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That book-writin' goomer held the chewed off finger in his hand and looked at it. He was not about to say everything. Oh, he had some opinions. But he was not about to tell all. Lucky they was settin' in a corner. Nobody could see what was goin' on. Ev'ry body else chawin' down on steak pizzioli and deep fried anchovies. This was the bes' Eye-talian restaurant in Barsoom after all.
Know what I think?- said the writer..........Whut? - said the stable hand....... I think he must a lost it before he died. Maybe in a fight. You know, like a struggle. Looks bit off to me. But I ain't no expert on finger removal. I'm jus' sayin'. How'd you get it?............ Little birdy done give it to me.- grinned Whitey........ The writer goomer just looked. He was sure that dumb cowboy was crazy. Why not? Had all the genuine, licensed signs of bubbles in the think tank. Skinny. Sunburnt. Dried up hair. Chutes and ladder teeth. Sweat stained arm pits. Writer knowed. His pa got locked up in the crazy house for that. Sure they can jimmy out all the old-timey brain-funnies now. Only thing is, new hinky-dinks keep croppin' up. What they gonna do? Let 'em run the streets? That why people gotta git theyselves locked up. Hell, this Mars. Ev'rybody gotta git locked up sometime. Am I right?
Then the writer goomer say - What you want a do wit this?...........Whitey just shrugged. He did have expectations. What he lacked was the means to communicate 'em. But the writer gommer knowed what he was after, so he said - How 'bout if we sell this to somebody want a do a hinky-dink to them bosses a yours? You like that?......... Whitey just nodded and grinned........Writer feller say - What kind a hinky-dink you want a fall on 'em?............. Whitey say - A killin' hinky-dink, a real smartin' legs-in-a-wood-chipper hinky-dink........ Then he laughed. I guess it was a laugh. But here in Barsoom it just look real dumb. Funny, out on the ranch he never seem so dumb. But out there all he gotta 'press are the horses and the young'uns.
So they spit hands and smack a deal. They gone see a guy what knows how to grow folks from chawed off body parts. Once growed a whole new debutante from a little bit a throwed out tittie. See her mama doan like that buxom look, so she pay a doc uptown to shave her down a mite. You know, make her look more fancy-like. I don't know what they did with that re-grown tittie-gal. That part, I don't know.
Hour and twenty minute later they walkin' out a rich folk clinic wit two hundred and fifty five thousand dollar 'tween 'em. Ast for a million. After all, who not like to have a full blooded Texaco to control? Spring it on the old lady when it grow out a little. You know she gonna love it. You know she gonna want it. So lemme ast you? How much it gonna sell for then? Shit, kids'll get a chance a have they daddy back. Monica get her huzbin back. Don't know what good he gonna be to her. But at least she get him back. Who knows? Might be fun dressin' him up and all?
Whitey doan know what to do wit his part a the money. Can't put it in no bank. Can't spend it all on hootchie gals...Not ALL a it. So he settle on a plan. He gonna ast a guy in a card parlor a change it in a ten thousand dollar bills. Then he gonna roll 'em up tight, slide 'em in that little (now empty) finger vial a his and shove it all back up his ass. Hell, wern't no big thing. He gettin' used to that by now. Walk real good wit it and ev'rythin'.
But he did have five thousand left. And that's what he used to buy a gun. Real purdy one. Handy-like too. Gun store goomer say it shoot twenty five round 'tween rechargin's. Whitey doan care 'bout that. He only care 'bout the first two.
Bus-tank doan leave for two more hour. Time enough for him a go up Tallulah Street and see Miss Linda. He had some a his own 'from before' money all folded up for that. So he wave down a little rickshaw (they got robots pullin' 'em. look jus' like them old time movie stars) and hop on. Ten minute later that Clooney-bot drop him off on 'hootchie street.' Whitey give 'im the money, but he doan leave no tip. Clooney-bot mutter - Go to hell, bastid......... Lemme tell you. Some a them robots real fresh son-a-bitches these days......
Doan know what Whitey gone do wit that new gun. Doan know how he gone maneuver wit all that money up his butt. Reckon he doan know how neither.
But Miss Linda and he is 'besties'. An she purdy good at secret keepin. Not perfec'. Hell, no. She ain't perfec'... But she purdy good......I hope.....
