Authors: Subterranean Press
Jebidiah looked back at the open grave. Smoke wisped out
of the hole and out of the grave and climbed up to the sky. The moon was fading
and the pink on the horizon was widening.
Gimet was truly dead now. The road was safe. His job was
done.
At least for one brief moment.
Jebidiah walked down the
hill, found his horse tied in the brush near the road where he had left it. The
deputy’s horse was gone, of course, the deputy most likely having already
finished out Deadman’s road at a high gallop, on his way to Nacogdoches,
perhaps to have a long drink of whisky and turn in his badge.
Fiction:
Eating Crow by Neal Barrett, Jr.
“They’re dogs.”
“Dogs?”
“Look at them on the TV, sir. They’re dogs.”
“That’s impossible. They can’t be dogs. Beings from the
stars are not dogs.”
“No offense, Mr. President. They’re fricking dogs.”
“I’ll ask you to watch your language, Jim.”
“Bob.”
“What?”
“Bob, sir. I’m Bob. Your Secretary of State.”
“Of course you are. Now what in blazes is going on here,
Bob? And what are you doing about it? We simply can’t have dogs, hovering over
the White House. Have you talked to them? Can’t they hover somewhere else?”
“I’ve talked to one, sir.”
“One.”
“The one out there, sir. On the lawn.”
“Jesus, Bob. That’s a dog.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He hasn’t done anything, has he? On the lawn, I mean.
If people see that… Jim, what do they want? Women? That’s what they want on
SCI-FI Channel. Scantily clad women.”
“Bob, sir. No, sir, the one I talked to, he wants to eat
a crow.”
“That’s disgusting. Even for a dog. Okay, he wants a
crow, give him a crow.”
“I gave him a crow, He doesn’t want a crow, he wants a
Crow
.
A Native American, sir.”
“Good Lord! Well, he can’t have one. You know what Bill
O’Reilly would do with that?”
“I told him, Mr. President. He says we better do it. He
says we maybe noticed that’s a pretty big ship. He says he’ll toast a couple of
states, see if you change your mind.”
“What kind of states?”
“New York, Connecticut. Eastern Seaboard, Maine to
Florida, down through the Keys.”
“One Crow, Bob. That’s it. And no women.”
“Right, sir. That’s a good decision, sir.”
“I’m the decisioner, Bob. That what’s I do.”
***
“Holy Eagle crap, what are
you
supposed to be?”
“You are Retching Bison, Jr., a person of the Injun
persuasion? I am J’haan of the Tzūn folk. On your planet I am known as
Dog.”
“You’re kidding. That’s a dog suit, right? A hell of a
good suit but a fricking
suit.
Man, how do you get your legs to bend
like that? That is terrific. Really. So what are you selling, dude? Whatever it
is, we don’t want any. And we don’t say
Injun,
pal. We say
Absaroka.
Crow, to you. Suppose you take your shaggy ass right off the reservation,
before you get a traditional arrow up the kazoo.”
“Sorry, I cannot go now, Absaroka guy. Bob, who is
secretary of the states, is to pick me up when I am done. We are staying at the
hotel place in Billings of Montana. He will return in two of your Earthly
hours. I should be done by then.”
“Be done what?”
“I fear that is of a confidential nature. Tell me,
please. I must be correctly in this. How do I know you are a Crow? How do I
know you are a Native of America or not? What if that is a merely a native
suit? Where is your feather? Where are your mocs and the beach cloth to cover
your ding?”
“Dong. And we don’t do feathers. Not with a three-piece
and a tie. J’haan, is it? I had a dog named Duke, and another named Spot.
Duke’s likely dead. Spot ran off. Look, you going to hang around here, sit,
stay. I can’t stand to see you bouncing around on two legs. I think I’m at the
fricking circus.”
“A circus is an event of peanuts and merry-making. I
know that. We have learned much from your motioning picture and television
shows. There is little to do in the spaces-in-between but peek into planetary
fun on the orbs we pass by. I have watched the antics of the Lucy and the
See-Es-Eyes. Peepee Herman and his band. The battle of the Leons and the
Giants.
