Friday, January 31, 2014

Dreams: Diner Romance

Awakened yesterday with bits and pieces of a dream swirling in my mind. I dreamed that I was in a diner, but it was like a living room diner. The waitress was cute in a 50's sort of way with a pixie haircut and pursed lips like Betty Boop and was wearing a very short, plaid skirt. She was taking my order and definitely coming on to me and trying to seduce me.  It was working … Oddly enough,  the seating for my table was a couch and about four other people that I did not know were sitting on it with me. All the while, the romantic episode was occurring. Around the restaurant were numerous other tables and seats ( plump leather chairs and recliners, etc. ) and were filled with a variety of other customers, both adults and children. No one was paying much attention to the waitress and I and were instead watching the large TV in the room. The TV was tuned to a station covering a rodeo and the bull-riding event was in progress. However, it was not bull-riding. It was cow-riding! Odder or should I say udder, still, all of the cows were wearing huge, black Stetson hats with a low crown. After bucking off the riders, the cows tried to run into the back pens through the gate at the side of the chutes. Every time they tried to go through the gate, they would get stuck because the black hat was too wide to go through the opening.

Yippy ki yi! Rid'em cowboy!

Thursday, January 2, 2014

The Lone Stranger and Pronto

January 1, 2014 

Simpsonville … a small, lazy southern town … fried chicken, barbecue and tacos with green sauce. I rode into town and tied by trusty steed, Hi Ho Silvia, to the nearest hitching post. It was quiet … too quiet. I glanced around … not a person in sight. Every door was closed … if window shut. At first, I thought it was Sunday, but soon realized it had been six days since I had bathed … it must be Saturday. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong!

Let me introduce myself.

 I am

 none other than the very one upon whose leaving, 

they say,

 "Who was that masked man?" 

I am none other than that righter of wrongs

 … it is I … 

The Lone Stranger.

I had a bad feeling … a familiar feeling. My nostrils quivered … cold chills ran up and down my spine. I slowly filled my lungs … something was definitely rotten in Denmark. There was only one way to get to the bottom of things. 

Only one person would would know. That person … my trusty sidekick … my right hand … the baby powder in my shorts … Pronto.

I called to Pronto, who was forever by my side. "Pronto",  I said. "Explain to me the strange feeling that I have. Explain to me the faint odor that I smell that causes the sliver bullet taste in my mouth".


His response. 


I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Naturally, I was furious.

"Knock it off with the the stupid, Native American hand signs. You're not in a darned John Wayne movie. I'm serious … what is going on here?"

Pronto's response was "Flat snarkkk".

"Pronto … put that down", I fired back. Believe what you will … I tell you that there is nothing worse than an Indian when he gets his hands on fire water. "Knock it off and answer me", I yelled.

Pronto's response was "Black Fart …"

Black Fart ...

the stinkingess sidewinder in the whole South.


No and's, or's or butt's about it. Black Fart had passed his last gas. This time, he has messed with the wrong person. You don't mess with the Lone Stranger and Pronto. We would track Black Fart to the bitter end.

Pronto put his nose to the ground and in no time had picked up the trail.

Pronto was like a man possessed. He was on the scent, like hounds to the fox. He searched high and low. Black Fart tried to hide his trail by wading in the river. But Pronto, was not fooled.

Black Fart tried hiding in the hollows of trees. But, Pronto sniffed him out.

The air was ripe … we were closing in … I smelled his fear.

Pronto was checking out a small cave under the roots of a tree on the river. All I heard was a faint "pssss", like a rattlesnake without a rattle, and Pronto yelled out. 


Instinctively, I slapped leather and got off a couple of shots.  All I saw was a few leaves quivering and a light grey mist floating near the trembling bush. 

Black Fart had escaped. Pronto was beside himself with anger and muttering to himself all too loudly. I stopped and called Pronto over. I was upset too. However, catching Black Fart could wait. I made it clear to Pronto right then and there that I never wanted to hear him use that word again … even if it did seem appropriate when talking about Black Fart.

Five minutes later, Pronto and I came to an agreement that even though he was officially my sidekick and accountable to me, I would try to refrain from lecturing him about his language. He, in the spirit of collaboration, would in the future express his frustration using his native language and more importantly, would stop pointing my gun at me and give it back. This is a good compromise for everyone knows that Native Americans are better with knives than with guns. 

We were again the team … the side and the kick. 

Together, we picked up the trail again.

Then, Pronto found the promising clue. Luckily, he had his new knife with him and was able to dissect the find. 

It had to be Black Fart … these were definitely dingleberries!

In a small clearing, deep inside a huge briar patch near the river, we spotted him. Black Fart was squatting near a small fire ...tin plate in hand … eating his dinner of cowboy beans and corn bread. The scent was strong and as we sneaked closer, Pronto took precautionary measures. 

Black Fart never saw us coming. Pronto and I burst into the clearing and drew down on him before he had a chance to move. Knife and revolver in hand, we yelled together, "Don't move a muscle you stinking varmint".

Black Fart never moved … he casually looked at us … a faint smile spread slowly across his face. 

To the right of the campsite, a raccoon dropped to the ground from the hollow high above in the tree.

To my left, Pronto collapsed moaning as he fell. 

My eyes were on fire and struggle though I did, my knees buckled.

When I awoke, head spinning, Pronto was at my side struggling to his feet. "Kemo sabi, you okay?"
Pronto informed me that I had never been fully unconscious … that for what seemed hours, I had rolled and moaned and repeat three words over and over and over. …

Those words …




We were bested this time. We let our guard down and we paid the price. Never again, will we underestimate our foe. But, a word to the wise, don't try to apprehend this devil on your own. If you see this man … call 911.