Bill 4 - on the Planet of Tasteless Pleasure (19 page)

“Name your poison, gents?” he said.

“Hydrofluoric acid on the rocks,” Bill said.

“Ho-ho, sonny, yore quite a card. Quintuple bourbon in a beer mug coming up. What about your little green chum here?”

“Just a sarsaparilla for me, please,” said the Chinger. “And I'll need a straw with that.”

Eyes growing accustomed to the cool dimness, Bill looked around at the crowd. Men in western garb sat around tables here and there. In the corner, there was a small poker game going on.

“What a great place!” said Bill happily.

“Here you go, gents!” said the bartender, sliding their drinks down the smooth surface of the bar. “That'll be six bits.”

“Gee — my friend's paying,” said Bgr. He washed his hands in the sarsparilla then ate his straw.

“Uh — how much is six bits, mister?”

“No jokes, sonny. Seventy-five cents.”

“Yeah, sure.” Bill turned out his pockets. All he had was lint. He took a healthy gulp of his whiskey, just in case. “Do you take Trooper Cred Fingernails here?” He held up his pinky, upon which was implanted his meager Trooper credit account.

The bartender scowled. “No funny games, cowboy. This is a cash and carry bar. Pay up. And no greenbacks. If it don't clank I don't want it.”

Bill hadn't the slightest idea what the barman was talking about. He had none of those things. But maybe he could barter. Trade his gun for booze. He pulled it

The bartender, eyes starting with fear, shoved his hands high in the air and wiggled his fingers like crazy. “Bubbling Beezelbub buster! Don't shoot! Them drinks is on the house.”

What a kind man this bartender indeed was. Bill dropped the pistol on the bar and grabbed for the glass. As the revolver struck the hard wood the cylinder popped free and bullets spilled across the bartop. The bartender poked hesitantly at the bullets and his jaw dropped. Bill glugged and the Chinger munched his straw.

“Well, hogtie my little doggies,” the barman said. “This here's a silver bullet! I'll be happy to take it in trade. For a silver bullet you gentlemen can drink till you drop. But that's beside the point. If you've got silver bullets that must mean —”

The bartender looked at Bill with awe and wonder.

“Why, that must mean that you're the Stoned Ranger!”

THE BALLAD OF BILLY THE KIDNEY

“The what?” said Bill.

“The Stoned Ranger, man! I thought you looked familiar!” The bartender was beaming and fawning at the same time. Very difficult to do.

All heads in the bar turned their way — even the ones on the beer mugs.

“You must have heard that Billy the Kidney was coming into town with the Jism Gang!” The bartender handed the silver bullet back to Bill. “Here. I'm on your side. You better take this back. You're going to need all your bullets, big guy!”

“Stoned Ranger?” whispered Bill to Bgr. “What is he talking about?”

“Don't rock the boat, as we say in the Chinger navy,” said Bgr. “We're getting free drinks and straws aren't we?” He jumped up onto the bar and grabbed a handful of straws and started munching them.

A man dressed in buckskins, sporting a long, dangling beard and mustaches stood up from a table and walked over to the bar, extending a welcoming hand. “Well, howdy there, partner. Been wanting to meet you for jest a bundle of years. Name's Hiccup! Wild Will Hiccup!”

“Pleased to meet you, Wild!” said Bill, feeling agreeable with all the whiskey now tucked beneath his belt and working its way irrevocably towards his already hobnailed liver, and looking forward to an endless day of free drinking ahead of him. “But I don't really know what you're talking about. My name is Bill. With two l's.”

“Don't listen to him!” shouted Bgr, jumping up and down on the bar, waving his arms for attention. “He's the Stoned Ranger all right, sure enough. Just that he's a bit shy in front of strangers, admitting that he has gunned down more men than could fill an entire train. And caboose. I know all this for I am his faithful Chinger companion, Procto. Or something like that. We're here looking for deadly destiny with the Jism Gang and Billy the Kidney. And by the way, you all ain't seen a critter name of Delazny hereabouts, have you?”

Wild Will raised bushy eyebrows high. “Billy the Kidney, you say. Weeee doggies! You're gunnin' for a slippery character all right. Don't know nothin' about no Deloozknee, Stoned Ranger and Procto, but I can tell you a heap of tall tales 'bout Billy the Kidney! 'Fact, Ah happen to be not merely a biographer of the Kidney, but a bibliographer of all the ballads, legends and penny dreadfuls that have been written about the durned fella.”

“Well, I guess it wouldn't hurt none to hear about the man we're after, right Bill?” said Bgr.

