At The Silver Cockerel

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At The Silver Cockerel

That night Bledashh sat upright
in the darkest corner
at the Silver Cockerel,
his wide-brimmed Stoffeos pulled low,
shading his eyes,
masking his sangloat,
his left hand resting gently
on the polished pearl grips
of his Clorn .38.

Vastle Imports, LTD. had hired him,
red-faced as pinched pupti
over the third loss
of their precious loads
of Lavender Lyarogi;
three couriers killed,
angry creditors clambering
for the werin bite of that
very rare azure liquor.

In the dimness of the tavern
he kept both eyes peregrine,
watching the latest courier engaging
the owner of the Inn
in light-hearted eliali,
with spiraling peals of graiti wafting
like laughter reptiles, coiling around
the blue cigar smoke that hung
thick near the overhead gas lights,

He had not noticed the midgets perched
on the shoulders of three hooded Kingsh,
who had inconspicuously positioned themselves
beneath the tavern lanterns--
but he was ready for the sudden blackout,
the screams, the revolver shots,
the thunk of several bodies

as he produced a miner’s flare
from his deep overcoat inside pocket,
snapping its head off as it hissed
like an angry anaconda, and the room
was ablaze with blood-red illumination.

The courier was being held by one Kingsh
and the midget astride another
flashed a stilletto, while a second
diminutive thug dropped lithely
to the sawdust-strewn puncheon floor,
reaching for the leather liquor valise.

Bledashh’s alert Clorn .38 barked
like a junkman’s cur,
bellicose and piercing,
six times rapidly, its barrel spitting fire
as a half dozen hunks of brass
were launched into the ochre air--
and the Professor’s minions fell
like tin quail at a carnival gallery.

The mini-assassins were lifted off their feet
as the Clorn’s brass kisses slew
them both with brain shots;
the jeweled stilletto clanged
to a table top, bloodless--
the trio of Kingsh attempted to flee, but
the detective had owl’s eyes
and a sniper’s reflexes, spraying
hollow-point hosannas.

The tallest villian caught one
in the small of his back,
and he dropped hard
like a man at the end of a rope,
smashing a spindly chair in his path--
another hooded hoodlum lost
first his left knee cap,
and then his right eye
as he spun around attempting
to return fire--while the last
of the lethal triumvirate carried
a lead trinket in one shoulder
as he lurched through the open door
to the alley way.

Men yelled like children in a school yard,
frightened yet gleeful, the event transpiring
in a blink, like sucking in frozen air,
as the melee discharges echoed
and ricocheted off peeling flowered wallpaper.

After the lanterns were lit they discovered
Bledashh standing tranquilly tall
in his corner, his Clorn .38 still erect,
puffing whitish smoke like a contented
squire sucking his pipe,
and the wide infectious smile
on his thin face perfectly complimented
the malevolent twinkle in his green eyes.

Glenn Buttkus November 2010

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