<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3
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Know what I think?- said the writer..........Whut? - said the stable hand....... I think he must a lost it before he died. Maybe in a fight. You know, like a struggle. Looks bit off to me. But I ain't no expert on finger removal. I'm jus' sayin'. How'd you get it?............ Little birdy done give it to me.- grinned Whitey........ The writer goomer just looked. He was sure that dumb cowboy was crazy. Why not? Had all the genuine, licensed signs of bubbles in the think tank. Skinny. Sunburnt. Dried up hair. Chutes and ladder teeth. Sweat stained arm pits. Writer knowed. His pa got locked up in the crazy house for that. Sure they can jimmy out all the old-timey brain-funnies now. Only thing is, new hinky-dinks keep croppin' up. What they gonna do? Let 'em run the streets? That why people gotta git theyselves locked up. Hell, this Mars. Ev'rybody gotta git locked up sometime. Am I right?
Then the writer goomer say - What you want a do wit this?...........Whitey just shrugged. He did have expectations. What he lacked was the means to communicate 'em. But the writer gommer knowed what he was after, so he said - How 'bout if we sell this to somebody want a do a hinky-dink to them bosses a yours? You like that?......... Whitey just nodded and grinned........Writer feller say - What kind a hinky-dink you want a fall on 'em?............. Whitey say - A killin' hinky-dink, a real smartin' legs-in-a-wood-chipper hinky-dink........ Then he laughed. I guess it was a laugh. But here in Barsoom it just look real dumb. Funny, out on the ranch he never seem so dumb. But out there all he gotta 'press are the horses and the young'uns.
So they spit hands and smack a deal. They gone see a guy what knows how to grow folks from chawed off body parts. Once growed a whole new debutante from a little bit a throwed out tittie. See her mama doan like that buxom look, so she pay a doc uptown to shave her down a mite. You know, make her look more fancy-like. I don't know what they did with that re-grown tittie-gal. That part, I don't know.
Hour and twenty minute later they walkin' out a rich folk clinic wit two hundred and fifty five thousand dollar 'tween 'em. Ast for a million. After all, who not like to have a full blooded Texaco to control? Spring it on the old lady when it grow out a little. You know she gonna love it. You know she gonna want it. So lemme ast you? How much it gonna sell for then? Shit, kids'll get a chance a have they daddy back. Monica get her huzbin back. Don't know what good he gonna be to her. But at least she get him back. Who knows? Might be fun dressin' him up and all?
Whitey doan know what to do wit his part a the money. Can't put it in no bank. Can't spend it all on hootchie gals...Not ALL a it. So he settle on a plan. He gonna ast a guy in a card parlor a change it in a ten thousand dollar bills. Then he gonna roll 'em up tight, slide 'em in that little (now empty) finger vial a his and shove it all back up his ass. Hell, wern't no big thing. He gettin' used to that by now. Walk real good wit it and ev'rythin'.
But he did have five thousand left. And that's what he used to buy a gun. Real purdy one. Handy-like too. Gun store goomer say it shoot twenty five round 'tween rechargin's. Whitey doan care 'bout that. He only care 'bout the first two.
Bus-tank doan leave for two more hour. Time enough for him a go up Tallulah Street and see Miss Linda. He had some a his own 'from before' money all folded up for that. So he wave down a little rickshaw (they got robots pullin' 'em. look jus' like them old time movie stars) and hop on. Ten minute later that Clooney-bot drop him off on 'hootchie street.' Whitey give 'im the money, but he doan leave no tip. Clooney-bot mutter - Go to hell, bastid......... Lemme tell you. Some a them robots real fresh son-a-bitches these days......
Doan know what Whitey gone do wit that new gun. Doan know how he gone maneuver wit all that money up his butt. Reckon he doan know how neither.
But Miss Linda and he is 'besties'. An she purdy good at secret keepin. Not perfec'. Hell, no. She ain't perfec'... But she purdy good......I hope.....
<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3
be a l'il lovey-dovey and press down on that SHARE button? write us a COMMENT too while you at it. Muwah!
1 comment:
Loved this, Billy!!! Still think you should write a book! You have a great talent.
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