“Passing your world is where I came upon the topic that
brings me here now. Much has puzzled my head. I will not deign to mention my
anger at learning what ‘pet’ means. The Tzūn folk will not be forgetting
this. Now, however, answer these things if you will: What is ‘Dog Gone?’ A dog
is not here, a dog is gone? Gone where? Are dog days different than person
days? How does that work? Is there a time differential among my kinsmen here?
Why is there such great interest in dog-eared, dogface, dog fight? dog house,
dog leg, dogging it, dogie, dog’s life, put on the dog? Put what on the dog,
and why? Why is there a dog in the manger? I know about mangers, and what is
the dog doing there in the first place? I do not understand why it is best to
let sleeping dogs lie. Lying is pointless when one is not in the conscious
state. And besides, how do you know if one is doing a fibbing in his sleep? You
have no powers of the sensory kind, we are certain of that.
“These and other things are of great concern to me. But
what has brought me here, Retching Bison, Jr., is this business about Dogs and
Crows. I can see you are of the humans. Not of the shade, say, of Bob,
secretary of the states, but human nevertheless. Why, then, does history and
stuff remind us that the Crow is the white man’s dog? White men, such as the
Bob, can surely tell you are not of a dogly nature at all. Why, then, do we of
the Tzūn come across this statement in countless bad motion-movie shows?
Why do the jonwaines say this over and over again? It is, of course, an honor
to be a dog, but not so much, I think, in such a case as this.”
“I cannot answer all of your questions, which would bore
me to tears, but I will, indeed, tell you the meaning of that one. Many years ago,
when
Axxaashe,
the sun, and
Bilitaachiia,
the moon, looked down
upon my people with love instead of great disdain, the Absaroka fought the
nations of the Nez Perce, the Arapaho, and the devil Sioux. We were proud, and
blessed by Father Trout and Mother Pigeon. Man,
Baacheé,
and Woman, Bia,
made love by the sweet waters, the
Bilé,
of the Yellowstone River. We
fought our enemies with passion and honor.
“Then, we made a big mistake: We fought beside the white
man. We chased the great Seated Bull north when he led his people to Canada
after the great battle of Greasy Grass. From then on, we were scorned by other
nations. Hated in all the camps by the rivers, on the plains and in the
mountains. And thus, we became known as the white man’s dogs. I assure you, there
was no honor in this, nothing but shame and sorrow…”
“I thank you, Retching Bison, Jr. That is a great deal
more than I really wanted to know, but I clearly see your point. Now, though we
have become companions, though certainly not friends, a disgusting thought if I
ever there was one, I feel I must tell you why I have come. One of the phrases
I frequently run across on our in-between voyages is
eating crow.
I have
never thought about the meaning of these words, and don’t give a rhatt’s rear,
if you really want to know. I only know that since the Crow and the Tzūn
folk appear to have much in common through myth and TV, I find I wish to
satisfy my hunger by eating Crow. I would be grateful if you would concede to
my needs, and not make a big thing about this, which would greatly embarrass us
both.”
“I wish I could be of a more giving nature, but I fear
this cannot be. Surely you must know the act of being eaten is both a painful
and final thing, J’haan. That is, unless you believe the Pawnee god Suki-Pastaka’coli,
who tells us we pass from the tract of digestion directly to the Big Whorehouse
in the Sky. I am not a Pawnee person, though there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“What I believe, Retching Bison, Jr., is that you are
stalling, hoping to catch me off guard as I prepare to render you senseless
with a Car-oddie chop I learned from the great Chowlin master himself.”
“I feel I can save you some humuliation, J’haan, by
informing you I am a skilled student of the ancient Burmese art of
bando
boxing, a deadly form of combat based upon the motion of creatures from the
animal world. Rendered senseless, as you say, is a most pleasant feeling,
compared to a single blow from a
bando
dude.”
