanied by one of the things he hated most: silence. Silence always meant trouble. And there was definitely too much of it behind that white hat.

The bartender watched in trepidation as the hat approached the bar. Silence levels had increased with every step the owner of the hat had made. This was indeed bad. The bartender wondered who was wearing it to instigate such a reaction in his usually untameable crowd. The only thing he could tell from here was that the man wearing it was very tall.

When the hat reached the bar, the bartender realised he had been wrong. The owner of the hat wasn't tall. With growing amazement, the bartender realised he was staring at an enormous bush of black hair, upon which the white cowboy hat perched precariously.

Jesnails smirked at the bartender, seemingly oblivious to the gaping mouthed reaction her presence had prompted in the people around her.

'Yo, ma peopizzle,' she drawled. 'Trickle me a whiskizzle, baby, yo' finest shiznit, dig?'

The bartender blinked. He wondered if he was hallucinating. This alien creature in front of him was like nothing he'd ever seen, or heard, in his life. The figure was wearing what could only be described as a white leather jumpsuit, with flared legs and sleeves, and covered from head to foot in tassels, giving the wearer the appearance of a white leather llama on its hind legs. Gold studs glinted along the edges of the hems and along the lapels. Bang in the centre of her chest was a large gold (plastic) star, encrusted with shining (plastic) diamonds, which spelt out the word 'YO'. The figure continued to stare back at him.

'Er...' he faltered finally. 'Er...'

Jesnails scowled. 'Yo' not speak ma lingo?' she demanded. 'Yo' STUPID?'

The bartender jumped slightly. 'Stupid?' he repeated stupidly.

'Ah, away with ya weirdo brutha,' the woman scowled, turning away.

'Yo' whiskizzle mose deffo horse pizzle anyways.'

The bartender shook his head, trying to shake away the shock. 'Who are you?' he demanded. 'Who are you and where do you come from?'

Jesnails turned back to him. 'Y'all know who I is.'

'I don't think we do,' drawled a gruff voice behind her. Jesnails turned. A thickset bear of a man wearing a bloodstained black jacket and a dented cowboy hat was standing in front of her, barring her way to the exit. He had his arms folded and his legs spread far apart, and a dark sneer upon his face. He didn't look particularly impressed. 'You better be explainin' your presence, friend. I'm the sheriff of this town, Sheriff Bigbad's the name, and you just don't look like you belong here.'

Jesnails folded her arms and looked back at him, unintimidated. 'Brutha, yo' hat made out of paper,' she declared.

The man looked slightly embarrassed. 'Ma horse ate ma hat!' he shouted. 'That don't mean I ain't the sheriff round here! Cause I am the sheriff round here! Look at ma badge!'

Jesnails looked at his badge. 'Yo' call that a badge?' she asked incredulously. 'Where's da bling, baby?' For clarification she pointed at her own badge, which sparkled even in the low light of the bar.

The sheriff peered at her badge. 'Hey, you can't be usurpin' ma authority like that! Where you get that from?' He leaned in closer. 'Hey, are those real diamonds?'

Jesnails prodded the man firmly in the chest. 'Is I gonna get ma groovy self a drink in this place or what? I's parched, brutha. Parched.'

The sheriff looked stunned. He'd never been talked to this way. Indeed, he hardly understood what this mysteriously attired, big haired, weird looking guy was saying at all.

'Look, I ain't your brother. And if you want bourbon, damn well ask Sid the barman.' Sid the barman twitched at the mention of his name.

'All ma business is with you is what you're doin' in ma town, and what the hell you think you're doin' struttin' round with a bigger badge than mine!'

Jesnails glared at him. 'This ain't no brooch, baby. And you ain't gettin' it, so git yo' mahoosive ugly beak away from it!' She decided to cut her losses. This establishment was clearly not going to give her any whiskey. 'Bruthas, it's been a jive rappin' with y'all, but I gotta jump. Check y'all on the grooveside, bitches.'

And with that, she poked the gaping sheriff out the way and strutted funkily past the frozen drinkers and out the door.