Bill shrugged, picked up his drink and drained it. “Just keep the alcohol flowin', compañeros, and I'm all ears!” He smiled blearily as the glass was slammed down in front of him. Something tickled at his memory. Something? Someone? A new wave of alcohol washed away the thought and he groped for the drink. Raising it to his new friend Wild Will Hiccup, they heartily toasted one another's health.

“Doc!” cried Wild Will, cupping his hand. “Doc Shoreleave! Bring my sack from the table over here.” He turned back to Bill. “Got myself a couple of new books just today 'bout the Kidney. I'll jest wet mah whistle here, and we'll have a public readin'!”

Wild Will sipped from the large whiskey glass, then gave the rest of the drink to the man who carried his bag. Doc Shoreleave had a hacking cough and dreadful bags under his eyes. “Thanks, Doc. Poor Doc. Accidentally got beamed down here from the Starship UNTERMENSCH. He and Sheriff Wyatt Slurp go way back with the Jism Gang, don't you, Doc?”

The Doc just muttered something about spocks before his eyes, slammed the rest of the triple down his throat, then went back to slump in his chair. Wild Will rummaged through his sack, pulled out two cheaply printed books with garish covers and pulpy paper. He cleared his throat, raised his hand for silence and commenced reading the first:

THE PALM IS A HAIRY MISTRESS

(being the eleventh volume in

The Putz Thru

Tomorrow series)

By

Robert A. Heiny

Denver shot its wad.

Shot great streams of rockets, trying to nuke Billy the Kidney and I, out in the desert.

But little did the hardware jockeys know it, but Billy and I were on the Moon mining ice and having our way with our line-marriages of nubile pubescents and worshipful women, they were harsh mistresses indeed!, up there with our good buddy, Shylock the hardup computer. (Lusty bucket of neuristors just didn't want any old piece of flesh!)

My old man, Lazarus Hung, taught me two things. “Be kind to women” and “Don't take any crap from them.” So when Denver bombed our Freehold out in the desert we figured we better give them a taste of their own medicine, so we diverted a few asteroids from the space-lanes and nailed the bastards but good.

TANSTAAFL.

That means “There ain't no such thing as a free lawyer.” Ask me, I know, I was known as Litigious Larry before I changed my name. I've had more lawsuits than you have had pastrami sandwiches. It's damned true. Toe-of-a-bitch!

Anyway, back to Billy.

The Kidney and I, we go way back. Sucker never does get older, don't know how he does it. I remember heading back in my time machine, the S.S. BOOTSTRAPS, and meeting him and Pat Garrett at a pleasure house in Oklahoma City. The Kidney was just a squirt then, went by the name of William Boner. Mean little sucker. Watch him gun down five men in cold blood, and I think to self, this guy's just a skin full of testosterone! We sure could use him back on the Moon!

Says, “Okay!” when I tell him about all the free sex. Don't tell him about the lawyers or the lunches, though.

Funny thing though.

Time travel ride shakes him up lots.

And hell, he mutates!

So how am I supposed to know this would happen.

Anyway, Billy the Kidney's still a great guy and all, we just have a robo-mop trail along after him, cleaning up.

Like Lazarus Hung says, “A man gains immortality through his brain and his sexual endeavors.” Sounds nice, though a little male-chauv-piggish.

The reading was interrupted by a hoarse shout from without the swinging saloon doors.

“It's the Jism Gang! They're here. And the Kidney is —”

Bang! The sound of an echoing shot was followed instantly by a bwanng sound as the ricochet whistled about the room.

“Arggh!” said the voice. A big man in boots and a bloody vest staggered through the swinging doors. “They got me!” He collapsed, his spurs pointing toward the ceiling, still jingling like Christmas bells.

“Oh Lordy!” said Wild Will, hastily closing his books and ducking under a table. “It's the Kidney! And he's a-comin' here! Hide, Stoned Ranger! Hide, Procto! The Kidney's a killer when he's in black spirits, and when he hears the Stoned Ranger's here, he's not gonna be in a good mood!”

Such was the air of gloom and doom projected by all the drinkers in the saloon as they dived beneath chairs and tables, that even Bgr's knees started knocking. The Chinger made a swan dive behind the bar. “Hide, Bill!” he shouted back. “I got bad vibes about this!”

Bill, who was working thirstily on his whiskey, was too plastered to really care much. He made a token effort to get behind the bar, but he found that his spurs had somehow gotten tangled with the bar rail. He was working on trying to take off his boots when the saloon door slammed open and the first of the outlaws squished through.

