1. JJ House
“Don’t you know? It’s the Wild West, Motherfucker!”
I spat all over the bloodied shirt of my silent friend while tightening a rock in between his jeans
and his belly. Wrenching and fastening his belt together, I noticed the buckle had a cow with stupidly
long horns on it with some text written under.
“What in the heck kind of place is Belly Under, Idaho?” I said to myself while throwing the
guy’s arm over my shoulder.
“Oh yeah, who the Hell cares!” I grunted while hoisting Dr. Dumbass up onto my shoulders.
Did I really just give Dumbass a PhD? “You look damn dead to me, Dr. Dumbass.” “Sorry buddy,
you’re just Mr. Dumbass,” I said while patting his back. “If you were a doctor, you sure as hell
wouldn’t be out in this heat doing this crummy job and ye definitely wouldn’t have been outsmarted by
me!”
Speaking of the heat, DAMN it’s toasty out here. Prolly don’t even need to dump this guy in the
river.
“You could cook on your own out here and make a fancy lil’ feast for the vultures,” I whispered
in his ear. I ain’t too much a risk taker though, so I hop­skipped down to the waterline and dumped
Dumbass in the mud.
“Oh! What do we have here?” I noticed my temporary companion had quite the nice Stetson.
Dark, smooth, brown, with gold braid wrapped ‘round the edges, 60­x Beaver hitched­horse­hairband
­­ this thing was as rich as I was about to be!
“Thank you kindly, sir!” I said to the man while flicking off my old rotten rag and replacing it
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2. with the fine new one.
“Well that’s about all that’s pretty on you, fella!” I said and grasped the front of his shirt.
I waded out til’ I was waist deep in grime, then let go of the soggy mess.
“Good day to you, sir!” I said standing upright and tipping my hat to the slowly sinking mess. He
must have been some kind of gentleman, ‘cause I recieved a farewell in the form of a brown blop
bursting bubble as the last air left the man’s lungs.
Making my way back to the waterline and with that nasty business out of the way, I set my
attention back to the other corpse.
_______________
The dead eyes of Dolly Horsekiller don’t seem so lifeless. Geez Mary Mother, it’s strange
standing so close to this beast. Dark brown fur with white tips that make her glow in the early morning
or late evening and her angular snout set in a permanent snarl with the pitch black eyes that you can’t
see nothin’ but yourself in ­­ Dolly was a bear out of Hell. Nobody that knows of the beast would ever
say her name unless followed by bad news.
One particular story, the reason behind the second half of her name is known by most every
folk on this side of the canyon. ‘Bout two years ago, during one of those nights where the moon’s so
bright that everything’s hazily lit up, a rancher was out by the edge of his property riding his horse.
Dolly didn’t have a name back then, but there’d been reports of some spooky lookin’ grizzly
tearin’ down cabins between Drummadge Dale and Dowryville Dunes. People didn’t know what to
think on account that Drummadge and Dowryville are damn near six miles apart! So that’s why this
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3. sorry sucker was out patrolling the edge of his land.
People have a few different opinions of what happened next, but most folk don’t know shit for
shoo like me! So the rancher was calopping ‘round real slow, hugging the barbed rust fence, hollering
some stupid songs so as to prevent any wild critters from comin’ ‘round. Being a relatively clear night
and all, the man figured a torch wasn’t necessary.
On a pause between stanzas, a deep wet roar and the drumming of dirt damn near rocked the
man off his saddle. Tossing his head to the side, the man got greeted by a solar eclipse silhouetted beast
growing in his vision. Careening through the barbed wire like a man through a spider web, the bear best
bashed into the side of the rancher’s white ash mare, splitting the poor creature in two, and sending the
rancher to the sky.
Rumor has it that the poor creature suffered for hours while Dolly Horsekiller, starting at its rear,
slowly savored the succulent animal ‘til it finally smacked its lips after snout dessert.
As for the rancher, he broke both legs and cracked a rib into his lung, but somehow managed to
hobble back home, only to live long enough to tell the terrible tale to his wife ‘fore succumbing to his
wounds.
Dolly Horsekiller was born, and she must have developed a partial for pony ‘cause for the past
few years that bear’s been devouring horses from damn near everywhere, not giving nobody a slice of
peace over the well being of their nags.