Outside she stood for a moment, tilting her head and fumbling around once again in her hair. The cause of its malfunction remained unidentified. Jesnails shook her head with a rustle and the faintest rattle of something within the afro, and then went to wander about.

* * *

'An' you tellin' me you got no idea?'

'I'm sorry, sir,' said the sheriff to the guy from New Oare a short while later, scratching his head as he shared the small man's bewilderment. 'I jus' can't help ya. It prob'ly happened some way down the track out in the open, is ma guess. Lookin' around those parts might help ya, but the trains keep passin' through here jus' fine. I wish I could be of more assistance, but I ain't seen nothin', and I doubt that any folk else here know a damn thing neither. We pride ourselves on impeccable law an' order here in Little Pigaloo.'

'Werl,' replied the harassed-looking man, casting his eyes around the town. 'If you're sure...'

'Surer than ma sheriff's badge, sir.' He helped the slightly diminutive man onto his horse. 'Jus' yell if ya need anything else,' he said. 'Well, I prob'ly won't hear ya all the way from New Oare, but I'm always here if ya need me.'

And with that, he smacked the horse on the backside and it took off towards the horizon.

Bigbad watched the man depart with a scowl, and cast a dubious glare around him before he returned to business, running his hand through his slicked-back, grey hair and replacing his paper hat on his head. He swaggered back through the town, making his way to a warehouse, which he slipped into after glancing furtively about once more. Inside, his men were busy, moving things in and out of the warehouse, sacks and crates of newly acquired goods; counting, checking, rubbing their hands together at the prospects brought about by a job well done.

The sheriff looked around with satisfaction.

'Everythin's runnin' nice and smooth, boss,' said one of the men, Seriously Grubby Harold, strolling up to him, an especially scarred individual with a face covered in stubble. He was wearing new boots, the sheriff noticed. 'Everybody in town's askin' for a share, though. I think we ought, just to keep 'em content.'

Bigbad looked around at the sheer volume of stuff that filled the warehouse. 'Well, maybe,' he said, 'but we got another problem on our hands.'

'Boss?'

'That new guy...the one in the bar with the diabolical hair. I don't like him. He's trouble and I can smell it.'

The scarred individual shifted in anticipation. 'You want us to deal with him, boss?'

Bigbad continued to survey their spoils. He was building himself quite a nice little economy here in Little Pigaloo. The town was positively getting fat from it. And it was full of willing conspirators, because it didn't exactly do them any harm - but just one person could easily ruin everything. Bigbad was not a man who liked loose ends, and the encounter in the bar had led to a feeling of mounting unease.

He nodded grimly and said, 'He ain't got no business here.'

* * *

The sun blasted down upon Little Pigaloo. In a wide alley behind the Shotgun'n'Spur saloon, several large crates of decomposing rubbish softened in the heat, oozing a sticky trail of goo of indeterminable origin, which snaked its way across the sandy road.

The back door creaked open, revealing Sid the bartender. He leant out the doorway and launched another bag of pub waste onto the top of the nearest crate. It wobbled for a moment, before slipping sideways and toppling to the ground with a squelch. Sid paused before going back in, nose frozen in a distasteful wrinkle. He swore he heard something swear. After a moment he shrugged and went back in, slamming the door behind him.

Three of the sheriff's finest henchmen crouched silently behind a rubbish crate. J. Hemispheric, a killer whose aptitude with a whip was only exceeded by his resemblance to one, leant forward and peered towards the street.

'All clear,' he muttered, impressed with how official it sounded.

'You can let him go now.'

Parrot Dan removed his hand from his colleague's mouth. Meatbag McFairy spluttered.

'Yeah alright, you try havin' a massive bag o' stinkin' crap fall on your head without makin' a noise,' he whispered angrily.

J. Hemispheric flapped his hands. 'Shaddap! I can see her!'

All three henchmen peered around the crate. Approaching from the distance was a hazy outline of a figure, walking bouncily towards them, moving its arms in a rhythmic motion, as if they were dancing.

J. Hemispheric pushed the other two back. 'I need space for this manoeuvre,' he said quietly, again impressing himself with how cool he sounded. 'You two stay here and don't move until he's immobilised. Then come out and surround him.' He turned to Parrot Dan. 'And Dan? Don't forget your gun this time.'

