I am not normally this prolific

But the wife is making me watch the ice skating.

I might finish both books before the fuckin Olympics are over.

Doc Holiday Must Die!

Marshal Miller came into the saloon with his gun drawn. Doc sat with his hands on the table in full view to avoid misunderstandings.

“Had to happen Jim. He came after me with a pig sticker. You can inquire of the rest of the congregation. I think they would swear to it. Couldn’t be avoided.”

“Well I reckon it could have been avoided if you were in some other town Doc.  I can’t let you stay here and shoot up the citizens now can I?”

“Shoot up the citizens. Not hardly Jim. This poor benighted soul was not a citizen. In fact he was barely sentient.  You might as well call the rock outside the livery stable a citizen.”

“Maybe Doc but I couldn’t have you shoot that up either. It scares the women and excites the horses.  Or excites the women and scares the horses. Either way it makes for a poor ride. Can’t let it happen again Doc. You need to make tracks. Pronto.”

“Fair enough Jim. You have always been a gentleman. You will not get any arguments from me. I will be on my way on the next stage.”

“Tonight Doc. Get a horse and ride. Or I will be forced to put you in jail and see what a trial might bring. There are enough people who hate you here and who wouldn’t mind seeing you wear a different kind of cravat. So you best be on your way.”

Doc stared at the Marshal and just shook his head. “Well I guess that puts a tear in it. Gentlemen thank you for the game. I will be seeing you down the line.” Doc scooped up the pot. Folded the greenbacks and put the coins in one of the multiple side pockets of his silk vest. Taking his finely brushed old fashioned beaver hat he straightened his withered shoulders as best he might and walked into the night.

A small sickly man with a deadly sting.

Not a rattler. More like a consumptive asp.

Kill you just as dead. But without the warning rattle.

Joey Gallo's Lament

I finally reached the club on President St. Joe Jelly and Sammy the Syrian were sitting outside on folding chairs smoking guinea stinkers and sipping espresso laced with anisette.

“What the fuck do you want kid?” Jelly growled. “You can’t come in here. You ain’t even a fucking wop.”

You might wonder how a two bit gangster would know who a little pischer like me was but that is how the neighborhood was in those days. Everybody knew everybody. He knew my Uncle V from the docks and he knew my Dad from the neighborhood. So it was no big deal. My Mom’s family was from Sackett St and my Grand Aunt owned  the vegetable store where Joe Jelly first learned to steal apples.

“I gotz to see Albert” I sputtered. “Joey gave me this bag and said I could only give to Albert.”

“Give to me you little prick. I’ll make sure he gets it.”

“I can’t do that. I don’t want to get Joey pissed off. Do you want to get Joey pissed off?”

Sammy piped up. “He’s got a point Jelly.”

“Fuck. Wait here.” Jelly hiked his pants up over his gut and walked into the club.

“You got balls kid. Jelly ain’t killed anything lately and it don’t matter that you a kid. It won’t be the first time.” He laughed to himself. And started scratching his ball. He only had one. Or at least that was the rumor.

I almost peed myself. He had to be kidding. But who knows with an half an A-Rab. They were inscrutable. Or maybe that was the Chinamen. Anyway I was scared. I just didn’t know just how scared I had to be.

Alls I wanted was a fucking panele sandwich.

 

Doc Holiday Must Die!

 

Doc knew he had to kill him. The only question was when.

The mark had been playing the worst game of poker that he had ever seen. The burly teamster looked like he could barely read and it was a wonder that he could recognize the meaning of the cards he was playing. Best of all he was stinking drunk. Stinking in all aspects. He reeked of stale tobacco and rot gut whiskey with flesh that had not seen water since the last time he was caught in a rainstorm.

It was only a matter of time before it came to pistols. Not be the first time. A problem none the less. You see the sheriff had warned him when he rode into Newton. He had managed to keep his nose clean. Well relatively clean since his nose could often be found in a saloon girl’s cooze. Doc was an old school Southern gentlemen but he did favor the soiled doves. Their corruption assuaged the rot in his soul.

The whiskey drummer with the stained cravat had the play. “Two” he said. Doc spun two cards across the table. The drummer picked them up delicately and frowned. He tossed down his hand. “Fold.”

Just Doc and idjit who smelled like a constipated buffalo. “Three” he slurred. Doc sent them across the table from the bottom of the deck. No need to trifle with circumstance. Since it would come to killing he might as well win the pot.

“You have the play sir” Doc said. The teamster googled at his hand like it was the first time he figured out what his privates were used for besides pissing.  “I raise twenty” he said. Doc checked his hand and shook his head. “I will see that sir and raise you fifty.” “FIFTY! YOU COCKSUCKING LUNGER! I AIN’T GOT BUT ANOTHER TEN DOLLARS TO MY NAME!” “That will suffice sir. You can just call all in. I will be willing to let it be.”

The teamster glared and pushed his last few coins to the middle of the table. He turned over his cards.  “Three sixes” he said as he lunged to pull in the pot. “Sorry sir but I think you are premature.” Doc turned over his hand. “I believer four Queens would be the better sir.” The teamster looked stupidly at the cards and he lost it. He jumped up and pulled an enormous Tennessee Toothpick and started to slash across the table.

Doc calmly palmed a derringer and shot him through the eye.  

It had been twelve minutes.