Bill Henry dropped off due to lack of funds from the Pages enclave, and rotated between Notes and Journal between several years, writing frequently to his wife and son back home in America – promising that he is coming back soon, all of them knowing it is impossible or infeasible by now, considering the salacious and horrifying crime he never committed but still dreams of every night, and with each night he can see the sniper’s face clearer and remember more details.

SD the drummer in tow along with all necessities and sundries scattered for the taking; the crucial bullet is shot and a crowd is drawn. I said to the drummer, “Don’t you think you’re getting scammed, SD?”

He – SD – says, “I’m in my forties, childless – brother, my credit score is so low that it’s not even a number anymore, just a letter: F. The letter F. God damn. Bill Henry, I need to tell you something. Identical twins aren’t real. They are just clones. They don’t actually exist in ancient books of valid antiquity.”

“Thanks, S.D… huh, identical twins – you never do… That’s a really good bit for me to wear, it fits my intuitions perfectly. Are you sure there aren’t any references to twins in the King James Bible? Are you Hawaiian?”

“I am a black albino with full-body nega-vitiligo and I look like a guy who would be pounding a giant drum in some Kalakualolani fire dance on Molokai, but I am actually just German and African. Similar to Michael Jackson.”

“I miss him. His absence feels wrong, as though he were meant to guide us through troubled times of mass disinforma—”

“Come on, he was a pedo, dude.”

“Out of the thousands of children that ever went to Neverland Ranch and stayed in lavish, two-story bedtime quarters with the man, the only two to ever bring him to court had parents with histories of initiating lawsuits against famous celebrities.”

“Damn. That’s something to think about.”

“A conspiracy is a race, not a golf game. Gotta dip, mail broker usually falls asleep after the sun passes his position in his favorite chair. He’s very solid, you should go through him on account of all your troubles and—”

“Ayayayayay ay — I ain’t got troubles. I got problems.”

“Amen. See you on the flip.”

Henry bid adieu to his friend and left the bar, leaving a 500% tip on account of rapid hyperinflation. Henry had been down this road before – you think you’d remember old ladies with wheelbarrows full of cash trying to make it before close, but the more striking image is that of devalued, inflated specie, numismatic parody. Dead faces that create burns in your pockets trying to escape.

Henry thought to himself, I can go back to Pages. It’s easy, distilled ever so gently as he sweat trying to predict whether he could catch the broker in time. I just need to find my doppelganger first, he thought. And I need to ensure that he is my doppelganger and I am not his. In his case, we merely look alike. In mine and in any case, I am obligated to murder this man in order to gain access to Pages again, where I will strike upon those that ousted me, and put to rest all the ridiculous rumors that I was booted for.

why is my room getting smaller

when the wind wants nothing to do with me

cuz i’m running out of wood

because i lost a fight to a smaller tree

my hands are made of rubber

and my arms are made of skin

I took out all my muscles

because they were trying to keep me in

do you believe that what I said about earlier

when I said that I was saying what I said later

afterwards my house is turning on me the floor

bubbles out and it knocks me down and every man

that comes to fix it says he needs to call another

man downtown I wont work for free I wont work

for me I just work to work and I’m going berzerk

Minstrel webbings of monkeybrain’d loops
In the infernal freeze
In the molting wind I drain my wound
I drain and squeeze and beg and then
And then it is a blob of me
Just about the same size
All the junk and… you know
But with amateur-drawn eyes
The irreplacable funk of a man
Who doesn’t really want to be limbed
A man who would, I don’t know
Start a cult around the sun in modern times
Just to pull the pug
The rug*
Just to run from another mugshot (beaming)
And to build another web to unsymmetrify
To be unforgot
Or in other words
Kick’d 2 shit
Or in better words
Given an improper word and a terrible burial
Them in herds
Forever they abide
Forever we abide
Forever who abides above all?

I.

All the men left had all abandoned themselves. None would even dare speak of what they had to do with their families and loved ones.

“What a poor scenario you fellows are in. This town looks…”

“Yeah, we know…” said Cowboy Number #1.