* * *

Jesnails moseyed down the alleyway, humming a disco tune to herself. As she jived past a large stack of unpleasant smelling bins, something very unexpected happened. A whip cracked out from foot level, spinning itself around one of her platform boots with inconceivable speed.

'What tha fu--' she started, before tripping violently backwards and landing on her white leather behind. Her head slammed down onto the ground, mighty afro bearing the brunt of the impact. Her flashy hat bounded away.

Woozily, she stared at the sky, which had so suddenly taken such a drastic change in orientation. A thin, ugly face hovered over hers.

'Well, hello there, stranger!' the face said, sounding anything but welcoming.

'Yeah, hello there stranger!' echoed someone else she couldn't see. Jesnails frowned.

'The sheriff thinks you're trouble, y'know,' the ugly face went on. 'So he'd like you to meet us. I'm J. Hemispheric, the fat guy with the crap on his head is our mate Meatbag McFairy, and this,'--he pulled a crazy looking man with eyes pointing opposite ways into Jesnails' vision--'is Parrot Dan.' Parrot Dan grinned manically at her. 'He likes parrots.'

'I like parrots!' repeated Parrot Dan.

'No sudden movements, OK?' J. Hemispheric went on. 'Meatbag and Dan might look like freak show outcasts, but they're damn useful with a pistol.'

Jesnails stared at them for a moment. Pistol barrels glinted at her from both sides. With similarly implausible speed to that of the whip which had befallen her, Jesnails stuck her arm up and jammed two fingers squarely into J. Hemispheric's eyes. She kicked her platform boots forward as she did so, engaging some mysterious internal mechanism and releasing powerful spring loaded legs, which sent her skidding backwards across the sand and away from the explosions of the pistols.

Parrot Dan squealed in fright as J. Hemispheric lurched backwards, yelling obscenities and sounding anything but impressively cool. Jesnails jumped upright and kicked the whip off her boot. Parrot Dan and Meatbag McFairy were hastily reloading their guns. J. Hemispheric was stumbling around, hands clasped over his eyes. He pointed wildly in the wrong direction.

'FUCKING GET HIM!' he yelled manically. Jesnails turned on her heel and ran, releasing as she did so her plastic sheriff badge, and hurling it behind her. The badge clattered to the ground and exploded with a loud bang and an emission of dark smoke. Meatbag McFairy fell over and threw his arms protectively over his head. However, the bang wasn't the usual kind of explodey bang the three henchmen had become accustomed to in their line of work. Instead of a large smoking crater and bits of person smeared all over the landscape, there sat, where the badge had landed, a giant bouncy castle, wobbling drunkenly in the dispersing smoke.

Parrot Dan looked up in amazement at the luridly coloured rubber thing. Meatbag McFairy joined him. J. Hemispheric sat on the ground nearby, rubbing his swollen, bloodshot eyes. He stared up at the castle.

'Wha... what's that?' he asked, peering at it through watery eyes.

'It's a house, boss,' Parrot Dan replied. 'A house...'

'Well, go in there and find her!' J. Hemispheric ordered.

Meatbag McFairy and Parrot Dan exchanged worried looks before approaching the bouncy castle, guns hovering protectively in front of them. They peered through the large wobbly doorway. It appeared to be empty.

Meatbag McFairy indicated with his head. 'Get on.'

Parrot Dan put a foot gingerly onto the rubber and pressed down, looking alarmed at the instability of it. Meatbag McFairy sighed, extended a meaty hand, and shoved Parrot Dan roughly. He toppled into the bouncy castle headfirst with a shriek. Meatbag McFairy watched with interest as Parrot Dan bobbed around springily, flailing his arms in distress. However, Parrot Dan soon stopped yelling in fear. A smile spread over his face as he sat on the floor, gently bobbing. He bounced delicately a couple of times, before bouncing with slightly more enthusiasm. Soon he was on his feet, leaping up and down on the springy surface and laughing like he'd never laughed before.

Meatbag McFairy and J. Hemispheric stared. They looked at each other, and then back to the bouncy castle. Then, as one, they leapt onto it themselves.

