These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... Reckonings

He didn't deserve that. Davey's a good little kid. And it's not like Whitey meant to hit him. But when you go berserk with high powered fire arms crazy stuff is bound to happen. 


Bart saw him get hit. His eyes picked up the very instant when the 'red hot' cut through the boy's shirt and sliced through his body. Saw him twitch. Saw him fall. Saw him bleed. Old Man jumped up and barreled through all them screamin' people. Some folks go flyin'. Stuff gets broke. He don't care. He don't care 'bout none a them bastids. Let 'em all drop dead and go to hell. 


Folks is already crowdin' 'round the boy. Them what can't move fast enough gets clobbered. Bart falls down by his grandson. He's heavin'. He can hardly breathe. And it's the old man I'm talkin' 'bout. Little guy is still alive. His eyes is open. He look scared... real scared. His legs is tremblin'. Somebody mumble 'bout that bein' a good sign. But Bart don't hear him. He wanna hug the boy, but he afraid a hurtin' him. So he brush his cheek. He kiss him. He say - You hold on, you little chili pepper, you. You hold on. You hear me!?...........Davey wanna say somethin', but he can't. Whole body tremblin' now. Bart cryin'. Bart cryin'. Zeb (he the daddy) come runnin'  over. Slide down on the other side and start feelin' for a pulse, like he know what he doin'. Then the mama (Miss India) start bellowin'. She 'bout a pass out. Two fat ladies get her all set  up in a lawn chair. Bart say - Where that pod!? Where the hell that pod!?


You see, on Mars folks got chips put in 'em. Some they know 'bout. Some they do not. But most ev'rybody got a 'code blue' chip. They the good ones.  You get sick, you get torn up. Pod know 'bout it. Them big  ground level doors slide open. Pod rise out. Little blue engines fire up and it zip right to you. Folks sees it tearin' in toward little Davey. Bastids go flyin' back. They don't wanna get hurt. 'Sides, show gone be just as good from ten yard back. It come in. It hover. It set down. Door slide back and doc come out. Only he ain't a real doc. He ain't no human doc. Them pod docs is androids. Real good ones too. This'n favor Mister Peabody from Rocky and Bullwinkle. That 'cause it a kid what got hurt. Grown up prob'ly get like Jesus or Richard Nixon, depending on their prerecorded preferences. An' they ain't just one doc. They got three of 'em. Chase ev'rybody 'way. Tube him up. Truss him up and stow him inside. Folks what ain't hurt stand back watchin' like it a holovision show. First Mister Peabody say - Who goin' wit us? ............. Bart say - I am............. Zeb say - No, you ain't, you old bastid! I am. I the daddy! I the daddy!.......... But Bart jus' drag hisself up and fall inside.  Shove that shit ass son away like he a putrid mess. Somebody say Miss Sissie rollin' 'round on the floor in the house. People cryin'. People bleedin'. Dogs barkin'. Zeb almos' smash one a them Peabody docs. An' even android doc don't wanna be 'dead,' so it jump back a little and let him in. Door slide down and they tear off, straight into the city, straight to Albert Einstein First Hospital a Mars. An' soon as they gone, folks sees the other pods glide right in. 


I gotta tell you. Mars know how to make trouble. But we do know how to clean it up once it happen. 


Miss Monica wanna be the good widder/daughter-in-law now. She wanna make points. She wanna get the money. She wanna be the firs' one. So she set her two kids up wiff some kind a gladiator video dome in the basement. Then she kneel down by Miss Sissie to set things right. Miss India waitin' a leave for the hospital. Can't drive her tank 'cause it all shot up. Some no account cousin fixin' to take her. Guess they figure this gone make 'em less no account.


And Stinker still there. He ain't hurt. He ain't even thirsty. Jus' sippin' a drink and walkin' 'round. Misses Stinker OK too. Shit, she still pickin' at some brisket.


Cops come racin' up the road. Guess this gettin' a be a regular thing wiff them. Boss cop fly out, bound  up them steps. And who do you think he fixin' a talk to?


You see, Stinker Jones do what he do best. Stinker Jones specialize in control-takin'. He jus' sets that badge wearin' bull dog down on a settee, slides in next a him and commences... to spin out... the truth... 


