I was watching part of Attack of the Twonkies last night, and when Cindy auditioned with that song about being a quick-drawin' cowgirl from Kalamazoo, I was like...whoa. This story is more canon than I thought!
Anyway, moving on...
Far to the west, across miles of sand and wind-hewn crags, the sun rose and set and rose again on a quiet frontier town. At the end of a dusty street, past some flat-fronted houses, a church, and a tiny bank, stood another saloon. The wooden sign that hung from the porch-roof creaked back and forth in the breeze; it bore the words "Retro Valley Juke Joint" in stenciled block letters.
Inside, the saloon's owner was wiping down the mahogany bar. She was dark-skinned girl clad in a low-cut magenta blouse and ruffled skirt. Rouge colored her cheeks, and she wore her black ringlets pinned up in a bun. Her bracelets clinked against the glass bottles as she arranged them on the shelves.
"Oye, mami!" came a grating shout. "You never gonna believe this!"
The individual who burst through the saloon doors looked like he might be, for lack of a better term, one burrito shy of a combo plate. He was dressed in a ragged plaid shirt and denim overalls, and he held a pick-axe in one hand. His hair stood on end, and the amount of dirt on his face and arms was almost comical.
"Guess what?"
The proprietor rolled her eyes when she saw him. "Don't tell me. All your crazy prospectin' is finally on the verge of payin' off. You finally found the right spot to dig, and this time it's gonna be different. This time you're gonna strike it rich. Does that sound 'bout right? Or did you 'finally' realize you need to fix that loose screw in your head?"
"Loose screw? Ay caramba,Libby, how can you say that? If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times – There's gold in them thar hills! Why won't you believe me?"
"Oh, I believe you, Señor Estevez. And I pray to the Lord Almighty that when you find this legendary gold, you have it melted down and made into a washtub."
He stamped his foot. "I will find it, woman! And when I do, I'm gonna march in here with an armload of nuggets and dump 'em right on the counter. Then you'll see the error of your ways and apologize, right after you grab me by the britches and lay a big wet one on me."
She snorted. "That's 'Miss Folfax' to you, Señor...and I'll do you one better. If you ever actually strike gold in that godforsaken patch o' desert, I'll marry your crazy Mexican backside and be done with it."
He grinned. "I'm gonna hold you to that."
Libby shook her head. "Anyway, now that we've got that cleared up, whaddya want? If this ain't your usual gold fever fandango, then why'd you come barrelin' in here? Is Butch face-down in the water trough again?"
"Nope. But there is a pistol-packin' chica dressed like a bandido outside, and she's tying up her horse to your porch."
"Say what?"
Miss Folfax and Señor Estevez heard the clink of spurs well before their wearer appeared. Tex burst through the washboard doors and glared into the interior, as if daring any rowdy patrons to speak their minds. When she saw that the only occupants were a prettily-dressed barkeep and a mud-encrusted prospector, she relaxed a little.
"Welcome to Libby's Juke Joint!" called out the proprietor cheerfully. "What'll you be havin', Miss?"
Information on my target, thought Tex. She sauntered over and slapped a fistful of dollars onto the counter, and aloud she asked, "What's the most vile, gut-rotting concoction you sell in this place?"
"That'd be the 'Mule Skinner' – 100 Proof Flurp cut with cayenne powder and rotten saguaro and served in a rusty tankard."
"Sounds disgusting. I'll take it."
Miss Folfax set to work making the drink, humming to herself as she fished out a jar of cayenne from one of the cupboards. Señor Estevez pulled up a stool beside Tex.
"Where you hail from, señorita?" he asked, using his pickaxe as a back-scratcher. "Back East? I don't suppose you've heard any news about that big gold strike up in Arkansas..."
Libby conked him over the head with her stirring spoon. "If she's from back East, then I'm a beef-head Anglo sodbuster. Look how she's dressed! This girl looks like she was born in a saddle and spoon-fed gunpowder instead of mother's milk."
Tex grinned. Saloons were always the best place to gather intel, and this was exactly the sort of woman she liked running in to: sassy, with wits enough to understand the world, but without the discretion to match. All Tex had to do was ask the right questions, and this loose-tongued strumpet would start handing out gossip like communion wafers at church.
"Lots of empty seats," commented Tex, with a nonchalant glance around the room. "Business sluggish these days?"
Libby set the tankard in front of the outlaw. "You're just a touch early for the regulars," she said. "'Course, in a town as small as this, we don't get much of a crowd even durin' peak hours. That's fine by me, though – this here's a Juke Joint, not some filthy cantina filled with trigger-happy ne'er-do-wells. We come here to drink with friends, not to brawl."
