Dying With A Stranger: Sunset
NARRATOR: There sunk the setting sun. In it's time of dying lay the barrenness of a desert. The golden atmosphere puts off a dreamlike state of dreariness and a stench of dry air that could make a man quiver from toes to shoulders. In it's midst stood a cactus, a few bushes and just beyond that hill of bronze a herd of grazing buffalo. Our hearts warm to the feeling of a days end, and the unserpassing feeling to continue to stare at the view, similar to a enlivened fire livened on. You cannot peel your eyes nor your mind off of what lays before you, so you sit down and stare past the buffalo, past the bushes and cactuses and gaze upon the wonder of creation.
We're taken back to 1883, a year of progression for some, and a year of suffering for most. In this bronze desert of southeast Arizona lays the small town of Tombstone, yes, that Tombstone. Not anything special and not anything that deserved a second glance. It was typical. It had a saloon, a few houses, a few stores, and a jail, a jail that rested on the edge of town, and a cell inside that rested two men, and inside the cell two men that rested upon thier bunkbeds, destined to die the very next morning by the rope.
Upon the top bunk lay the dirtiest man that has ever been blessed to walk the sands of Arizona. His name is George Yule, a 37 year old man born and raised just 2 miles thataway and 3 miles south thataway. His hair was balled up, on the left side it was coiled up into a stringy mess that made him appear to have an abnormally large left head. He's survived seven indian attacks, twice did they begin to scalp him, but his luck prevailed. A luck that would die the very next morning. His finger nails were clogged with dirt, his lips cracked from a suns blistering rays, clothes that were so ragged and so dreggy that it appeared he was a walking clump of dirt. His skin was not naturally brown, he hasn't bathed sense that time down along that one river when his horse tripped on a skipping stone and tumbled him over, a grave splash did occur, but the majority of the sound migrated from his right leg, which snapped upon the river bed rocks. He took a leaf from a hickory nut tree, patched it up and rode on... But anyways. His teeth, or what remain of them, are not yellow, not black, and especially not white. They are solid purple. His steady diet since he was about 6, which was the age he was old enough to tell the different between what was poison and what was edible, were grapes. His beard was only a half of a quarter of a beard, and it was reddend with the blood of his nose, that got punched several times in his arrest. No one gave him any cloth or rag to clean it up with, they figured he was so damn dirty to begin with, why waste a rag on a walking, fetor of a dead man? He did, however have a smile, and it was unique, it was that smile that when you see you can't help yourself but to ease the pain in your face by turning away. His personality was that of a mix between a pig and donkey. Stupid and smelly. Lousy and feeble. Mousy and drowsy. That summed him up, now for the man above him, on the top bunk.
The man laying upon the urine soaked sheets beneath Mr. Yule was Willis Benedict, a 44 year old man born and raised on a farm down past the farm next to the pasture of grazing buffalo down on the side of the pig heap next to the cobwebbed bush. It lay behind a few hills, a place noone ever ventured to. And seldomly a place anybody ever left from. That would be his family, or his older brother. The two lived there for almost 7 years, eating off whatever they could steal. And it was here in this horrible childhood hell where Willis learned to do what he was best at, and it was also the skill that got him here, awaiting the final breath of his turmoiled life. He stood alittle shorter than Mr. Yule, but was of desent size, width wise that is, no disrespect intended. Anywho, he was much cleaner than Mr. Yule as well, but wasn't out of the melador pit just yet. For he had a extremely bad case of armpit noisomeness. He was okay untill he had to reach something above a cubbard, or above his head because it was then the cage of lions were unleashed, and any passerby or stranger that happened to be in radias would get a woof of and immediatly throw up, unless they had a mean gag-reflex. He did, however, wear clothes that made him appear clean. A long sleeved shirt with a tie, and rough, damp, gray pants. His hair was very short, and balding was apparent, but nobody said nothin' bout that, it would anger Mr. Benedict in the most severe of ways. He wore no shoes, don't deny your ears right of passage, you heard me corretly, he walked the arid place that was Arizona on his nine stout toes. Once again you heard me correctly, all nine of them, he lost his right foots pinky toe in a drinking accident. You see, he was drinking his hard whiskey at a saloon that carries only the hardest of alcoholics, and he, he drank far beyond his fair share. And the stool he was sitting on had lived it's fair share of life, and Mr. Benedict found that out the hardest way imaginable by my standards because when his hasty pinky toe got wedged into that wrecked and splintery corner of oakwood, he leaned forward, by a good enough degree to send his body wieght too far one way, tearing that poor teeny tiny chunk of bone and flesh clean off his foot. He didn't even scream, he didn't even care, hell, some believed he didn't even notice. His personality resembled a bull without horns. He would get angry, he would huff and puff, but didn't have the gauntlets to take on a single soul in all of this alluring state of Arizona. So there he would start fights, unable to finish them, unable to even pretend to finish them infact. That's enough about him, I'd say that about sums this good fellow up, shall we move on with our story?
