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THE BIG STRUMDOWN

http://www.cigarboxnation.com/profiles/blogs/the-hotel-delroy-short...

(this link used to make sense, but some sneaky person changed some names, thus making me look like a raving lunatic...)

The ground rises up and smacks John "Uncle" Johnson clean in the face and he hurts and the dirt in his nose hurts and he keeps on hurting.

Boots, big ones, impacting the earth, boots coming for him, hobnailed boots filled with the callused feet of very angry, no, enraged, men, and they keep on coming like a bad dream.

He gets up and staggers and rights himself and takes off running and running and running, and plunging head first into the raging river, and he swallows a big gulp of the foul water and gags but keeps on going, ploughing through the rapids like a human steamboat he is.

He keeps on going he does, because those men, they are serious men, and they aim to have justice at any cost for the wrong that has been done them, and the very sky is stained with the vehemence of their words as they curse him from the craggy cliffs that overlook the water.

He can feel it now and it is the feeling of sweet freedom and it is good and...

KKKKKKRRRRRRSSSSSSWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSHHHHHH!!!!!!

the water in front of him explodes, the crash/slap of a giant hunk of granite impacting the water, and all of a sudden all is dead still and even the ravens are playing possum.

Then another crash and splash and the cursing, oh the cursing, and the man called "Uncle" commences to windmill his arms like a demented cartoon character and actually rises up out of the churning waters and literally runs out to sea!

Back up on the cliffs the sinister mocking figures bellow out grotesque laughs and make increasingly obscene gestures.

"Guess that be the last time he gonna take the name o' Carl in vain!"

(Apologies to James Ellroy and Cormac Mccarthy)

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Comment by Clock The Wolf on August 10, 2012 at 5:17pm: How the heck did you know about my black leather duster?

Comment by Ron "Oily" Sprague on August 10, 2012 at 5:15pm: Heard in the whittlin' circle round the cracker barrel down Mac's Corner General Store and Livery Stable of an evening:

"Carl...Carl...say, weren't he that feller over Goodland County way, got his arse in a sling over some woman?"

"I heard tell she tole him it was 'our son,' an' he warn't none too happy 'bout it, kid bein'' redheaded and all."

"Way-all, Ah heered she wanted to name it Orson, or some kinda newfangled moniker, efter thet feller on the radio back in '38..."

"Sweet orisons of youth, that never touched yon ruby lips..."

"Say, Doc, that's real versifyin', thet is. You sure that weren't ol' Wesley they're talking' about? You know, the one whut stays up all night with them inventions o' hisn?"

"Och, aye, a wee clever man, to be sure. Just the sort to fire his own imagination."

The heavy oaken door blew open in a flutter of wind and icy rain; a darkened figure in a slouch hat and streaming black leather duster stood momentarily outlined by an apocalyptic burst of lightning, followed almost simultaneously by thunder from the cracks of Doom.

"Imagining his own fires, more like, " the figure intoned sepulchrally.

"Oh, hey, Clock! Here, hand me that bucket...Hey, did they have any extra crispy?"

Comment by Uncle John on August 10, 2012 at 3:43pm: Yes! Good stuff. Look out Clock, you could be the villian too. I like Mr. Mc Carthy's writing.