And over off toward the west, sun go down on a real nice purdy scene. Hills look red. Sky look blue. Clouds all smoky-orange. Only thing messin' it up is a big, ole pile a smashed up, missin' a head, sky-pony and a little ways off is an equally smashed up Whitey.


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These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... Target Practice

Now when I say folks 'shucked down' for the afternoon's 'festivities,' I do not mean they went sashayin' round like a bunch a hairless (more or less) gorillas. Few a them did that. Might a been some blood curdlin' whoopin' and skivvies flyin' later on. But for the most part they kept theyselves decently trussed up.


Families enjoyed heapin' platefuls of succulent, deliciously charred prime beef. Bartenders poured liberal libations (occasionally raised in memory of the departed) and ev'rybody soaked up a lot a nice sun.  They don't truck much wit that skin cancer shit no more. Humans got rid a that sucker years ago. You wanna be brown? You take a pill. You wanna be white? You take a pill. True, some folks got religious objections to all that pill takin'. But  you can tell who they are... They the ugly ones........


And then we got goomers like Stinker. He doan care what he look like. Why he have to?  Nobody gone tell him the truth. He like a Roman emperor. He like Nero. Who gonna say - Yo, Nero, y'all look like a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. Y'all look like your mama play hinky-dink wit a hunch-back monkey. Any body do that gone get killed so hard they never forget it.


But look at him settin' over there wit Bart. Look at them talkin' like they really mean it. They circlin'. They ain't talkin'. It like watchin' two big 'bull' chupicabras eyein' each other in the chupicabra pit, waitin' 'fore them chains a come off. Waitin' for the bets a be placed. Waitin' 'fore the battle a start. 


Bart say - What you think 'bout folks up in the northern part a El Plano? You think they gone vote for my boy?......... Stinker say - They knows what a do. We done schooled 'em real good. They want water? They gone vote. They want clean water? They gone vote the smart way. I waxed 'em up real good. Don't rattle you brains none. Snatched a few agitators. Din't take no credit 'fore it. But happy to do it. You know how I like (slimy smile) to pull out weeds... And doan worry none over no bodies............ Bart say - What you do wit 'em?..................Stinker go - ttsssss! ttsssss!!...... Make a sound like spit on a griddle........ Then he whisper - Acid bath........... Bart say - What, to the bodies?..........Stinker say - Well... when I give it to them... they wern't exactly bodies yet............ Then he give out a disgustin', little, fat man chuckle....... Bart don't say nothin'.  He jus' look up at the sky. You know them hard, squinty faces old goomers make? Well, that what he do.


Now Miss Sissie settin' over there by the 'water feature' wit her lady friends. She showin' 'em little cylinders, little holograms a her baby what went 'gook.' They gettin' all misty-eyed recollectin' Mister Alec durin' his livin' days. Other folks gathered over by that Mars-Mariachi band. Couple dumb shits playin' Marco Polo in the cement pond. Some wet, slippery young folks mushin' up out back a the barn. This a real good funeral. I kid you not. 


And high up against a hazy sky, ole Whitey leadin' them fine, purdy sky-ponies through lazy figure eights and fancy arabesques. They know the drill. They do it in the rodeo. They do it up by the Canyon Stampede purt near ev'ry year. Only this time gone be different. 'Cause this time...'stead a wavin' at the folks... Whitey gone be shootin' at 'em. 


Ain't gone be no noise. Not down by ground level anyway. Jus' a bitty, ole 'crack-crack-crack' when them plasma balls shoot out. But they hot. And they go far. And they do damage. Sure it easy  to patch folks up these days. They can burn down scar tissue . They can resurrect a shot off pecker, make it even more imposin' then it ever was. Whitey know all that. He ain't that dumb.... That why he aimin' for the heads..... 


First one take a dive right off the veranda. Mus' a be settin' on the balustrade or somethin'. Big plate a juicy brisket go flyin', mixin' right in wit the brains. 


Second one a mariachi goomer. He not only singin' 'Cielito Lindo' he actually tourin' the place.