Well. Shit.
“Sayonara Dolly, you soulless bitch!” I cackled while kicking the bear on the scruff of its neck.
For a second, I looked at myself in her glassy eyes and saw all the good things coming my way.
“$150 and the reputation of a beast killer, I take back what I just said ‘bout you, Dolly. You’ve
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4. done me a real service,” I said.
Shoving my fingers in my mouth, I whistled for Black Montana. Galloping up over the ridge, I
saw my dark friend make his way towards me. Time to tie up Dead Beat Dolly and drag her back to
town.
_______________
Dolly’s way of getting back at me from the grave was by being the most stubborn carcass on
the damn earth. She was laying in a cart, but it was much too small for her. Everything but the wheels
was covered by her black fur mass and her arms and legs hung over the edge and dragged along the
ground. Every so often her spey blade sized obsidian­black claws would catch the dirt and dig in,
abruptly stopping the cart and damn near break one of Black Montana back.
Eventually, about an hour before nightfall, I finally reached the edge of town. I hitched Black
Montana to a post and wandered towards the sheriffs office. People were outside, going about their
business. No one seemed to pay Dolly any attention neither, which meant one of two things: they were
either so engrossed in their working to notice anything else, or they had the common sense to not
instigate any business that had no particular connection to them. If it was the latter then I could really
come to like this place ­­ I always prefer somewhere nobody asks any questions.
I arrived at the sheriffs office, and since I wasn’t in the knocking mood, stepped right on inside.
It was dim and musty inside. A single sconce hung over a desk clearly illuminating it, but only hazily
revealing the rest of the room. “Whaddya want?” a man behind the desk, who I presumed to be the
sheriff asked. He has a brown button down on covered by a boiled leather vest, and pinned to the vest
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5. was a glistening metal star. It looked sharp and well polished. “I’ve brought back a body ye’ might like
to see, officer.”
“Sheriff. And what kind of body?” The Sheriff leaned forward and his eyes came into view.
They were a bright blue and just as sharp and polished as his badge.
“Well Sheriff, I’ve got Dolly Horsekiller hitched to a wagon on the edge of town.”
The Sheriff got up from the desk and walked around it, eyeing me suspiciously and never
dropping his gaze. “Lawrence McManaman set out two days ago claiming he was going to kill that
beast,” he said, “Haven’t seen him since. And now you’re here saying you’ve got the dead bear tied
up? Pardon me sir, I’ve sized you up and ye’ look honest enough, but I can’t help voicing my suspicion
on the matter.”
“Well sir, thank you sir,” I put a big toothy grin on my face and opened the door behind me,
holding it for the sheriff. As he walked past, I said, “I don’t know nothing about any Lawrence, but I did
pass an empty campsite on my way back.” I caught up alongside him and we walked down the street.
“Maybe he’s still out there searching, Sheriff. Most people aren’t as fast as me at tracking down their
targets.” The Sheriff cast a watchful fisheye in my direction, and I knew I should watch my gloating
tongue with this one.
“I usually like to know the names of the men who I deal with,” The Sheriff said. I gave him
another heartwarming smile. “John, sir. John­Wilfred Smokeyes.”
Slapping the saloon doors open like the buttocks of a woman, I strutted into the dark, musty
room, my new matte­black spurs click­clacking at every step. Inside, four men were playing hold ‘em at
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6. a round table. This wasn’t particularly interesting save for the one man who was beaming from ear to
ear, wearing an extra large copstache standard and a grey­wool suit with a matching hat. He glanced up
at me, and he was not a plump man, but his eyes twinkled with what felt like Saint Nicholas charm. The
bastard prolly had the hand of his life ­­ and knew it ­­ but the others at the table didn’t seem to notice
because no one folded. Nevermind them though, I walked past the table.
The bar looked empty as I approached it. I stood at the counter for a minute, my fingers tapping
in undulation. I looked left, then right.
“I guess no one’s here...” I murmured to myself. I begin to feel over the counter for a glass.
“Self­service is OK with me!”
Slap!
“Ow! What the Hell!” I withdrew my hand and looked at my wrist. It was bright red.
