Other Worlds Presents: Hogwash!
two
The Hoawoshwogg cocks his hips by the train tracks. The station is empty. He hears the catcalls from the town, the jackals’ cry from the brush. Eyes are narrow from the sun.
The engine gives steam to the sky, howling and hissing along to Salvation.
Meanwhile, in Gamora, Jon Trionfi sits atop his saloon and gaming parlor, the largest in town, with a view clear to Salvation in the South, Bethlehem in the East, and Modena in the West. His back’s to the North, as it always is when he’s eating on the roof. He wears a bib, as he has since childhood. Chews with his mouth open, one utensil gripped in each chubby hand like a sword pointed skyward.
Trilla brings him more, as is her function. She looks pretty doing it, which is her primarily reason of employ. Jon doesn’t see her. He never sees her anymore. He doesn’t see anything other than what he’s eating or fucking or shutting out; and, even then, only long enough to do it. Then he’s back to counting his money, stacking it, washing it, filing it away for safe keeping.
It’s not that he has a great wealth, only that the rest of Gamora is so poor. He got the lumber because no one else could buy it, so the carpenter let it go for far too little. He employed the prettiest girl in town because there were no other employers and no other pretty girls. He fucked whoever he wanted because the citizens’ mental impoverishment was so dire they could not resist his directness nor comprehend his appetite.
The stores of food frequently ran dry as he shoved it in his face, the hiss-a-whirl of the steam engine a kind of chant, like it was cheering him on, King of Gamora, to eat his fill, dip his stick, and fill a pot. Count the mancuses. Store them away.
The train yawned into Gamora, sighed, and expectorated its only passenger: the Hoawoshwogg.
The sunken eyes of Fred Bilder looked on the man in black, tall and fancy, like an angel but manly, too, like a cowboy. Fred found his neck turned first to the stranger, then to the saloon, to that big building with a sign on it that read: TRIONFI.
The Hoawoshwogg gave a nod to Fred, then took each step eventually, the way he always did, the way he found most natural and sure.
Double doors swang way for him, the Hoawoshwogg, to walk in pristine rattlesnake boots with jangly spurs, to heel-toe long legs over to the bar and order whiskey. Water was not safe here; he knew that. One, two shots was enough. He knew that, too.
Trilla caught sight of him and walked close. “Help ya, Mister?”
He did not stop his steps, each one following the other, but did look at her through indifferent eyes from under an immaculate brim, waxed moustache wriggling, head going side to side, to tell her no, she could not.
Ordinarily she would protest or seduce, but she had never seen a man like the Hoawoshwogg, so she stopped walking and let him by, his stride taking upward motion then, one step, one jangle, at a time.
On the roof, Jon Trionfi ate. He smacked his food with his mouth open, continued to do so as the tall stranger took his light, stood a lean silhouette between Jon and the Southern sun.
“Yeah?” Jon said absently. “What do you want?”
The Hoawoshwogg spoke, said, “Nothin’,” then drew and shot Jon Trionfi in the bib.
Jon gasped, sucking through his mouth and wound, neither to avail.
The Hoawoshwogg watched, not especially interested. Waiting.
The blood poured out like wine, a merlot waterfall down the distended belly and onto the table, drenching the sun bleached wood, rivulets flowing around the inlaid gold and commingling with the food.
A second shot rang out—crackling, too, with electricity, discharging an electronic boom, as the bullet blew Jon Trionfi's brains out to the rising North.
The Hoawoshwogg surveyed the terrain of the rooftop, then left, caught the next train out of town.