The three burly henchmen bounded through the air, bouncing merrily off one another, springing wildly around and emitting loud screams of delight. This was even more enjoyable than the ol' whip-stab-bang! Why, J. Hemispheric was feeling an uplifting sensation deep within his crusted, smelly soul that could almost make him renounce his violent lifestyle for a life of... children's entertainment!

Just as a whole new world of possibilities opened up in his mind, he landed awkwardly on one of the walls. There was a loud pffffff of releasing air and the castle started to flop down around him. He tried to scramble away from the falling walls, only to find he was trapped. Panicking, he looked down at his feet. The last thing he saw before the brightly coloured folds of rubber collapsed over him was his spur, caught up in a large puncture in the fabric.

* * *

Jesnails weaved her way aimlessly down a random street. She brushed most of the dirt from her outfit, and soon her step had that familiar jive in it and she was zozming along as if the episode with the henchmen had never happened, the only evidence being a ragged hole in her stylish jacket where her badge had once been pinned and a smear of dust across her back.

She found herself in a dusty town square. A few people were crowded around a wooden post, looking at something and talking excitedly. She peered over at them, trying to deduce what was so interesting, and paying no attention to where she was going. She therefore had no right to be surprised when she walked straight into a wall.

She rubbed her head. It was then that she noticed the wall looking back at her, from behind a pair of snazzy shades. She took a step back and stared at her own face, pasted on the wall in front of her.

'WANTED,' she read. 'Dead or Alive. Large Reward...'

'Hey, there he is!' an excited voice called out from behind her. 'C'mon, lets get 'em!'

Jesnails was suddenly aware of the unwelcome sound of thundering feet. She turned to them and folded her arms. The mob, which consisted of about eight young, eager looking cowboys, ground to a hesitant halt in front of her. None of them seemed to know what to do. Jesnails continued to stare at them, waiting.

A few whispers were shared between the cowboys, seemingly for the purpose of electing a leader. One cowboy stood forward of the rest and crossed his arms in mimicry of her pose. The gaggle of cowboys behind him grouped together, poised tensely should they have to dart heroically into action if Jesnails made a run for it.

The lead cowboy, who seemed to know the vague protocol for situations like this, spat disdainfully at the ground. Jesnails looked disgusted. 'Skank-eee!' she complained.

'I challenge you to a duel!' he shouted confidently.

Jesnails shrugged. 'If yo' be groovin',' came the baffling reply.

The cowboy looked uncertain. 'Well, you and me hafta turn our backs on each other, and, uh, walk twenty paces away from each other, and then...' The cowboy stopped and listened to some urgent whisperings behind him, regarding the length of the square and the impossibility of walking through the saloon wall.

'...ten paces away, and then we turn and fire,' he finished unspectacularly. The moment had been ruined somewhat.

Jesnails pondered this. There seemed to be a slight flaw in this plan, but she sure as hell wasn't going to point it out.

'OK, I's cool with this. Let's do it, bro,' Jesnails said. The cowboy looked very confused, but walked up to her, drew his gun and turned his back.

'Stand back to back with me now,' he directed. Jesnails obeyed.

'Now... ten paces. Now!' he said, and started marching stiffly away from her. Jesnails turned to look at him. She looked at the gaggle of cowboys, who had retreated from the duelling area. She looked at the gate leading out of the square. She walked through it, and shut it. Then she wandered away, and got five paces from the locked gate before hearing the incompetent cowboy's perplexed cries demanding to know where she had gone. Jesnails strolled away.

* * *

Wanted poster after wanted poster slid past her eyes as Jesnails wandered, yet again, through this seemingly never-ending maze of typical cowboy stuff. They were affixed to lampposts, walls, and even horse troughs. Jesnails anticipated several scenes similar to the one she had just experienced. Everybody in the town must know her divine visage by now.

She pondered in front of a poster, staring for a while at her own face. Eventually she started bobbing to some internal beat, her arms moving in time. She took a pen from one of her pockets and drew on a big, curly moustache, humming to herself.

Jesnails paused thoughtfully, stepped back and examined her artistry. Then she lifted the pen again and approached the poster once more.