“Self­service, my ass! You’ll pay like everyone else,” a voice said.
I looked around, trying to find the voice that smacked my drawing arm.
“Down here, Dirtbag!”
I darted my attention downward. Peering over the worn out counter was a glimmering bald
forehead. My lower jaw stuck out, I bared my teeth, let out a loud, hard exhale from my nose and my
vision narrowed on the scalp ­­ Bewilderment was now replaced by ferocity.
I kicked my barstool out of the way and shot my arms over the counter on each side of the
head. My hands grabbed suspender straps and I lifted.
“Let go of me! I own this bar!” the man exclaimed as his head appeared over the counter. I
dragged the rest of him onto the taproom top and pinned his shoulders down. His face was cherry red,
especially his huge, bulbous nose. Sweat poured out of him, drenching his already greasy white shirt. He
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7. mustn’t have been taller than the beer barrels behind him and looked like a grown up baby. I got my
face real close to his so he could feel my hot breath and spit as I spoke. The man closed his eyes and
shook his head side to side ­­ maybe he thought he could loosen off his head and run away. I gripped
his cheeks in my hand, which stopped the shaking and scrunched his face together.
“Look at me. Look at me!” I repeated with heightened impatience. His eyes opened and I gave
him my best crazy stare.
“Do ye’ know the definition of volatile?” I hissed, spraying him with spit on the last T. He
looked as though he may not have heard so I gripped his cheeks even harder, his eyes grimaced. I
repeated, “I said, do ye’ know the definition of volatile?” His flambéd face stayed still under my grip,
but his head shook vigorously left and right. “I AM THE DEFINITION OF VOLATILE!” I roared into
his face. I think the little bugger passed out cold ‘cause he didn’t move when I slid him off the counter. I
heard a dull thud then nothing more when he hit the ground.
I snatched a stein and slowly filled it to the brim, careful to not let any foam leak out. Turning
around, I caught the quick glances of all the men at the poker table. They looked to be on the same
hand as when I came in. The man who had been beaming now held a solemn face, the twinkle lost from
his eyes. The rest of them struggled to mind their own business.
I decided to throw them a cold stare. “You boys OK over there?”
“Yessir.” Saint Nick said.
“Good.”
“Yup, great, sir.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“What?”
7

8. “What...”
“What... sir?”
“That! Now I suggest you fellas pack it up real quick ‘cause I am in no mood for company.”
I walked past them to the back of the bar. I couldn’t help but chortle when I heard chairs drag and feet
scuttle with no words to accompany them. Finally it was time to relax and have some alone time with my
brew.
I found a spot, kicked the seat out and reclined in my chair. Its legs creaked as I plomped my
new boots down on the table and my new spurs chimed once like little bells after the thud. I was
beginning to really like that sound – it sounded like money in the pocket ­ so I started tapping my boots
together to make the spurs jingle. Settlin’ deeper into my chair I kept tap­tapping, my spurs
jingle­jangled and gold coins danced in my head. This made me very happy­happy. I began to hear
music in the chimes, and I hummed quietly while swigging my drink ­­ my head nodding side­to­side
with the beat.
_______________
“Do you like to dance, boy?” A deep voice growled behind me. Nearly falling backwards out
of my chair, I had to slam my feet onto the ground to keep balance. My spurs made a sound like a fallen
keyring.
“You look like a dancer, boy! So dance!” Huge hands gripped into my shoulders and lifted me
off my feet. I tried to kick backwards at whoever was holding me, but all I got was air.
“Now do a little boogie!” I was tossed forward and stumbled, my legs falling and crossing over
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9. one another to keep balance. I couldn’t stay upright though, my feet spun ‘round and my body
followed. The back of my head slammed into the wall.