He was the man that RuBaut-Chao guessed to be The Real Deal. He had no clue.

“Don’t you keep any pride for such a place? Doesn’t all this destruction, refuse and I’ve been told there are…”

“Aw, shut up, you stinker. You dandy. I should have shot you as soon as I saw that stupid horse of you and yours. Are you the only one who knows how to ride it? You carry such an air and yet you were the one at the front of the carriage.”

“I bet I’m a better shot than all of you.”

“And I don’t doubt that! Think of all the time you’ve had, all the shells and hunting rifles, exotic and bespoke – you may well be the best shot this town has ever seen.”

“So why aren’t any of you afraid of me?”

“Because we know you are the type to ask questions like that if pushed to a certain point.”

“And what if I’m lying to such a degree that that is exactly what I wished to be seen as.”

“Well. What if.”

“Indeed. What if?”

“Can I get you a drink of some Messican uh….”

“Yes.”

The two men sitting in the decrepit, seemingly abandoned bar. The two men. Rubaut-Cho found the proprietor, off osmewhere in the hidden whorehouse rooms, and struck a quick little piece of trust with him. Maybe left some cash. Threw a hefty billfold on the bar, too. Like a man that wanted free reign. Or maybe he just went for a piss. Cultivating mystery like this – Anser liked all this, despite his sour countenance.

“Look at this bottle. This is what we drink; I will let you use me as target practice with that slick cannon outside if we can finish this rotten, rotten stuff.”

“Mm. I don’t care about any of that.”

“And I don’t care to stay long.”

“I think I will pick my own bottle.”

Anser got up to do just that and ibe one look up in the eyes of Rubaut-Cho indicated he would be much better off playing trust-games right now. He grabs the bottle and tips his head back and serves himself a good four-shots, then continues to the bar to find his preferred drink – and then does another four-or-so shots – right from the bottle, just standing there. He burps. He pulls out his little gun – looks over at the dandy and KABOOM! he bellows.

“What a darling little thing you have there. Did you get it from Herr Dunsen over in Sante Fe?”

“You are just too keen – I sure did! What a fascinating bespectacled little kraut.”

“Ah – you didn’t hear?”

“Do I want to?” he tosses the first bottle over to Rubaut-Cho.

“Don’t worry – he is fine – but on the run. William Tell game.”

“Who’d he…”

“My brother.”

“No shit.”

“Nope – no problem. I wanted that cock sucker dead for too long. He liked to rape – and it was never worth it unless he put a baby in his victim. He must have had…”

“Sixty-six. I know of him. He is a legend now. The funeral was rather bizarre and heartbreaking.”

Anser was starting to get a pleasant buzz. Not even the grim subject matter could keep the telltale waves of sweat – and heat – and idle tap-dancing of sorts.

“A legend, huh.”

“I mean… We have an awful lot of those these days. So I ain’t putting much stock in til…. Well, you wanna know my measure?”

“I sure do.”

“I know if someone’s a legend if I see kids playing – ynow – cowboys versus indians, and well, kids like to show off, so they’ll each play a different guy, and you can hear them…”

“Sayin’ I wanna play him or some other guy, I got it…”

The door opened and the room was dusted as he entered – the man they had just talked of in the past-tense – Anser’s brother. Dripping in oil, missing a chunk of his arm, the widest smile Anser had ever seen of all the men in his family. Such a great big smile – beaming so intensely that he felt lucky his hand was already in his inner pocket, next to the discreet little gun.

“It’s so good to see ya, big brother. I can barely see you on account of all this muck and oii and, well, maybe telling you the story might add some valuable context. But I gotta ask real quick brother – do you have daddy’s little gun with ye? Ye know the one… And can I get a drink? I… don’t care what kind. I really, really, really….”

He spaced out, picking out a tuft of hair that was most certainly non-human from a hard-to-reach spot on his back. Anser finished his sentence, and then told him he lost the little gun in a poker game.

“Oh, dang. That’s OK. Such is what happens in times like these.”

“Yeah. Dang indeed. It’s good to see you, brother.”

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