Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Wild West Feaster: Wyatt McDoogalson

Wyatt McDoogalson narrowed his eyes as he surveyed the desert. Dark smoke billowed from within the boiling caldera of the ominous Mount Drone as it loomed in the distance. The words of Chief Happy Vines echoed in his ears: "Many moons...many moons since they come take feastrels and nymph." It was tragic that it had come to this.

With the advent of glittering apparel, the wild, Wild West had become perilous for feastly pioneers. Dragon Drones swarmed across the range, getting jacked on whey protein and snake oil and harshing the Mellows of feasters throughout the western territories. Curse those sparkling dragon shirts, he thought, if those drones hadn't exhausted the rhinestone supply back in the Old States, this would have never happened.

It all started with a young man named Leslie LeBeaux. A reformed drone turned feastrel, Leslie traveled with Wyatt to the furthest reaches of the western continent in search of adventure. They met in a saloon one evening when Wyatt, in a burst of Jolly Panjandromia, made a mash of a harem of coquettish doxies with his charisma-soaked pelvic thrusts. Nubbin Leslie had never seen such outrageous female attention lavished upon a single man. Burgeoning with frantic curiosity, he abandoned his drone companions and joined Wyatt. Pelvic thrusting in tandem and complimented by the apropos melodies of William Smith, they hypnotized onlookers with their divine jubilation. Leslie’s drone companions, mau-maued by Wyatt's torch of feast, fled from the bar in terror. From that moment forward, Leslie clung to Wyatt like a happy puppy. Alas, Janus would soon turn his face.

It happened on Mount Drone. A stalwart aficionado of volcano luging, Wyatt was delighted to discover the perilous peak. A juniper greenhorn, Leslie was elated to accompany him, for Wyatt had promised to teach him the feastly art. In order to show Leslie the proper method, Wyatt offered to luge first. An awe-stricken Leslie watched as Wyatt careened down the side of the ticking time-bomb. Suddenly, Wyatt disappeared into the mountainside. Horrified that his feast mentor had fallen into a lava pit, Leslie charged down the mountain. When he reached the point of Wyatt's disappearance, he noticed a fissure in the surface. He cautiously peered into the crack, expecting to see a mangled Wyatt or river of lava. Instead, he was greeted by a glittering crevice. His eyes began to glaze. Wyatt, who had fallen to the bottom of the pit, looked up and shouted at him.

"Sunuvabitch Leslie. I'm boogered up; I think my got-damn leg is broken. Toss me a damn rope"

No response.

"Leslie?" he shouted again.

No response.

"Leslie, you flannel mouthed mudsill, is that a bluff or do you mean it for real play?"

After a short pause, he heard the hollow tone of a drone's voice.

"I'm sorry Wyatt. I cannot help you." he sounded ghostly; possessed by a former demon that Wyatt had thought to be vanquished. "The rhinestones...."he continued covetously, "they...they're so beautiful. I must tell the others."

With that, Leslie shinned out and left Wyatt to rot in what would later become the notorious Drone glitter mines.Though he was surprisingly gotten in the neck by that four-pusher, old Wyatt was no stranger to a bad box. He had been in his fair share of pickles. With nothing but the raw grit and determination of a Panjandrum, Livid he climbed the side of the rhinestone crevice, using the jutting bones of his broken leg as braces against the craggy walls.

"Ain't nuthin' to worry 'bout," he growled through his teeth in an effort to encourage himself, "that sunovabitch gon' get what's comin' to 'im"

Dragged out but roostered up on rage, he vowed to antagofeast Leslie to the point of tears. Leslie had woken up the wrong passenger. Wyatt's anger afforded him just enough strength to reach the base of the mountain. Knackered, but still above snakes, he collapsed into unconsciousness.