Shooting my eyes open I was immediately greeted by a blow of hot smoke. That forced them
right shut again. I coughed, furiously blinking my eyes, trying to see. Peering through my squinted and
tear­filled eyes, I was able to make out the outline of a man’s head. I blinked a few more times and my
vision cleared up a little. The man did not have a hat on, but it was as if his eyes were still under a brim
because they were completely shadowed out. I could still feel his icy stare digging into me though, and I
averted my eyes downward. They paused for a second on his nose because I was surprised it wasn't
the first thing I had noticed. It looked like it was once a large, protruding snout, but had been repeatedly
stamped down to fit his face like a screen door that doesn’t close so is slammed shut over and over
again ‘til it sticks. Smoke sprayed out of his nostrils in big huffs. Everything below his nose was covered
in thick, black facial hair, except for wait ­ what’s that? That’s not... oh no. A leathery hand smacked
my face, turning off all my lights, sending my mind to dream.
He’s from the Northeast ­ a former boxer, but now much more than that. Colder. There’s
legends about this guy, and although I was skeptical before, now face­to­face I was entirely ready to
believe every one. The Ex­Boxer was once a contender to be the Super­Heavyweight Champion of the
World. No one ever taught him how to box, he was just a natural born fighter. Fighters are not boxers,
but they do box. At 16 he weighed in as a heavyweight, so he started off boxing men at least 4 years his
elder. Over the past seven years he held a record of 350 wins, all by knockout, and only 4 losses.
Some say his losses were on purpose just so he would have the chance to be matched up with his rivals
whose faces he was particularly fond of kneading into dough.
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10. He was renowned in boxing circles, but was never very popular because venues hated having
him. Fights were never interesting or spectacular save for 1 huge hit. Also, the Ex­Boxer was known to
find the match organizers after the fight and pummel them for all the extra money.
Well one day, after recording his 350th win, the Ex­Boxer decided his payroll wasn’t high
enough so he sought out the owner of the venue he fought at to wring out some extra cash. He caught
the man leaving and smashed the front wheels of his stagecoach so he couldn't leave then ripped the
door off it all the while shouting for money.
You should know who he was about to mug, though. The man was Admiral Reeve. Admiral
Reeve, my former employer, may be the only person colder than the Ex­Boxer. Reeve was a blockade
runner in the War of Northern Aggression. He famously evaded Union ships aboard his Black
Purveyor, a heavily modernized clipper ship that he designed himself. He removed all the sails, plated
the stern, keel and rudder in iron and added two huge steam engines to the thing. The steam didn’t feed
up out of stacks into the air, though, no, Reeve directed the steam out under his ship, making it
impossible to spot from far away. Only a few people have seen the thing up close, because it’s never
been docked ashore.
During the war he’d move supplies between South Louisiana and Havana completely unnoticed.
He was so stealthy the Union didn’t even know he and his ship existed. He would never even dock.
The Black Purveyor would unload its cargo onto other boats that would meet it offshore in the dead of
night.
Well, they soon found out about his reputation, though ­­ the “Harbinger of Havana”, as he
came to be called ‘cause he brought so much wealth to the Cuban city’s economy. That nickname was
quickly superseded by “Confederate Chimera” ­­ Union sailors would call him that. Blaming the chimera
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11. became a regular excuse by those blue bastards whenever something would go wrong at sea. His final
name he made for himself immediately after the war. Most southerners were in a bad place after their
way of life was taken away. Reeve, however, showed up out of the blue in New Orleans with seemingly
endless wealth. His only explanation was that he was an Admiral in the war, and that they compensated
him smartly for it. So from then on, he was known to all as “The Admiral” or “Admiral Reeve”.
The truth of his wealth though is that he continued his stealthy shipping service after the war.
Except it wasn’t cotton he was moving, it was opium. As a cover up he invested smartly in real estate,
including the St. Louis Downs and Athletic Club. Heading a drug trafficking and gambling business
brought quite a few enemies, though, and that’s how the Admiral and I got to know one another. I was
one of his “Dispatchers” as he liked to call it.
Now the Ex­Boxer didn't know who he had just confronted, but to be honest even if he did he
probably would not have cared. Apparently the Ex­Boxer got right down to business and walked
towards Admiral Reeve, loudly demanding a hefty sum from him. Reeve stood his ground and declined,
and when the Ex­Boxer got too close, he drew his hand­cannon and shot him right in the face.
Most people die when bullets hit their face. Not the Ex­Boxer. His skull was so thick that the
bullet just lodged into his cheek bone. He apprently stumbled back towards Admiral Reeve but before
Reeve could fire another shot at him, the police arrived and lassoed the Ex­Boxer by his feet and
arrested him.
