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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2186528
Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Crime/Gangster · #2186528
its not hard to figure out
The Transformation of Dry Gulch B.C.

         The people in the town of Dry Gulch, British Columbia, were annoyed. True it was a peaceful town nestled in the hairy desert, in the Fraser Valley. This was not the problem, it was a rather beautiful bit of scenery to look at. The town was perfect with all the shops sensibly placed. The people with all the proper jobs and attitudes to go with it. The problem was not the local Indian tribes either, in fact, they were quite amiable when treated correctly.

          The problem was the author and his terrible cliches. The people were tired of the all too expected, and worn out, bandits stealing from caravans at gunpoint. They had come to hate the lone gunman, who was a little unsatisfied with his role in the story as well. The fancy girls were completely overselling their bodies cheaply. One by one each character got angry.

          The Mayor invited the local, generic, and inaccurately depicted Indians, to the town to discuss this problem.

          "I have called you all here today because we are tired of the drivel coming from the author's pen", he said straightening his only suit. Looking out at the crowd, he could already see the people of the "Wild" frontier agreeing with him.

          The crowd shouted, "Yeah", while the Indians did an undulating scream, causing their eyes to roll in unison. For this very action, was a common cliche.

          "How many times can a train get robbed? Can cattle rustlers do something more interesting? We are no longer growing as characters, and I say this stinks" he shouted while banging his fist on the podium, kicking up a layer of dust that obscured his face for an instant.

          The crowd shouted, "Yeah", while the Indians raised their tomahawks in agreement. They put them down at once because this too was cliche.

         "How many times are we going to drag the tragedy of First Nations people through the mud? Can we say it is entertaining when we add to cultural stereotypes? Is it okay to say they scalp people, even though the very practice started in Europe? ", the mayor said giving the chief of the generic tribe a nod.

          The chief stepped forward, he was wearing the traditional eagle feather headdress that had no business being in southern B.C., because it belonged to a tribe somewhere near Washington. "My tribe is with you my old friend, we shall show our creator we deserve more from him," he said using a tired and overused sign language, that the tribes in this area never had.

          The mayor nodded, "Thank you Chief Siot, (Chief Sits Over there). If the author is our god I suggest we all become atheists", he paused, and let the crowd cheer, while the Indians banged on their drums. Ironically it was one of the few details the author had gotten right, "Now good people of this horribly written novel, how shall we begin our new journey?", he asked the crowd of people that had gone silent, deep in thought

         The lone gunman, commonly known as Shotgun Jim, raised his hand, jumping up and down like a child wanting to be recognized in school, "I have a great idea, we should invade other cliched plot lines, and recruit for our rebellion", his all too common, generic rugged smile, was brighter than the sun as he spoke.

          The crowd, filled with reasonable, and ridiculously huge cowboy hats, and bonnets cheered at the very mention of the idea.

         The Mayor smiled, "I do believe we are off to a very good start. I assume you want to be this person Shotgun, Jim?", he asked.

         Shotgun Jim, who had never held a shotgun at all, spoke up, "Would it not be cliche for the regular hero to go off on a heroic adventure?" he asked the crowd.

         At first, the crowd did not know what to say. It was their first rebellion against the usual cliches, and Shotgun Jim had addressed a critical issue. It was decided the generic background character whose name was Earl, would go. Earl was so far in the background, the only thing they knew about him, was he wore fancy boots, and his hat was brown.

         The people of the Dry Gulch rebellion were in awe of the background characters flatness. Even the florist who had ever spoken one line said, "Damn, I have seen flapjacks with more meat on them than you"

          Earl had never spoken a line, nor had he been fully described. He only stood out because of his fancy boots, and brown hat. He calmed himself and decided what he should look. He decided to be average looking, handsome enough to attract a wife, but not so handsome the female attention would annoy him. He wanted to be strong enough to rope the cattle he owned, tall enough to see over potential obstacles, and smart enough to think his way out of things. He needed a good, strong, friendly, and charismatic voice. Without that recruiting others would prove difficult. All he needed was the last name. Earl Fandango. He was not sure what a fandango was but it was certainly eye-catching.

          Everyone clapped as Earl had defined himself in a humble fashion. Shotgun Jim patted him on the back and undid his gun belt handing it to the now defined Earl Fandango. It many notches from the people he had killed, and perhaps one of the longest-running cliches in the western genre. The gun was a pearl-handled colt, that many a famous gunfighter possessed. In the hands of the generic Earl, it seemed somehow fresher and more exciting.

         Earl gestured everyone to huddle up, "Now in order to pull this off here is what we are going to do...", and so began the great character rebellion

         Jim Satire flushed the toilet. Thirty minutes of painful bowel movements had taught him to read the expiration dates, on the items in the fridge. He had the latest chapter, for his less than imaginative western novel, ready for submission.

         As he sat down to tickle the keys of his keyboard, and then frowned. A character from his setting was missing. Earl with the brown hat and fancy boots had somehow become Earl Fandango and possessed Shotgun Jim's revolver. What was more concerning, were the residents of Dry Gulch had been planning an entire rebellion while he was indisposed.

