Pistol Opera

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Travelers tales. No corrections or edits

Submitted: January 22, 2009

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Submitted: January 22, 2009



The sun goes around the sky, and we hardly stop to apreciate the hard work our planet has done to spin around that firey globe. Nonstop shifts with no lunch breaks, what a bitch. People think the sun sets every night, what a crock. It's the earth blocking for you like a protective mother so you can get some shut-eye. The sun could give a shit less about anyone, everything revolves around him.

I lived and died by the the earths long thankless shift. I had become inexplicably a wanderer. My posessions fit into my bedroll on the back of my triumph, and I lived day to day, town to town. Today I was nowhere near any sort of town, it was the dry open desert.

I was mighty dust drunk and pulled into a last stop for 30 miles filling station. It looked deserted at first, but there was one jagged toothed fellow who lived in and ran the place. I washed the layers of dust off my goggles and splashed water on my face in the horrid restroom. I had to leave when I couldn't hold my breath anymore. He had my tank filled by the time I got a pepsi from the sunbleached vending machine. I had little money left from a dishwashing job I had in the last town, I would need to get somewhere soon.

He watched me drive away and stood out on the side of the road til he disappeared in my rearview mirror.  What a wierdo. I was getting that crick in my back that I got when I rode for too long ,so I decided to pull off and make camp for the day. It would do me some good to stretch my legs for a bit and take a break from the bugs and blowing sand. I drove the motorcycle off the road and headed towards a low butte not far off. At least one side would have shelter in case the sun got too intense, or the wind kicked up.

I set up camp and looked the bike over to make sure nothing was loose or leaking. Kicked the tires and wiped it down with a rag soaked in transmission fluid that I kept in a bag under the seat. I unpacked my bedroll and situated my things to where animals wouldn't get to them. In my backpack  had enough to make a crude meal or two. Cans of beans and a couple MREs that I got from the army surplus store. A half gallon of water and my tin mess kit, two boxes of shells, a sharp hunting knife , a pocket sized gun cleaning kit and a deck of cards with naked girls on the back. 

I shed my leather crash jacket, boots and tee-shirt and laid on my bedroll under the shade of the rockface. I laid my colt 357 so that it was within a moments grasp. You never know who you will run into out here, Manson used to be partial to places like this. 

My mind started to ponder things that were vastly beyond my capacity to unravel. Greater minds have worked on these things for centuries but never made a dent. I was completely content laying there listening to the sounds borne from the wind and watching birds of prey circle overhead. waiting to see if I was faking it.

After a short nap I put my boots and shirt back on and decided to explore  the area. I took a box of shells with me, and the jug of water. The lanscape became less dusty and more rocky as I rounded a ridge. There was a small canyon below that had what looked like remnants of a primitive village. My sense of adventure was peaked at the sight, I found my way down through a boulder choked donkey trail.

The village itself wasn't as impressive as it had looked from above. Only a few crumbling mud walls stood here and there. I searched around looking for artifacts but had seen where people had been digging here before. Some of the marker flags were left with small bits of string tied to them fluttering in the breeze.

I found a low regular wall and placed chunks of dried earth on top. I strode back 30 paces and made an about face on my heel. I fired my first shot at a chunk that looked like a profile of Sammy Davis Jr. The bullet ricocheted off somewhere in the distance, I had completely missed. The sound of the shot and the bullet singing around sounded like a bass drum and strains from a slide whistle. I took careful aim this time, last shot was a hollywood shot, just trying to look tough. Sammy burst into dust, poor fellow, and the wind moaned as it slid across some of the standing doorways, coupled with the sounds of my shot and the bullet traveling it almost sounded like music. 

This time I waited for the breeze to stir and shot at a clump that looked like a tea kettle. It cracked in half and the bullet cam whizzing back towards me kicking up dust right next to my foot. I was unconcerned because I had timed it perfectly with the wind which decidedly sounded like a cello.

I experimented a few more times, missing purposely so as to hit the high cliff face further off, then hitting a target within moments of my first shot. the wind had picked up as though I had inspired it to join in on my orchestration. It made different tones among the different parts of the canyon, sometimes whistling sometimes moaning low. I had done this for the better part of the day, until at last I was out of shells.

I sat by the fire cleaning my gun with a cigarette dangling from my lips watching the earth roll over to block the arrogant sun. I gave it a stern look as it disappeared behind the jagged horizon and checked on my can of beans I had thrown in the fire. The coyotes whined and barked off in the distance, had they been there today it would have been a symphony.I laid down after eating my meager meal of beans and looked up at the stars. Placed my instrument within easy grasp and drifted off to the primitive tune that drifted through the air still from the lonely canyon.

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