Wyatt awoke beside a glowing fire. Half-naked figures danced about exuberantly and a joyous drumming filled the air. A large man in a feathery headdress approached him from across the fire. As the feather clad figure neared, Wyatt saw that he was painted, wearing only an ornate leather loin cloth. The dancers halted in reverence at his passing. He must be a Jolly Panjandrum, Livid, thought Wyatt, I am in good hands.

"I am Chief and Shaman. Me name Chief Happy Vines. We know you follow Feast. We feasters. Fix your leg by an-cient way."

Wyatt looked at his leg and saw that it had been mended by the shaman's feast magic. The chief demanded that Wyatt display his gratitude by joining them for their feast. Sumptuous buffalo steaks, crispy overland trout, succulent mysteries, and sundry chickabiddy dishes were laid before them. And of course, the who-hit-John flowed voluminously. They drank heartily from buckskin flasks and smoked the chief's finest herbs. The following day, Wyatt was made an honorary member of their tribe and, invigorated by their warm wishes, he struck out towards the Old States to hunt the perfidious Leslie.

Upon his return to the East, Wyatt learned that Leslie had become the leader of a Drone Glitter Cartel and was mining Mount Drone for precious rhinestones and glitter powder to be used for the production of dragon shirts. The quality of rhinestones on Mount Drone was superior to any that had ever been found. Word of the precious sparkling glitter in the west spread rampantly and ultimately precipitated the Rhinestone Rush of 1873. Leslie took advantage of the douche bag influx, recruiting them to as his thugs. In order to find laborers, he used his thugs to enslave a small village of adventuresome feastrels who had followed another ace-high Wild West feaster -- Claudius O'Donavan -- out to the mountains. Shouting “Bro!” and wielding certificates for free bottle service, the drone army descended upon the settlement and murdered O’Donavan. The frightened feastrels scattered like a covey of quail and, without a feaster to protect them, were soon swept up by the overbearing and obnoxious Drones. Wyatt knew what he had to do.

His bristles raised anew by the memory of his betrayal, Wyatt spat in the desert sand, mounted his nitroglycerine-packed covered wagon, and fired his shootin' iron in the air. As he charged forward, the armies of Chief Happy Vines thundered across the arid flats. The plangent rumble of their charge shook the earth. The drones frantically ran about the mountain, preparing for the onslaught. The feastrels cooed and quivered from within their prison cells. It was a boss shindy, and blood was in the air. The dark cloud of livid feasters swarmed up the mountain side, surging towards the waiting ranks of glittering drones. Wyatt, lusting for the destruction of the evil mines, charged through the glittering assailants. Firing his lever action 30-30 lead pusher with one hand and swiping maniacally with his saber clutched in the other, Wyatt kicked up a row as drones fell before his chaotic chariot of death.

The entrance to the mine lay on the other side of the boiling Caldera. If Wyatt was to have any chance of destroying the factory of malice, he needed to cross the rope bridge the drones had built over it. The lava river was hot as a whorehouse on nickel night, but without batting an eye, he flew over the lip of the crater and burned the breeze onto the bridge. Wooden slats cracked under the slamming hooves of his dark steeds and the bridge swung furiously. Wyatt, mad as a March hare, cackled raucously, his eyes consumed with blood lust.

Like a boulder tumblin' wildly, he barreled down the switchbacks. When he caught site of the mine, he unleashed the horses and leaped from the cart. It hurtled into the entrance and crashed into a wall. In an explosion of glittering sparkles the mine collapsed. Amidst a shower of shiny snow, Wyatt galloped to the feastrel prison and threw open the bolt to the main gate. A company of braves toting volcano luges stoically awaited the flood of frightened feastres. As the feastrels poured out of the prison, each brave took a feastrel on his luge.

As lava seeped like blood from the mountainside gash left by the fulminating nitroglycerin, thousands of feastrel-brave pairs luged towards freedom. Wyatt lifted the horn to his lips and sounded it in victory.

Chief Happy Vines's tribe took many scalps that day. Wyatt still wears Leslie's on his belt.

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