The two are about to awaken from a enervated sleep, and when that occurs we'll be waiting there, listening to thier last words, the last nonsense these two low-lifes will ever spit out from thier repugnant jaws. Oops, I've tooken to much time, one is stirring, pay close attention now.
INT. JAIL CELL - LATE EVENING
The jail cell is packed with the stench of the two men, GEORGE and WILLIS. The bunk bed's locale is to the left, looking into the cell. There, upon the back wall is a toilet, with undescrible horrors still lerking inside the bowl of it. This was all, well, there is a dead cockroach that lays smashed on the desolate sheet of concrete. GEORGE, on the bottom bunk, begins to stir.
GEORGE: (Scratching his head while perched upon the top bunk) Arrrrrrgarrrggggiee... (Groans and then picks nose and gazes at finger) I'll be damned, I took a nap, haven't done one a thems in years...
The snoring of WILLIS is silently heard from above.
GEORGE: Hey fella! (The snoring continues) Fella, you alive up there? (Pounding on his matress above) Son, get your ass up!
WILLIS came to a startled awakening, drool seeping from his bottom lip he gazed around in confusion. A book of notes lays on his chest.
GEORGE: By god! You is alive up yonder there! (Reaching his hand upwards for a handshake) Names George, George Yule.
WILLIS: (Reaching drearily down to shake his hand) Nice ta finally meet you Georgy boy. My names William Benedict, but you just go right on and call me Willis.
GEORGE: Alright Willis... (Rubbing beard and feeling the stickiness of the blood thats entagled in it.) Say, you said you've finally met me, do you happen to know just how I got here?
WILLIS: Why, I know exactly how you got there.. By wheelbarrel, your nose was busted up pretty bad and you smelled of feculent liquor, sort like right now sir. (George smells himself) Anywho, they dumped your lifeless body on the bunk below. I remember I couldn't sleep worth a cow tart, you smelled like yous was dead, you sounded like yous was dead, and you sure as hell looked as you was dead... But they says you wasn't, so I didn't argue.
GEORGE: Wheelberrel huh? (Rubbing back) You says my nose was bleedin', some one punch it in?!
WILLIS: Why, I'd imagine so, it was awful, I'd a swore it was broken.
GEORGE: I think it might be there Willis, it's mighty painful to touch. (He carefully sqeezes the sides)
WILLIS: Very sorry, but we're do for hangin' in the morning anyhow.
WILLIS: No no sir, you took a nap, it's still yesterday.
GEORGE: Aww, well, I guess I've got time to have one more of them fancy naps.
WILLIS: And I've got time to ponder my peanut butter and jelly crisis, night to yea Georgy.
GEORGE: (Chuckle) Boy, did you say peanut butter and jelly?
WILLIS: Most certainly did, I have a crisis affiliated with it.
GEORGE: A crisis? (Chuckles) This tickles me, what is it that is your crisis Willis?
WILLIS: Nothing important, it's just, ever since I was a boy, bought yay high and yay broad, I've been eatin' peanut butter and jelly sandwhiches... They were good and all, but I always was in bewilderment about just how it was created... (Showing some frustration) You see, what sparked it's simple and yet amazing idea?! Did someone trip on some peanutbutter wilst holding some jelly?!
GEORGE: (Smile gone, in total amazement) My god, you're right... I mean, I've ate the scrumptious sandwhich before but the thought, it just never crossed my mind... Why the hell haven't I ever wonder'd bout that!?
WILLIS: So you agree, it's a crisis?
GEORGE: I woulda never thought such a simple delight could scramble my thoughts like that has, my boy, we've got a crisis!
WILLIS: Hold your entanglement lad and ajar your dungy ears to my propossal..
GEORGE: So it's like a little, uhm, how would say?
WILLIS: I don't know but pay close attention now... I've got to thnkin' one day, a day that ensued along year ago, that maybe there were two wanderers.
GEORGE: Wanderers? Like, how do you mean?
WILLIS: A girl and a man, both from the far reaches of what was then a young Earth.
GEORGE: Young Earth? How so?
WILLIS: So, the lady, very pretty, she was gorgeous, flamboyant, something only a lonely man could dream of, had in her possesion, a jar.
GEORGE: (Like a small child getting read to at story time) A jar?!