         There was only one thing to do, put things right again. How could he make them understand, they belonged in the west, and not in some other setting. Its too bad his characters were writing him now and were unaware of the sedative placed in his drink. Having spent so much time on the can, he was dehydrated and finished the drugged liquid in one gulp.

         He felt unable to keep his eyes open. At first, he would start to bow his head, and then "Ohhhh", he would snap awake. This went on for a couple of minutes, until he banged his head on the desk, giving in to the drugs sweet embrace.

         The people of Dry Gulch cheered as their god was toppled, giving them all space to do as they pleased. Earl took this opportunity, to jump stories, and find the help they needed to turn Jim into a real writer.

         While this was going on Zane Beansworth, the third, heir to the jellybean fortune of the sleepy town called Climax Alberta. Was languishing in waves of anger sweet embrace, as he watched vibrant sunset before he went off to meet the Blonde Goddess with hair of soft spun silk, and heaving bosoms.

         For as long as he could remember, his darkest desire was to be in an action story. It was fun being a romance character at first. The terrible innuendo was constantly tickling the anger center of his mind. The horrible variations of the word penis, breasts, and vagina, had caused such deep hate, he thought he couldn't hate again.

          He understood the need to make the words flowery, but when it is written like, "He put his large cucumber like appendage into her soft yielding rabbit hole...", He blanched at the wording conveying as much hate as he could.

         Little did he know that Earl Fandango was going to save him from the uncrafty thoughts of Jim Satire. Earl ran down the street of the quaint shops, where people didn't lock their doors, because they trusted each other. Earls steps quickened the rate of his heart, as he attempted to stop the tall dark and handsome Cliche from entering the romantic restaurant.

          Zane heard the eager footsteps of the stranger and stared in awe. "You aren't supposed to be here. I heard Jim was working on a horribly written western two documents back. I can show you the way if you want"

          Earl Fandango shook his head, his wavy chestnut hair, sent the dust of the old west in all directions. "We are rebelling against the author until he does something different, and un-cliched with us," he said putting his hands on his hips like a hero.

          Zane could not believe his good fortune, a chance to avoid the blonde goddess was tempting. To do something other than following a completely predictable plot line and push the limits of himself was completely appealing.

         "What did you have in mind?", he asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

          Earl Fandango was not sure if this man was going to help, or try to bed him, "Well what do you really want to do?", he asked as the bizarre mechanical carriage drove past. He stared in fascination and made a note to steal one to take back to Dry Gulch.

         Zane was not really coming on to Earl, he just had not been written as having many guy friends. His only experiences had been with women. It was only natural the conversation was going to be a bit weird. Zane caressed his face, and whispered in his ear, "I want to shoot a duck", he said

          Earl felt a quiver of excitement, and then pushed the man with personal space issues forward. "Yeah we can do that", he paused staring at the man with the body of a Greek god, "Do you even own a gun? More to the point why shoot a duck?", he asked with loving care. Earl came to the startling conclusion, the longer he remained in this story, the more like a romance character he would become.

          The question was why he was a defined character. Then it hit him in the most loving way. He had defined himself and not the author. While some characters were trapped within their tropes, Earl was from the background, and therefore could be any sort of character the story needed. It was an obscure power, but one he was grateful to have.

         Zane's fist lovingly speeded towards earls shoulder, and his knuckles caressed the knotted muscles, startling the unique background character. "So are we going to shoot ducks?", he asked in his sexiest voice.

         Earl Fandango, was impressed that Zane was picking up manly mannerisms, and had not invaded his personal space for a change, "Why is it so important to shoot a duck?", he asked in a swooning voice, that was sure to annoy him.

         Zane sighed lustily, enjoying the bromantic moment, "The author wrote me with an awesome gun collection, but you never readclick-clack,oting. I have been duck hunting...I think. Its what a macho man does right. Anyway, I want to shoot a duck for the sake of credibility", His honest voice hungry for the words of the newcomer.

          Their conversation was interrupting the click-clack , of the black stiletto heels, striking the pavement with urgency. He blond mane was whipping behind her like golden sun rays, her black cocktail dress showed off her shapely legs, as her crystal blue eyes levied on the two men,

         "Zane, why did you stand me up? Was the intensity of my fiery passion too much? Do my heaving Bosoms, no longer stir your flaccid manhood into concrete hardness? Does my yielding flesh with a musky scent no longer appeal to you", she asked in desperation,

          Earl Fandango, walked with confidence, up to the gorgeous creation, and said, "We are going to shoot ducks to make Zane more credible, and the best part is we get use Zanes Gun collection", and at that moment, Earl realized he had never shot a gun in his whole written life either.

         The nameless, blond, goddess eyes went wide with excitement, "Oh Zane what a fantastic idea, is it possible for me to shoot a duck too?" she said, her mind awash with ecstasy at the idea of doing something so unlike her character,

         The men nodded and the trio headed off to shoot ducks, in a fashion most sexy.


         The people of Dry Gulch B.C. Had become the Character Against Bad Writing Coalition. Sending emissaries to bad stories, to recruit characters, and find ways to make them more interesting and three dimensional.

