Click to Subscribe
▶  More from Fiction Guest Authors Sea Daddy
Sweet Chariot
By the Checkered Demon

He laid up in the mouth of an alley, an antique tweed overcoat as an outer layer covering him. His eyes were shrouded by the bill of his cap, and watching the street below, where the marchers would come shambling up the hill towards him. He wanted the asshole with the rubber boot on his head.

When he was young back in the America of the past, the way to give a cat a pill was to cut the foot off a rubber boot and shove the spitting, snarling cat down the shaft until its head protruded from the foot hole. You had it. With its shoulders pinned, it was helpless to stop the pill from its mouth and you moved quickly, dropping the pill down its maw and then stroking its throat until it swallowed. Cat wrangling.

He'd seen this loon with the shaft of a rubber boot jammed onto his head, leading a snarl of odd characters with vagina hats and rude signs, marching against some insensitive comment the God Emperor had made about a protected species. The TV had murmured on about the Kids of Paraquat Mistakes and their service to the People's rebellion. He rolled a half-dozen 22 long rifle rounds in his palm and looked again at the guy with a rubber boot on his head. Me and you, at a place to be determined.

It was Seattle. A great Indian Chief, but a filthy excuse of a town. Hollow-eyed whores barely into their menses sprinkled the corners, all working on feeding the jones. All lost to the same poppy that confounded their Grandfathers. All offering entry to that special club that had gone over to the enemy in a search for peace, or peas or piss. Who knew?

Entry was easy, and he haunted the streets around the Market by the bay, a Henry survival rifle dangling from his shoulder, folded upon itself beneath his coat. 20-odd Aquila sub sonic rounds were in his pocket: a 60 grain solid slug at 850 feet per second, just at the sound barrier. He saw the crowds gathering below. Watched the NCOs with bullhorns leading the gathering masses in the chants. God clutches his crotch as the Demon pulses with hate. If we drive down the usurper all our dreams will be our fate, in the death of the evil from our state.

The street was cobblestones, slick with the damp breezes and reflecting a feeble sun. There were cops, but not many. They were clueless of him, and he freed the rifle, closing the breech upon a round as it grew to its full length. The marchers formed up, and a front of pissed off lesbians formed up behind the jackass with a rubber boot crammed down upon his head. Beady eyes glared from beneath the boot, framed by traces of his hair and he screamed out "life is for the punishment of the fools", and he stepped out.

He watched his face through the scope, and settled down. 65 yards, a chip shot. He turned his booted head to shout something at the freaks behind him, and the man in the coat slipped a 60 grain pellet of lead into his temple, just behind the spray of blackheads behind his left eye. A thin spot in the skull. The pellet ricocheted around inside his skull, and he fell forward onto the bricks. The marchers began to spread. Perhaps the crack of the rifle had spread to warn them. He loaded another round and played the scope over the group, looking for the next officer. She was a tank of maybe 300 pounds, but a pellet into her right eye dropped her like a death ray. He'd aimed for the laugh wrinkles at her eye's corner.He scanned for more, but faded back. A cop was moving his way, and he put the third round into his nose, sprawling him into the street with his weapon clattering away. He folded the rifle under his coat and faded back up the alley, emerging on another street to hustle away up towards the town center, where tall buildings fronted the streets. He entered a coffee shop and sat at the counter next to a cowboy. Coffee grande, con Miele, por favor. He sipped it. It was proper.

The cowboy said, "This is a fucked town."

"That it is," he said, "but things have changed."

"I hope so," the cowboy said, "but I doubt it's changed enough. Time will tell all we need. Do you live here?"

"God no. I was just wandering and wound up here. Would you like something different?"

"Oh fuck yes. This town is corroding my contacts. I'm picking up stuff I can't decipher, and my soul is sagging. Maybe it's time to go. Do you have a vehicle?"

They rode in an old pickup out into the East. Behind them Seattle exploded over the social warriors who had died.

"Pull over by those trees," he said. "I'll get off here."

"Is this home then?"

"No, but I can get there from here."

They shared a shot of good whiskey, and the cowboy pulled out and left him. The sun was settling into the Pacific as he buried the rifle in the desert sands. A hobo hitch-hiked homewards as various government agencies slapped talkers to talk about it, and they wove tales about the 22 caliber killer.


Night City: The Short Fiction of James LaFond: 2015-16

Add Comment
Tony CoxMay 15, 2018 5:03 PM UTC

What a great story. I only wish it were non-fiction.
ShepMay 9, 2018 5:05 PM UTC

Sometimes in the Emerald City, you don't even need any political motivation to get involved in "gun violence" at a political rally. It's just those guns, doing "gun violence".

Anyhow, great story, and yeah, Big Chief Boot-on-Head needs to go.