Bunch a screamin' shits go runnin for the house. Miss  Sissie's bes' lady friend, Hilda, take a 'red-hot' (that what they call plasma balls) right in part a her ass. Man, did she scream. But seein' as she ain't got too much a her brains down there, she gone be OK.


Whole bunch a plasma balls go 'ping-ping-ping' down in the dust. Whitey good, but he ain't no crack shot. 


An' I do not think he meant  to hit little Davey... but he did...


Whitey seen it. He saw. Even from that high up and it rattled him. It mess him up real bad. Almost los' his seat.  But he stay on. 'Cept his hand cramp up and he pop a shot right through that horse's head. Bust it up jus' like a pinata.


Sky-pony stop, jus' like a smashed up toy and go spiralin'  right down to the groun', wiff  ole Whitey givin' out a rebel yell allll the whole way..... 


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These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... Departures

A day on Mars is about one half hour longer than our terrestrial counterpart. But that don't mean they tacked on another hour at 12am. Mars watches look like Earth watches. Each day has twenty four hours. And every hour has sixty minutes. What they done was stretch all them seconds a little. Nobody minds. It fits. It works, 'cept during athletic competitions. Then they gotta stipulate Mars time, or Earth time. But folks out here is used to it. Know what they actually do wit that extra half hour? They spends it sleepin.'  'Siesta,' what they call it.  An' after lunch, ev'rybody jus' be sawin' wood. But seein' as we don't all eat lunch at the same time, the practice is real easy to stick to.


Service this mornin' was real nice. Them purdy tank-limos all lined up out back. Folks all dressed up like for a real concervative weddin' or somethin.' Miss Sissie had Teacher Davis read the liturgy from the Pittsburgh Platform Prayer book. Ev'rybody say the 'Magnified and Sanctified's' all together. Mister Hobart got a preacher from the church out by the Walgreen. Miss Monica wrote a speech for one a her theater friends to read. First she was gonna oversee the whole thing. Do a big production, kind a like Thornton Wilder's 'Our Town,' but then she start ruminatin' on all that money and she figure no need a stick cactus spines  up the old bastid's ass. So she put her hatred in another place an' jus' make widow-eyes at ev'rybody.


Law say folks can plant departed goomers on family land. Provided, that is, you got family land. Flower boxes on condo balconies do not count, 'cept maybe if you had the goomer all burned up (after death, I mean). They do got cemeteries and crypt parks runnin' 'round out here. But folks like the Texacos sticks to them old ways.  All of 'em line up wit a silver garden trough full a dirt. Take they turn dumpin' it on top a the casket. Miss Monica pick out the burnished, gold egg variety. She see it once on a reconstituted hologram from the old days. Some European noblebitch, name Lady GaGa had herself carried 'round in one when she went like out to dinner. Alec's was a might longer and a bit more opaque. Look a little bit like a big, ole, fat cigar case. I don't know how they knowed which side was up an' which side was down. Stinker Jones appear to be thinkin' the same thing, 'cause we all see him lookin' at it. But it hard to tell. Maybe he jus' wanna see the dead body. Maybe he jus' wanna know how they did it. Paid good money for it, after all. 


Zeb (Alec's brother) go 'round shakin' hands wit all the folks. He the one gonna be a senator, you know. Miss Sissie thankin' ev'rybody for comin'. Miss India settin' wit her lady friends from that 'Trooper' organization. Bart appraisin' all the goomers and figurin' out who need killin' and who don't need killin'. Them kids, Davey and Alec's two, wander off to see the horses. Folks drift inside and upstairs to shuck down for the swimmin' and barbecuin' part a the festivities. Tuva-Tuva gals handin' out towels and special, little souvenir soaps. They got whole mess a bafrooms and toilets in this house, so there not gonna be too much waitin'. Caterers commence to throwin' on all the meat. Bartenders servin' up all them bourbon and branch waters. They got special beverages for the ladies. Not that they weaker, jus' sweeter.


If you look up at the sky, sun gonna be little smaller than it be from Earth. Clouds all got that deep orange, Mars tinge 'round they edges. Whitey up there exercisin' a few a them sky-ponies. That jus' for show. Bart like the way it look. An' Whitey know to keep 'em off to the side, so they don't drop no turds on nobody.