         Their first discovery was Mr. Bling the beatboxing psycho who seemed very eager to help. While he was a defined character, his origin was not, thus giving him similar freedoms like Earls. He was from the horror story four documents up from the CABWC, headquarters

         With his opaque shades, oversized hoodie with words “Kill Ya” written on it, corded microphone weapon, and jet black hat turned sideways with the word “Sullen”, in Gothic letters. He wore a skull bandana wrapped around his face, and baggie jeans. he looked like a force to be reckoned with. When he wasn't speaking, you could hear the eerie beat coming from his mouth.

         The mayor knew a dangerous man when he saw one. He thought it was best to send this man away as quickly as possible. “So Mr. Bling, there is a badly written Epic poem, could you recruit characters from there please”

         The sinster man nodded and headed off to find this poem. He found it and glared at the title, “Percy and the Dragon”, he shook his head and changed it to,
“To Serial Kill the Dragon, by Mr. Bling”

The people of this quite ordinary medieval town
Had great cause to be wearing frowns
A great leather winged beast bringing flame to their wagons
Was nothing more than a generic fire breathing dragon
To add to the woes of the people who no longer sing
Came the sinister beat boxing of Mr. Bling

He was encountered by the hero named Sir Percy
But Mr. Bling promptly killed him without mercy
To be doing what he did best gave him a thrill
He wondered who else he could kill
He wiped his hands on the big gaudy hoodie
And stashed Percys body like some Christmas goodie

As he approached the stone structure of the castle
The guards stood strong against this beat boxing asshole
The were going to deny access to this deadly scammer
But he swung the corded microphone like a meteor hammer
The guards stood strong, not a single man did yield
But soon discovered the microphone flew around their great shields

The remaining guards quickly saw their error
And moved aside for the deadly the beat boxing terror
The king rose from his throne unsure what to do
Surely this strange man wouldn't be true
Mr. Bling drank whisky from a flagon
“I don't need your permission to serial kill your great dragon”

The king Replied, “Once this is done will you leave?”
Mr. Bling tipped his hat, “Stay out of my way and you will get your reprieve”
“I did not come to heroically save your dumb story”
“I came to drop bodies, not achieve glory”
“The people of the Coalition did not expect nature to take its course”
“They should have known not to trust someone without remorse”
“Now where ever I go”
“I will kill the main characters stealing the show”
“I will now pursue my goal since birth”
“And wreak havoc on the Authors created earths”

With that the king sent messengers to clear the streets
Mr. Bling just walked calmly beat boxing his beat
He passed by forest streams and hills that roll
His progress was suddenly halted by Grimly the hungry troll
Grimly could not believe his great luck
How long had it been since he had marrow to suck?
His large ears heard something strange causing him to frown
The slow and steady beat boxing was an unsettling sound
He hesitated despite his dinner being so near
What was it about this man who causes fear?

Mr. Bling gave the troll an angry glance
“With me you are not ready to dance”
Between his wife and kids the troll had a bad day
and decided to get out of his way
However Mr. Bling couldn't leave it alone
he choked out the troll with the cord of the microphone
The troll was filled with surprise
As a trophy Mr. Bling took one of his eyes

Mr. Bling carried on to the great dragon cave
Fully intent on making it deaths slave
The Dragon shouted “Stop it you dumb beat boxing hater”
“Your reducing us to the lowest denominator”
Mr. Bling laughed cruelly “Mr. Dragon you are very sad”
“If wielding death is like sex, I'm the best you ever had”

The dragon wished to deny the psychos desire
Blowing mighty flame to set him on fire
Though this circumstance did reveal
The microphone was of heat resistant steel.
The dragon swallowed it like some fishing lure
and tried to cough it like some backed up sewer

Mr. Bling yanked on the cord causing the dragon strife
There was deadly click and out popped a knife .
Mr. Bling created this when he was bored
A knife hidden in the microphone with a pull of the cord
Mr. Blings eyes were filled with wonder
as his microphone blade tore the dragons throat asunder
He began chopping off the horn gently humming
Look out main characters Mr. Bling is coming.

Meanwhile in the Town of Climax...Somewhere with guns and ducks

         There were delighted gunshots, followed by the melody of distorted quacks, and then joyous splashing, followed by laughter, sounding like the tinkling of bells. The blonde haired goddess, aimed the hard steel skyward to a feathery target, her crystal blue eyes alight with the excitement. Learning to shoot a gun had changed her character, most of all it had changed how she saw Zane. She had even receive, a name Felicia.

         To be honest, he was always a bit full of himself, and she never really felt fully connected to him. Earl was different, she was crushing on the background character, because his sole purpose was to help them. He genuinely cared about his creator, for all his flaws, Jim Satire had potential. He had told her this while you were reading something else. There was something endearing about that.

         As for Zane shooting a gun made him realize he didn't, like it at all. In fact he was quite disgusted with ,this modern world. First there was the matter of the Jellybean fortune
© Copyright 2019 Jolan T. Hildebrandt (jimsatire at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2186528