Wednesday, September 15, 2021

Blackthorne Episode 141



image from westernpulpcovers.com

 Blackthorne


Cinemagenic 141


Counting Coup


“It is better to have less thunder in the mouth and

more lightning in the hand.” --Lakota Sioux Saying.


1(sound cue) Indian seed rattle over bones breaking.

2(two-shot) Buck bashed the thin face with a heavy

right fist, and the cheek caved in, and began to swell.

Paul sobbed pitifully. Buck raised his fist again.

Buck: Who hired them?

Paul: I don’t know!

Buck: That’s bullshit, Dandy Dan!

Buck jerked the gambler to a semi-sitting position,

pushing a fence post into his bony back. He buried

his knife into the wood inches from Paul’s face, and

slapped him again and again.

3(close-up) Paul: For God’s sake, Cash done it!  Cash

hired them from down in the county! But I think you

already knew that.

Buck: I needed to hear you say it.

Paul: So now what?

Buck: Were you there?

Paul: Yeah, I was there. I held the horses.

Buck: Was Thor there?

Paul: Yes, goddamn it, yes...but we both lit a shuck

when you showed up.

Buck: You’re a gob of shit!

Paul: You’re a fucking nightmare.

Buck: Not yet.

Paul: You need to be put down like a rabid dog.

Buck: Not by the likes of you!

Paul: What?

Buck: Did you get a piece of ass tonight?

Paul: Don’t kill me.

Buck: You’re going to wish I had.

4(sound cue) bass drum and saxophone squawk.

5(tight two-shot) Buck punched him squarely in the

rib cage, breaking several. Then he smashed the

weak chin. Paul passed out. Buck felt at the big

artery in the gambler’s neck. Paul was still alive.

He extracted his thick knife from the fence post.

He split Paul’s nose, and then cut off both his ears;

slipping them into a medicine bag.

6(medium wide shot) To Buck’s left, the big

bunkhouse was lit up, but it looked empty.

Lights were lit in the main house, but the

upper floor was dark. The quieter backside

of the ranch house beckoned to him.

7(sound cue) guitar and harmonica.

Buck lunged from the corral, and sprinted

across the vulnerable space between him

and the shadows. He halted beneath an open

window. The thick shrubbery hid him. He

holstered his weapon, and put his ear to the

wall. No one seemed to be moving inside.

8(cut to wide shot) Monolith flames were raging,

as thirty men fought the fire.

9(one shot) Buck hoisted himself up, and crawled

through the window. 

10(cut to interior) He had crawled into a vast library.

Expensive leather-bound colorful books filled three

walls, floor to ceiling. Two reading chairs and a 

naturally-stained roll top desk furnished the room. 

A tall pair of sliding doors sealed off the space. He

moved cautiously toward the exit. He slid one open

slowly. It revealed a dark hallway. He glided into

the thick shadows.

   A great archway stretched out to his right. There

was a grand staircase leading to upstairs. The arch

led into a big living room, littered with several 

cowhide-covered chairs and couches. There was a

mammoth fireplace cold with ash. Over it hung a 

painting of the triple “B”s. the Bronson brothers--

Cash, Thor and Paulie, all in their finest church-

going threads, all smiling like royalty. The room had

tall bay windows that were steamed up and streaming

with sweat as the fire’s heat danced across the cold

glass.

    Behind Buck was the kitchen. Two gaslights lit up 

the room. Uneaten plates of food were spread out

on a linen table cloth atop a long table. The room was

empty. He strolled in and snagged a chicken leg from

a platter of tangled poultry. He munched it slowly as

his boots found their way back into the shadows.



Glenn Buttkus


Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub OLN

Tuesday, September 14, 2021

Pitfalls



image from pinterest.com

 Pitfalls


“Good things do not come easily, for the road is

lined with pitfalls.”--Desi Arnaz.


I am a demon and a god.

I compress all the joys of this world

into a thousand days.

I am a digger and a devourer.

I spend 98% of my life as a larva,

and a few days as an adult; go figure.

I am an antlion.


For most of my three year life span

I relish being a ravenous monster.

I have a rough rippled protective shell,

like a nightmare mini-armadillo.

I have huge jaws like a spider.

I savor a delicious vampire state.


I dig a pit in the sand,

3 inches across, and 3 inches deep.

and I squat like a patient ghoul

at the bottom of it.

I can go without food for days

while awaiting my prey.

I am very in tune with vibrations,

and I sense when a victim is near.


It’s mostly ants who stumble into my pit,

and they tumble down

toward my quivering mandibles.

Some of them struggle,

but my sand engineering defeats them,

and the sides cave in.

When in my grasp,

I inject venom to paralyze them.

I inject enzymes that turn flesh to liquid,

so that I can suck the entire essence 

out of my captives, leaving only

an empty dry shell, which I discard.


I must admit I fully endorse

the malicious rush of being

a powerful predator.

I have no enemies.

I reign supreme.


After many satisfying years

as an actual demon,

I realize I’ve had my fill.

So I spin a marvelous cocoon,

and partake of a beautiful slumber,

dreaming of my hundreds of kills,

the thrill of gluttony, and the fervent

pleasures of a former succubus.


When I awake, I am peeling back

my wrappings, as I emerge

as a golden antgod,

with a long muscular thorax,

and four gorgeous gossamer wings.