WILLIS: Yes, sir, a jar. And in this jar lay what we now know as Jelly. But back then, it was called pectin. Anywho Her name, was Jelly Jam.
GEORGE: (Laughs) Jelly Jam you say? What a pretty name.
WILLIS: Jelly Jam wanted to find her true love, so she left her hometown and departed her family to go on a long journey to find this love. The man, on the opposite side of earth had in his possesion a chalice.
GEORGE: A chalice?
WILLIS: Yes, sir, a chalice. And in this chalice reclined what we now call peanut butter, which back then was called oleo by the way. Anyhow, his name was Tuneap Ruttub.
GEORGE: Tuneap what?
WILLIS: Ruttub my good man. Ruttub... Anyhence, he too, was in search of his true love, and after 80 years they finally found each other. They fell deeply in love, almost instantly too I may add. They fell so much in love they shared thier deepest darkest treasures with eachother. Jelly's being her pectin, and Tuneap's being his oleo. And once they mixed the taste, it was sensational. And they fed it to thier children who fed it to thier children and so fourth, untill today.
GEORGE: Wait... So they got the name Jelly from Jelly, but where'd they get peanut butter from?
WILLIS: Well.. They got it because Tuneap Ruttub sounded horrible and was also hard to pronounce, so their spoiled children flipped it around, to Peanut Butter...
GEORGE: I see! Peanut Butter and Jelly, they loved each other, so they made a delicious food in thier memory, naming it after themselves... Wait... Peanut butter and Jelly is made with bread, where did they come up with the bread Idea?
WILLIS: At first, they were just mixing the two and eating it as a soup. This all stopped, however, after thier first born son, who they named Moldstead.
WILLIS: Yes, sir, Moldstead Ruttub. Anywhos, Jelly got to thinkin' one day what mold would taste like on thier tasty adulteration, and so she quickly found moldy bread and slabbed the pectin and oleo on it. Only to be filled with insupposable alleviation. It tasted wonderful! But, her husband was allergic to mold, so he had to eat it on unmoldy bread, and since no one in our day in age eats moldy bread, we only fix it on normal bread...
GEORGE: I see... This is your propossal
WILLIS: Yes Georgy, just a propossal...
WILLIS: With this in your moronic mind, sleep now, cause I'm grisly tired, and my eyes are needin' a good rest... And this time, do not awaken me, unless you have indeed unravelled the history to Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwiches.
To WILLIAMS surprise, GEORGE was already snoring. He turned over on his side to fell into a deep - very deep sleep.
NARRATOR: And so they slept. Their eyelids ajoined and not bound to open until the next morning, the same fateful morning on which they will be strung up for thier erroneous crimes... Speaking of these crime, have I yet told you what they're in for? Oh, you'll have to excuse me, I haven't planned this thing out appropriately...
Anywho, Mr. Yule was on his way to a small bar on the farthest eastern town in the state of Arizona. He stepped in, his feet clanging the floor boards just as anybodies. He sat down just like anybody, and he drank just like anybody. Just after about six and one quarters of a half of a sip the sheriff busted through them saloon doors, a pistol in one hand, and handcuffs in the other. He pointed that pistol at poor Mr. Yule's fouled head and ordered him to turn around and hover his hands above his putrid scalp. He did so, he did so just like anybody else would. Yet they still took him away, for a reason Mr. Yule cannot recollect; yes, maybe he was completely haggard in an alcoholic befuddling, or maybe he had just tooken a mid sunday ride on his seasoned horse... Anyway you look at it, however, he was arrested without fault of his own, he was most likely set up however; or the sheriff knew he could get away with hangin' such a incoherent, rabbet without anyone to miss him. And either way you look at it that way he was due to die the very next morning by the rope that would be slung across a tree branch... Poor, poor Mr. Yule.
Mr. Benedict was a lonely but brilliant man - how such an innocent personality could end up sending him to the rope is beyond my comprehention, it is indeed wacky. He was sitting upon his rocking chair one evening, on the second story of his horridly built dwelling, just reading his little notepad. He kept many a notes in this notepad so many notes if you would to have read them you would almost certaintly explode with absolute dumbfoundedness. There he sat reading when the sheriff busted thourgh that bedroom door, handcuffs in one hand, and a pistol in the other. Like a scared dog with a limp he was hauled out of his house for a reason that happened to be beyond what he had in knowledge. Yea, he might have had a rough past, it's also possible he cursed in church, but either way you look it it he was due to hang the fallowing days sunrise, he needn't a reason to die, he needn't a reason to live, he was a lonely and sad soul, either way, the man was going to be happy, whether it be strung up on a tree, or alone in his top story cabin... Poor, poor, Mr. Benedict.
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