Joey and me were watching the Lone Ranger on tv. Joey sat playing with himself. "Better stop that," I kept saying. "You'll go blind."
The Lone Ranger was one of our favorites. He was romantic as hell. He wore tight white shirts, gloves and pants. His boots were shiny, creaky and jangly with spurs. He was handsome, well-proportioned.
He wore a kind of black nylon stocking across his eyes. That really icinged the cake.
But he had one defect -- he never killed anybody. Oh, now and then he'd shoot a bandit in the hand; maybe once or twice in the ass or foot. Never anything serious. And these guys were gunning for him. In fact, sometimes it seemed well over half the town, desert mountain states were dedicated to the elimination by violence of the Lone Ranger. This left me in the cold, when it came to identifying with his lack of passion.
On the other hand, Peter Gunn had no qualms about death. He'd plug guys in the gut, blow their eyes out. Pop`em in the heart so they'd pop off right in your face; ice`em in the street; stop `em dead in a crowded bar.
He didn't strap any sexy underwear over his eyes; wore a business suit and looked like a man selling real estate; but the girls he knew more than compensated for that. They dressed in nylons and heels and were all built like birthday cakes. I wanted to blow on `em till their candles went out, then lick the icing, slice `em up and dig in.
Once I had even seen him shoot a girl. It was in her bedroom and she had it coming. Because she'd poisoned his whisky and was waiting for him to drink it and drop dead. So she could escape The Law.
I wasn't supposed to watch Peter Gunn. He came on late, and was bad and dirty. But I saw ten minutes here, two minutes there, and pieced together enough to know that even though he wore a suit and tie like that big dip Daddy he was more my kind of guy.
Especially when it came to killing. The Ranger kind of resembled Jesus, Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny -- I couldn't get a grip on him. He was just a little too much of an insubstantial fairy.
I sighed, wishing it was late at night and not early afternoon. Then we could sit up and watch Dragnet, maybe get a minute or two of Peter Gunn. The screen eased back into focus. "Don't do that, Joey," I muttered. "You'll go blind."
The Lone Ranger and Tonto sank to their haunches to investigate a trail outlaws had left. Tonto was a stupid Indian who probably had bad breath and tarred a lot. He never said anything. But he spotted clues the Ranger was quick to pick up on. This was why they kept him around, despite his lousy acting.
The Ranger removed his glove and outlined a hoofprint.
"Yes, Tonto," he said, tight-lipped, from under his black stocking. "They passed here less than an hour ado. Chances are, we'll find them camped at the end of that box canyon up ahead."
Suddenly, gasping for breath, Panty burst into the room. He fell on the rug beside the tv and writhed like a razored worm. His face went purple. His eyes bulged. He tried to tell us something.
"Okay, Panty," I looked back at the screen. "What's wrong now?"
I... I... I...
"Spit it out, c'mon! Joe and me are keeping an eye on things and might have to shoot a thief or an Indian any minute. What is it -- did you swallow a piece of hard candy and catch it in your throat? Vision go black and syrupy like you're gonna die? C'mon -- cough it up!"
"You're right, Tonto! " the Ranger snapped his fingers. "They'll post a lookout. They saw our dust -- I'm sure of it."
Black nyloned eyes filled the screen. Joey played with himself furiously. Then a closeup of the Ranger's hand as he snuggled it back into his white glove.
Next: outlaws thundering into the box canyon.
S uddenly I knew what it was.
"Joey!" I broke out: "Stop playing with yourself -- it's making Panty choke... cut it out... he might upchuck!
I floated up into the air, the better to comprehend the situation. Joey, eyes stuck to the tube, persisted in whacking his dummy. Couldn't blame him. Staring at the Wild West two feetbefore your nose works up energy. And the only logical outlet for that, since Joey didn't smoke or drink, was...
"Make him stop!" Panty finally got out. "I'm gonna explode. I can feel my heart bombing inside my head and also my penis!" He grabbed his shorts compulsively, as if protecting a baby squirrel. He doubled over, gnashed his teeth and fell to kicking and squirming.
The Ranger loaded up with silver bullets, mounted his horse, reared in front of the sky... and flashed into a commercial.
I zoomed off the ceiling into myself and groped for a gun. Whatever it was they were selling, I wanted it shot...
Cheerios. Already had holes in `em. Okay, I'd get the little kid. Next time he came back on, grinning over his cereal...
Cocked. Aimed. Waited. Cocked again... re-cocked
Cheerios kept falling. Billions of `em. Hole after hole after hole -- tumbling across the tube like bluegray froth. Invisible children sang a jingle about good health and happiness... could wait no longer... opened up, firing repeatedly, fanning the hammer fast as mom chopping carrots... heaven? Were all three of us now united on the Roof of the Sky?
I glanced over at Panty. He was sitting up with a smile, calmly taking his hands off his shorts.
Still staring at the Cheerios, Joey cleared his throat; buttoned his fly. He wasn't smiling. But, unlike usual, he didn't look constipated. He put his hands on the floor behind him and leaned back, eyes half closed the way a cowboy daydreams around a campfire.
The kid came on. I was out of ammo. His perfect teeth gleamed above a bowl of cold milk heaped with Cheerios. I hated cereal. No, we were still on earth, home, in the living room.
A bandit on the edge of a cliff was about to shoot a rifle into the air. Tonto grabbed him by the neck before he could.
"Good work," the Ranger walked up. Then drew his gun and glared puritanically down into the box canyon. "Now we can round up the rest."
"Good," sighed Panty. "I'm ready to rest, too." And he curled up on the rug beside the TV.
Decided to take a nap.
Mom looked in and startled me: "What's going on in here?"
"Huh?" I jerked awake. "Oh... nothing."
"But I heard voices - like you were talking to somebody."
"Oh," I said, as the Lone Ranger trotted onto a hill and hi-ho-silvered away, "it's okay. I was just playing with myself."
The William Tell Overture erupted, horning into a frenzy, but was cut short by a commercial.
Willie Smith, a Seattle writer, has this to say about that. "Shit, rnan, I already sent you a bio, when you accepted that story about the kid who sucks his Dad's cock, whatever that piece of trash is called you still gonna publish it? I wouldn't blame you for one moment deciding to wipe your ass with it and flush the evidence down the crapper. However, here's my latest bio: 'Willie Smith is just another quiet guy with a big dick.'
For other stories by Willie Smith, click here.
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