"Smart policy," dead-panned Tex. After a pause, she cocked her head to one side. "Say, what's the head count round here, anyway? I couldn't help but notice when I rode into town...it's not exactly downtown St. Louis."
Miss Folfax looked to the Señor. "What would you say, Sheen? Can't be more 'n what...four dozen souls who live here year round?"
He nodded confirmation.
"That's all?"
"'Fraid so. If you're lookin' for action, you should head a few miles up the road, past Sagebrush Sally's ranch. There's a proper town there called Marble Orchard, with a bunkhouse, a workin' post office, a couple bordellos, an' enough liquor to keep you loaded to the gunwhales for as long as you've got coin."
Tex eyed Libby over the rim of the mug. "Wow, sounds pretty lawless. It must be hard to keep order around here, being such wild territory and all. I feel for you."
"Don't worry," sniggered Señor Estevez, "this town's different. Safer than any one-horse pueblo in Mexico, that's for sure. Retro Valley is home sweet home, long as you don't mind having locos for neighbors."
"Case in point," drawled Libby, gesturing at the prospector. "But Sheen's right. Marble Orchard gets the criminal types. We just seem to get the loonies. Hardly surprisin' though, considerin' our sheriff is…well, he ain't exactly the typical fare."
Tex's grip tightened on her cup, and she crafted her next prompt with care. "I don't know...I've run into more than my fair share of badge-wearing crazies over the years. I doubt yours is anything out of the ordinary."
"You're just sayin' that 'cause you've never met Mr. Neutron," snorted Libby. "He used to be some sort of genius gunsmith back East. Made all kind of gizmos and contraptions for the Union Army durin' the war. I can't imagine why he ditched his cushy life for a dusty, flea-ridden patch of scrub like this, but he did. He owns the whole town, you know, and most of the desert that borders it." She shook her head. "He really is a wonderful man, and a fine hand with a gun, but it's like his mind is somewhere else."
Tex made a mental note of 'fine hand with a gun'.
"More 'n just his mind, mami," grinned the prospector. "When was the last time he spent a full day at the jailhouse? He's too busy chasing lightning in the desert and letting his hob-legged perro run after Farmer Wheezer's llamas!"
They both had a good laugh, and Tex cataloged away the information – she'd need to have a word with that farmer. Tex drained the tankard, then slid it back toward Miss Folfax. The outlaw had spun her exit lie before the dark-skinned woman even had the mug in hand.
"Thanks for the refreshments, Libs. I need to tend to my mount before he keels over from hunger – you mentioned a Mr. Wheezer? If he keeps animals, he must have some horse feed for sale. Where can I find him?"
"Up the road apiece. The Wheezers and their grange hands Oleander and Miss Emily run a good-sized farm near the river. You can't miss it."
Tex tipped her hat at them, exchanged a farewell, and took her leave. Once outside, she untied her tawny-colored horse from the porch and sprang up into the saddle. The beast neighed grumpily.
"Easy there, Humphrey," she said, scratching him behind the ears. "The trail's hot. It won't be long now."
She rode him away at a canter, and Miss Folfax appeared behind her, waving a handkerchief in goodbye. "Don't be a stranger, girl!" she called. "Come back an' listen to me sing sometime!"
Tex felt a twinge of guilt. In a roundabout way, she had just manipulated a friendly young woman into aiding in a homicide. She quickly shook off the notion. It's no skin off that girl's back if the sheriff ends up at the bottom of the river...
Tex's hand drifted to her six-shooter. The Emerald Ire seemed to have a mind of its own, at times like these – it sang in its holster, a verse for every life it had taken. Tex had known that song once, but not anymore. It was a dirge now, and it had grown too long.
Tell me what you thought :3
HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT
-Why yes, Purple Flurp was totally an alcoholic beverage in the Old West XD
-"Juke Joint" is term for an informal establishment featuring music, dancing, gambling, and drinking, primarily operated by African American people in the southeastern United States. Tons of these "freed slave saloons" popped up after emancipation in the rural south, where Jim-Crow laws generally prevented sharecroppers and other black workers from going to "whites only" establishments. By selecting this name for her business (instead of Saloon, Cantina, or Barrelhouse), Libby is not only paying homage to her roots, but also setting up her bar as a haven for people who are rejected elsewhere.
-Some colloquialisms:
*Beef-head Anglo Sodbuster - Dumbass white boy farmer
*Loaded to the gunwhales - drunk off your ass
*Marble Orchard - graveyard (a town with this name would've been very dangerous)
*Bordello - brothel
-If you're confused about any of the Spanish words Sheen uses, just google them. ¡Arriba!