But he also know somethin' else. Folks gonna find out 'bout it soon enough. Right after they all get good and lickered up. Right after them bellies all blowed up  wit meat. Give 'em time to lay down by the pool. Excuse me, 'cement pond' them rich folks all calls it.


Give it time. Jus' give it time. That new purchase he make in town gone come in mighty handy.....


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These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... Stinker and Family

First thing is the sign. More like an arch, really. It go over the road leadin' up to the house. Genuine wrought iron from when they take down that Eiffel Tower in France. Stinker did not buy the whole thing, jus' a little piece a it. But he paid 'nuf for it. Now it form a dull, black satchel handle, wit the  words 'Number One' scrawled out on top. That what he call the place. Was gonna call it 'God's Country.' But Misses Stinker's decoratin' taste don't jibe wit that monicker . She partial to a more flamboyant atmosphere. If you ever been to Graceland, back on Earth, it like that, only mite less tasteful. 


Now 'Number One' is not a workin' ranch. It too close  to the city for that. What we got here is a 'play land' for a fat assed son-a-bitch. Sure they do got a few a them fifty pound, miniature bovines. I don't know what breed 'zactly . Stinker got all a them flavors.  Some got a honey-onion-garlic stink. Some got a Mexicali ambiance. Few got Kansas City all over 'em.
From what I hear, they real good eatin' too. 


He sittin in the media room right now watchin a hologram a 'West Side Story.' Look at that flabby son-a-bitch, singin' all the songs  and screwin' up his face. Oh, he don't spit out the words so's you'd hear 'em. Jus' moves his malf aroun' like a ventriloquist's dummy what ain't got no hand up it's ass.


Tuva-Tuva gal crackin' off his toenails wit the same, little scissors she use to cut up kitchen crap. But he doan know that. Bet she wanna jab them scissors right in his stomach. Bet she wanna reach inside that robe and prune off that disgustin' little pecker. Bet she wanna do a lot a shit...... But she can't, 'cause this here  Stinker Jones we talkin' 'bout. 


He wanna look real good (for him) tomorrow when they go to that funeral. That why he gettin' the pedicure.  Doan wanna make nobody up-chuck they barbecue durin' the swimmin' part. 


Misses Stinker want him to get hisself a professional back-shave. But he doan wanna. Say he gonna wear a big, ole t-shirt anyways. Coulda had hisself all lazer-ized when they was on vacation, cruisin' them Jovian ice moons. But he jus' say 'no.' He a slob. 


Stinker do like goin'  to funerals, though. That how he make sure folks is truly dead, 'specially when he the one who want 'em that way. Funeral grub good too. Out here it mostly barbecue. That like a tradition. Mars-Mariachi band sound real nice too. I don't know which one they havin' , but you  know it gonna be a good one.


Is he takin' a chance struttin' out to this shindig? ...... Hell, yes. Folks been known to cetch a bad case a death at a Martian funeral. But it not like he gone by hisself. Stinker-boys'll be there. And what Bart gonna do anyway? He wanna see his kid in The Stone House real bad. Losin' Alec jus' an unavoidable piece a collateral damage. 


Shit, any good general know that.........


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These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... Side windin'

Davey sat in the stables with  Whitey. He liked watchin' him groom them sky-ponies. Had a be special careful wit them wings. You see, what look like feathers actually tufts a hair. Can't grow no bird stuff on a horse. Them science goomers tried a do it back before they finally got Oberon and Titania. But all they got was a bunch a mush. Mammal to mammal and bird to bird. That the way it gotta be. Two species gotta have some kin in common. So first they whip up a horse thing wit crazy shoulder blades. Can't walk none. But it just an intermediate step. Next they get one wit actual wing buds. Then they build 'em up and build 'em up. Took a while, even though horse generations run 'bout three years. And sixty years later, them two fiirst ones was borned. Happened back on Earth. Bigger boxier breed they was back then. Mars ones is lighter, finer. Gravity here is what does it. Firstest ones was red-coats, kind a like an old timey gasoline sign they used to have. Now we got 'em in all colors. All horse colors that is. Sometimes them wings match the rest a the coat and sometimes they do not. 