I experience the thrill of flight

and the rush of rutting hormones,

one atop the other


Suddenly I am keenly aware of two things.

I have a month to live,

and I am as horny 

as a three-peckered goat.

To my surprise, as I flit off on my 

lotharian quest, I find ladies everywhere.

I find myself to be sexually insatiable,

procreating like a pulsating pile driver.

Just call me Larry Lust,

and hide all your daughters.


On the 25th day, I am completely exhausted,

and I spiral to the ground like a loose leaf,

or a wounded helicopter, and

there I lie in a grateful heap,

fully ready to let my inexorable spirit

morph into fairy dust.

Glenn Buttkus


Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub

Monday, September 13, 2021

Reapers "R" Us



image from  pinterest.com

Reapers “R” Us


There is a Reaper, and his name is Death

and he keeps his sythe keen.

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,

and all the flowers that grow between.

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.


Reapers run wild, especially in America. We lament

the 2,997 lives lost on 9/11, but we are numb to the

650,000 lives already lost to Covid. We have the cure

for Covid--three superior vaccines. Christ Almighty, we 

are not strangers to vaccines. In Boot Camp I got ten of 

them in one day.  


I still blame dumb ass Trump for sowing the sorrowful

seeds of doubt, helping to create cadres of sad

misinformed millions who resist and reject the new

vaccines. We are in worse shape today than we were 

18 months ago, and now our children are dying. More

than 90% of all new hospitalizations and deaths are

unvaccinated Republicans. We will never escape the

lethal shadow of plague until we all pull together, and

get the shot(s). So if all do their duty, they need not

fear harm, or criticism, or death. 



Glenn Buttkus


Prosery


Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub

Wednesday, September 1, 2021

Blackthorne Episode 140




image from westernpulpcovers.com


lackthorne


Cinemagenic 140


Truth


“Truth is like the sun. You can shut it out for a time,

but it ain’t going away.”--Elvis Presley.


The rider was Paul Bronson.

1(medium close-up) What the fuck is happening?

2(sound cue) snare drum bapping and saxophone

squawking.

3(three-shot) You might could grab a bucket and find

out, snapped a tall puncher as he scurried off to join

the fire brigade.

How in hell did it start?

You got  me, boss Paul. I ain’t even awake yet, said

a young ranch hand who was starting to run off too.

No, Shorty, wait, the gambler said, swinging down, and

leaving his fancy reins free. The cowboy turned back to

him, the huge fire behind him ripping into the sky.

It was Buck, Paul whined.

Who?

Buck, Rod Buck.

Did you see him?

No, Paul snarled, I didn’t have to. I know it was him.

The puncher rubbed his peach fuzz chin: I did hear

something about Ryker being drunk, and some think

he’s in there. I don’t think anyone’s seen this Buck

feller. You might could try and sober up so’s you

could help out, then he trotted off to join the

firefighters.

Johnny Eagle is dead, Paul yelled at the man’s dust.

4(close-up) Buck’s face, as the words surged like ice

water in his veins. Johnny Eagle is dead.

The hunter lie flat as a stone, waiting like a rattler.

5(sound cue) violins off key.

6(one-shot) Paul reached into his fancy black coat, 

and produced a silver flask, that flashed golden flames

as he tipped it up adding fuel to the fire in his guts. He

began shuffling toward the main house, his head 

bobbing slightly, then he stopped. He remembered his

neglected steed standing in the yard, still saddled. He

returned to the horse, scooped up the reins, and 

began walking it toward the first corral where Buck 

was coiled in wait.

Son of a bitch, the gambler mumbled, I know it

was Buck. He is out of jail, and out of his mind.

Our ass is in the frying pan now. That bastard

is relentless. When I tell Cash that fucking breed

is dead, then we will...

7(sound cue) blues guitar slide.

8(two-shot) Buck was on him in an instant. He

smacked him on the neck with his Colt, and he

dragged him into the corral. The horse followed. 

Buck stacked up three bales of hay for cover.

He began to lightly slap the gambler’s thin face.

   Paul woke up with a whimper. His eyes were

wide with fright and bloodshot. Buck’s thick

hunting knife was being held to his throat. He

started to speak, but Buck held a finger to his

mouth for silence. One last horse screamed in

agony, and Buck could hear Cash’s voice among

the melee. Buck just stared at the Bronson whelp 

and began to unclench his emotions.

What did you say to that hand?

Nothing much.

Buck sliced a small cut under Paul’s chin.

Alright! the gambler gulped, squirming under Buck’s

weight, I asked who started the fire.

Buck widened the cut with a flick from his razor sharp

blade. Jesus, don’t kill me. I’ll tell you everything, just

don’t cut me no more.

What was the last thing you said to that puncher?

I told him that your Indian was dead.

Who? holding the tip of the blade above Paul’s right

eye, dripping blood.

Johnny Eagle.

When did he die?

Last night, this morning. Doc announced right after

you lit out of town and woke everybody up. I heard

he died peaceful, he never woke up.

Why did he die?

What?

Why is Johnny Eagle dead?

Buck slapped the gambler hard across the face. 

Paul’s nose bled, tears welled up in his red eyes.

Somebody shot him, some gunmen, Paul yelled.

Who hired them?


Glenn Buttkus



Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub OLN