“We are getting nowhere with this banter, Retching
Bison, Jr. Let us take a fighting stance, and see who comes out as London Broil
or some other fancy cut, and who does not.”
“In all fairness, J’haan, there is one thing I feel I
must tell you. In all your learned discourse about this strange link between
your folk and mine, you have somehow failed to note that history and the moving
picture point out that while
eating crow
is a familiar term—one
that seems to strike your fancy as a gourmand treat—it is no more common
than the fact that the
Crow eat dog,
and have, for centuries past. No
offense, but it is quite a tasty dish, properly boiled to reduce the somewhat
doggy odor that is common to your kind, cooked or not.”
“This is true? You are certain of this? You are not
simply making this up to throw me off my feed?”
“No, J’haan, it is fact. Please know that your hunger
has started my juices flowing as well. But, as you have been reasonably honest
with me I feel I can do no less with you.”
“Then, Retching Bison, Jr., we have reached a near
impossible dilemma. It is much like that insidious horror, algebra: One factor
cancels out the other, and we are left with nothing. It would be unnatural for
either of us to partake of the other. Yet, my stomach is as dark and empty as
the spaces-in-between the stars. My being cries out for sustenance, vittles,
fast food, slow food, food of any sort. Grub, chow, groceries, grits. This
untimely revelation of yours has left us without any lunch.”
“Oh con-trair, mon dog. I am thinking it has not…
***
“If you’re finished with that leg, you might pass it
over here, J’haan. I am stuffed, but that looks mighty good.”
“A bit stringy, friend of the Tzūn, but a little
ketchup helps. I’ll have another bite of that heart, if you will, then I think
a little nap.”
“Excellent idea, friend of the Absaroka. And I must say,
I find it somewhat amazing that your folk and mine have non foolish prejudices
where food is concerned.”
“Indeed. Innards or outards, it’s all the same to me.
But do answer me this, old fellow. Though I know little of Earthly customs, I
find it amazing your hotels do not appear to mind a fire in their rooms.”
“Actually, they do.”
“Ah, I see.”
“If you’d like, I will share this last bit of lung with
you. It’s quite good.”
“As they say among my people, organs are where it’s at.”
“I can see that this is so. From now on, you will be
known far and wide in the Crow Nation as Liver Eatin’ Jahaan-Tzūn!”
“Indeed, Junior, I would be proud to bear this title.”
—For Terry Bison
Fiction:
Jude Confronts Global Warming by Joe Hill
Georgia was in the music library, knitting little silver
skulls on a shawl, and listening to the radio, when Jude wandered into the
room.
“…3,000 scientists signed the strongest statement yet on
the subject of global warming,” said the newsman. “The letter paints a dark
picture of the earth’s future, warning that melting ice caps, super hurricanes,
and coastal flooding are inevitable if the global community doesn’t act
decisively to address climate change. Concerned consumers are advised to
consider lowering their energy consumption, and to look at alternative energy
cars…”
Jude flipped the radio over to FUM. They were playing
Soundgarden,
Black Hole Sun.
Jude turned it up.
“What the fuck you do that for?” Georgia said, and
chucked a sewing needle at the back of his head. It bounced off his shoulders.
Jude ignored it. “I was listening to that, asshole.”
“Now you’re listening to this,” Jude said.
“You’re such a dick.”
“Oh hell,” he said, turning back toward her. “They were
wetting themselves over global
cooling,
twenty years ago. Remember that?
No, probably not. Big Bird didn’t talk much environmental science.”
She threw the other sewing needle at him. He ducked,
stuck an arm up to protect his face. The needle glanced off his wrist. By the
time he looked up over his arm, she had huffed out.
Jude followed her into the kitchen. She bent into the
fridge, to paw out a bottle of that cranberry red stuff she drank now, one of
her wine coolers. To Jude, it tasted like Kool-Aid, as prepared by the Rev. Jim
Jones.
“It’s a crock,” Jude said. “Nobody knows.”