The Biography of Donald Duck
Prologue: The Night of October 12th
October 12th
El Paso, Texas
Present Day
At midnight, the small bell in the church sounded ninety times. A mournful sound against the light rainfall. At the first bell, the grocery store with the flickering light and the meandering fly was busy with one customer, a man in his seventies, who had nothing better to do than to buy groceries for his niece, who came every Sunday. Today was Thursday.
On the thirteenth bell, an innkeeper and his wife closed the door for the evening. The rain made soft conversation with the tin roof of the place, the inn sign swayed back and forth.
As the twentieth bell sounded, an old woman wearing a green jacket, a blue shirt, and jeans carried a newspaper over her head in one hand, as if that could replace the umbrella that was at her side, and flowers in the other. She exited a florist.
A car, specifically, a 1997 Ford F-150, with its rusted rear bumper and a horrible DIY paint job drove speedily down Main Street just as the fortieth stroke of the bell sounded. The driver of this truck, Mr. Harris Q. Penny, was a man of little respect and regarded vampirism as the purest form of human nature. He hit every single puddle of water he could, just to see the look on people's faces, when they were covered in mud, dirt, and filthy water. Mr. Harris was a heavy cigar smoker and was wearing a yellow and white flannel shirt and a golden cross necklace at the moment. The rain beat steadily on the roof of his truck, brutally attacking it.
Mr. Harris drove past the bar, which was open twenty-four hours and had Western Nostalgia written all of it. The barrels of a gun fight, the smell of the gunpowder from the OK Carole, the hint of brandy and wine, beer and cigarettes, prostitutes and troubadours, minstrels and vices. There were no virtues to speak of, save one minstrel. Harris parked his truck right outside the place and entered.
The place was filled with drunks, whores, and incest. Harris took a breath and smiled as he waltzed his way over like a King to the bar.
Sitting in the middle bar stool was the virtuous minstrel. He was dressed as a sailor and had the sea air still on him. He was just passing through on his way to Southern California to visit friends and then head back on the sea towards Singapore. He had just returned from South America, specifically, Rio de Janerio where he visited a friend and his family. This friend of his agreed to travel to California when he was finished with business there.
Currently, this minstrel was staying in the home of Gonzales, surname, Pistoles. Panchito was taking care of his son, Pedro, who took after his father and his Uncle Donald religiously. Donald, the minstrel, ordered another bottled water (for he knew better).
The bartender, Hernandez, was the kind of bartender who didn't ask any questions, he just did what he was told.
Donald thanked the man and drank the water. Mr. Harris, who had been watching the duck intensively, sat next to him.
"One Budweiser please." Harris said. The bartender nodded, grabbed the beer and placed it on the counter.
Harris quickly opened it and as if he were suffering severe dehydration, drank the beer in one chug. He sat the bottle down. Donald looked over, he said nothing.
"What are you looking at?" Harris asked.
Donald ignored him, paid his bill and walked out.
"Hey!" Harris yelled, "I said what are you looking at?"
Donald looked back at him. "You have a mustard stain on your shirt, there's a slight drop of beer near your mouth and you had onions recently."
"Are you mocking me?" Harris asked, standing up feeling threatened.
"Harris," Hernandez said, "leave him alone. He doesn't need grief from you."
Donald exited the bar. Harris followed.
On the eightieth strike of the bell, Harris punched Donald in the groin. The duck did nothing but plead him to stop. The customers in the bar did nothing but watch. To them, this was prime time entertainment. Hernandez rushed out into the rain and tried to break the fight up. The bartender asked the age old question:
"Did you come here drunk?"
Harris smiled and laughed, "Why do you care, as long as you get your money and I get my drinks the world is fine."
"So why did you punch this guy in the face?" Hernandez asked.
"Because," Harris said, "I was drunk when I came here." He moved to strike Hernandez and hit him square in the jaw, knocking the poor man unconscious. Donald Duck ran down the street in the rain, wind, and mud and all he had to do was get to Panchito's shop where he parked his car which was down the street. Panchito owned a gun repair store. His motto straight to point and literal: I buy, sell, and repair everything related to guns.
Harris who saw the duck running, quickly started his truck and followed him. The only thing that went through this man's mind was: ramming speed, ramming speed, ramming speed.
On the ninetieth stroke of the bell, innocence was lost, the world grew silent, and Mr. Harris' truck drove down the street.