“It's Frank! Frank Jism!” came a frightened whisper from beneath one of the tables.

Bill was so stunned by the thing that walked in that he stopped his struggles and simply stared.

The creature before him looked like a giant comic book thought-balloon dressed in Western garb. Its body was round, bulbous and sheened with a thick fluid. Dark eyes peered malevolently out from beneath a black hat. Around its bulbous, glistening base was a belt and a gun. But its waist trailed off into a thin whiplike flagellum, which somehow not only supported its entire body, but provided its forward movement as well.

Frank Jism was a gigantic spermatozoon!

“Eggs!” Frank Jism ejaculated. “Where are the goddamned dancing eggs, fer Chrissakes!” A protoplasmic arm and hand and finger held a gun. It squeezed off a round into the ceiling, and plaster rained down. It turned squinty little eyes toward Bill. “You, there, pardner. How cum you're not a-quiverin' and a-quakin' like these other cowards! How cum you're not a'hidin' underneath a table.”

The sperm squished over toward Bill, a dripping frown on its liquid face.

“Care for a drink?” asked Bill.

“I don't want no goddamned drink!” Frank Jism snarled liquidly. “I wanna know how cum you think yer such a hero!”

It stuck its gun directly into one of Bill's nostrils.

The cold metal was enough to wake up Bill's heretofore intoxicated sense of self-preservation. “Well, actually, Frank, to tell you the truth, I can't move. My boot's stuck.” He pointed down to the spur caught in the bar rail and wiggled his foot. For some reason, when he pulled on it again, his foot slid out, revealing a damp and noisome sock.

The reaction on Frank Jism was immediate. His pale white face turned an immediate beet red. He started choking. The gun dropped from his hands and he fell back, gasping.

Immediately, a hail of bullets erupted from beneath the tables and behind the bars, rupturing the membranous surface of the giant sperm's skin. Frank Jism collapsed upon the ground, his flagellum whipping about like a dying snake.

With a gasp, Frank Jism died.

“Geez, Stoned Ranger!” cried somebody. “Put your boot back on! You'll kill us all.”

Bill slipped his sock back into his boot and then looked back at Frank Jism on the floor, melting away like an ice cube on the stove. Shuddering, he poked his nose into his glass and finished his whiskey.

“Okay!” a growling voice cried from beyond the door. “Reach for the ceiling, toadstool!”

Bill lifted his hands.

Another sperm slithered through the doorway. It looked exactly like Frank Jism, only this one had a scar running down its bulbous face and body.

“It's Jesse!” cried the others “Jesse Jism.”

The sperm wiggled up to the fallen body of his brother. He kicked it once with his flagellum, and the body just oozed all the way flat.

“Who done this?” he whispered through gritted pseudo teeth.

An army of arms stabbed pointing fingers toward Bill from beneath tables. “He done it! Him! The Stoned Ranger!”

Jesse Jism wiggled back a pace. “The Stoned Ranger!?”

“The Stoned Ranger!” chorused the others.

Bill said, “I think there's a case of mistaken identity here!”

“Stoned Ranger, you kilt my brother in cold blood! Do you know who I am?”

“They say you're Jesse Jism,” said Bill, slurring his words a bit. “But you look like a great big sperm to me!”

Jesse Jism grinned. “That's what I am, partner. The biggest sperm west of the Vasectomy River. And I'm the meanest one, too. So fill your hand and get ready to die quick, 'cause vengeance is mine!”

Quick as lubricated lightning, Jesse Jism pulled his gun.

In fact, the outlaw had his out before Bill even thought to go for his own weapon. The outlaw gun was pointing, and the trigger finger was just about to pull, when suddenly the Chinger burst through the front of the bar, tiny guns blazing.

Bullets tore into the front of Jesse Jism's chest, or into the spot where his chest would be if he had a chest. The outlaw dropped his gun and staggered, looking down at the gaping hole in his middle. “Stoned Ranger! How you done that? I din't even see your gun hand move!”

A volley of bullets tore from the audience beneath the tables, slashing Jesse Jism the sperm into shreds and rips and tatters, flattening him into a similar flat ruin as his brother Frank.

“Whoa wheeee!” cried the townspeople. “Yay Stoned Ranger! He kilt the Jism brothers!”

Bill twisted his boot toe on the floor in mock embarrassment. And saw the Chinger Bgr standing by the hole he had knocked in the bar, blowing down the barrel of his smoking gun. “Hey, somebody had to do it!”