Reeve does not take attempts on his life easily though, and really wanted the man who is
immune to bullets to not be a problem for him as soon as possible. He sent man after man after the
Ex­Boxer. They all failed to kill him, but they did slowly drive him further and further West. The
Ex­Boxer took it upon himself to be a big thorn in Admiral Reeve’s side, though, because you know,
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12. after trying to be killed over twenty times gives you at least a small lust for revenge. The Ex­Boxer has
sabotaged countless business adventures of the Admiral, and it has turned into a war between the lone,
unkillable man and the cruel, wealthy businessman.
The Ex­Boxer is the reason I am no longer employed by Admiral Reeve. He tried to send me
out to kill the man, and because I declined, I was permanently taken off the payroll and blacklisted by
everyone who looks to hire people in my field of work.
I can see the circular scar behind his beard where the bullet struck. The Ex­Boxer found me.
Light crossed his face for a moment, and I saw his hard green eyes. I can see it in his eyes ­ he has
plans for me.
“Get the hell up, you rat­faced bastard”. The Ex­Boxer pinned my back to the wall and dragged
me up it onto my feet.
“Now listen, you’re mine now, ye hear?” With the hand that wasn’t holding me to the wall, and
without dropping his gaze, he slid my gun out of its holster and into his jacket pocket. He then grabbed
my arm, held it up, reached back into his jacket, took out a dirk and forced it into my hand. Finally, he
grabbed a kerchief out from his back pocket and tied it around my face, covering me below the eyes.
“Follow me,” he said and turned around and headed for the exit. I had half a mind to stab him
right in the back of the neck, but deep down I knew that whatever I tried against the man wouldn’t end
in my favor. I pocketed the dirk and tentatively followed the Ex­Boxer out of the bar. I figured it would
be pointless to ask him where we were going and what we were doing, so I just quietly followed a few
paces behind him.
Nighttime was descending on the town, turning the eye­candy beige ground and buildings into a
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13. much more vivid grey. The street was mostly deserted, save for two men smoking on a porch. It was
dead quiet, the only sound was the crunching dirt beneath the Ex­Boxer’s massive feet, and the chiming
of my spurs. Their ringing no longer sounded like money to me, instead they were like little snickerings,
laughing at my misfortunes to come.
The Ex­Boxer stopped, and turned around to face me. He didn’t say anything, just looked at
me and snarled, but I think it was his best attempt at a smile. I looked to my left and examined the
ramshackle abandoned building we had stopped in front of. I looked back at him, confused. He spat a
wad of tobacco juice onto my boot and motioned towards the other side of the street. I looked right.
Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me. The word “Bank” was printed above the double doorway of the
building across the street. I went to look back at the Ex­Boxer, but he was already walking across the
street. I didn’t want to follow, but I knew that if I ran I’d be a dead man, so I reluctantly trailed after
him.
Without breaking pace, or even turning around, the Ex­Boxer called out, “You’ll want to get
that knife out right about now. You’re going to point it at whoever is behind the counter”. By then he
was at the entrance. He lined up and kicked the right door off its hinges. It smacked heavily on the
ground and he strolled inside.
I quickly looked around every which way. The streets were still deserted and there didn’t seem
to be anyone hurrying to sound the alarm bells. This gave me some small assurance, but I’d also been
on operations like this before, more willingly of course, and I knew that something unexpected was
destined to happen. I took a long breath, brought up the dirk in front of me and hopped through the
doorway.
It was damn near pitch black inside the bank, which gave me pause the moment I leapt in. I
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14. looked around out of instinct even though I knew I wouldn’t be able to see anything. There wasn’t a
single sound from anywhere else ­­ that sent my nerves flying ­­ and the clang my feet rang when I
landed inside left an open echo, letting me know that this room was airy and large. I felt a breeze slither
down the back of my neck. The cold air from outside was quickly pouring in and more goosebumps
than I knew possible on a man shuddered out of my skin. Now by no means was I scared ­­ I was
simply on edge ­­ John Wilfred Smokeyes doesn’t know fear in himself, only in others.
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