Davey like to watch the young'un nurse. He say - How come she got her boobies all the way down there? That can't be right. Why she not got 'lady boobies' like ev'rybody else?............ Whitey say - Dog got 'lady boobies'?........... Davey say - No.......... Whitey say - Cat got 'lady boobies'?.........Davey say - No............ Whitey say - See? Lord don't  want ev'rything a got 'lady boobies.' Ain't they learned you that in Sunday School yet?...................... Davey say - They learn us. They learn us lot a stuff. Just ain't got to the 'lady boobie' part yet. That's all..................


Some days on the Polvarosa jus' like that. Some days jus' quiet. The big goin' 'way party, the funeral, ain't for two days more. Nobody fightin'. Nobody cussin'. Nobody squirtin' piss on nobody's bes' boots. They all jus' settin' up there on the big-porch, sippin' that whiskey and noddin' they heads.


Oh, but they thinkin'. Bart wonderin' what he gotta do to Stinker? Who he gotta kill and how hard he gotta do it? See, they got easy killin' and they got hard killin'.  Easy killin' like a shot to the head. BAM, 'splode some brains an it all over. Hard killin' take a little bit. Hard killin' smart a mite.


Miss Monica ruminatin' on the hard kind. She wanna 'hard kill' Zeb real bad. She wanna kill him up real good.  Feed him to them chupicabras, maybe. That all she can conjure up in her head right now. But give that gal some time. She got talent. She creative. She an actress. She find somethin'. Maybe somethin' wit red hot baton shove up his ass? She used to be a majorette. She know awful lot 'bout them batons. Give her time. Jus' give her some time.


Wait'll after they got that dead-box party. Ain't gone be quiet all the time. This Mars. This the Polvarosa. Gettin even a party game up here.


And wit that 'lection comin' up...we gonna have a lot a parties...


(P)(P)(P)(P)(P)(P)(P)(P)(P)(P)(P)(P)(P)(P)(P)(P)


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These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... Dog hurt Billy's Back

Shame we can't tell yeh more, but that 'Billy' goomer what types it all out apparently can't push his fingers down on them keys so good no more. Some little fuss budget of a squashed down hound dog done tripped him up. So I jus' gonna learn yeh the good stuff.


All them Texaco bastids over at the ranch struck a bargain. Alec gonna get one ecumenical splendiforous send off. Only thing missin' is hula-hula girls. Miss Sissie (she the mama) gone have Teacher Davis. Bart (he the papa) gone have Supreme court of Mars Justice Scooter Barnes (think he gonna forgive the deceased a few traffic tickets while he at it). And Miss Monica, the disgruntled wife, gonna have a tag-team made up a one Creole Catholic Priest and some guy who wrote a real sad 'lady play' that ran six months in the Barsoom theater district. Only thing did better was the annual appearance of The Happy Nude Cowgirl Demolition Derby and Head Bashin' Contest. We do enjoy them classics.


Rapidly putrifyin' body in question over at Carson's Mortuary and All You Can Eat Seafood Restaurant. They got really good 'frigeration, don't you know. Ole Man Carson make rancid shrimp look like bunch a fat, albino caterpillars 'scapin' from a pool a savory, orange cocktail sauce. Cocktail sauce make dead folk cheek look rosy  too(after it dry a little).


And Miss Monica ain't so mad no more. She is no longer disgruntled. She mostly all relaxed and gruntled now. Doan wanna rock no boat, I guess. 'Fraid they might throw her off. An ev'rybody know she 'spect old man Hobart a 'take care' a her and them children.


I guess it all depends on how you translate 'take care.' Cause them kids might be Texacos....but she sure as hell ain't.....


Wish I could tell you more, but that Billy goomer's back cramped up too much. He layin flat on the floor, rockin' back and forth and moaning like it Cleopatra's  honeymoon.


That's all from EL RANCHO TEXACO for tonight.


Go get youself a glass a Pepsi-cola and a couple Lorna Doones.... 


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These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... Whitey's Day In Town

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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