Jungle Shark: Short Stories by Steven Loton Read online

  JUNGLE SHARK

  Short stories

  By Steven Loton

  Copyright © 2014 Steven Loton

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Vince Bank, http://www.vincebank.com/

  Edited by Jason Whited, http://www.jason-whited.com/editing/

  ISBN: 978-1-910100-39-4

  Dedication:

  For S

  A Hot Breeze Blew South

  Cowboy Billy had the sharpest shot out West. He could drink two bottles of whiskey, stroll outside with his cowboy limp and put a hole in a tin can from fifty yards. No, one hundred yards. On very hot days, he would lie on his back and shoot flies from the sky. At night, he tried to shoot down the stars. But they never fell. He wasted many bullets on those damned stars. Cowboy Billy was hot shit with his Remington.

  Cowboy Billy had a ten thousand-dollar reward on his head, dead or alive. It was the largest reward anyone had ever seen. When Billy saw the poster nailed to a tree, he tore it down. Billy was disgusted. He immediately robbed two banks, shot one sheriff and one deputy, and he forced a barber to trim his hair and shave his beard. No charge. The following day, he saw the new poster. It was now a twenty thousand-dollar reward, dead or alive. Billy scratched his large crotch and thought, now that’s more like it.

  Next, a cloud blew over, covering the sun. Some hot rays came ripping through, and the cloud fell apart. Billy rode into town on horseback. Razor was the horse. He tilted his Stetson and kept his head low. An old lady was sat on her porch, rocking on a wooden chair. Billy pulled at the reins. Razor halted and kicked at the sand. When the dust cleared, the old lady was grinning. No teeth. All gums. She was staring at Billy’s gigantic package. Tongue out. She liked what she saw. Billy didn’t. He climbed off Razor and threw his poncho over his left shoulder. Resting his hand on the Remington six shooter, he spat out a blob of tobacco. Then he looked up and squinted. A wooden sign was hanging on the front door. ROOMS AVAILABLE. The old lady pulled her dress high and crossed her legs. A stench wafted over.

  “Hello, honey,” grinned the old dear.

  “Don’t honey me, lady,” said Billy while fanning the air. “You know who I am.”

  “Yeah, you’re Cowboy Billy, the most dangerous cowboy around these parts.”

  “Around which parts?”

  “I mean the most dangerous Cowboy across the whole Wild West,” she corrected.

  “And further. They just haven’t invented an easy way of spreading information yet. Word of mouth and letter writing is very slow.” Billy tipped his Stetson down. “I may have to look into inventing something myself. When I do, you’ll hear that I’m the most dangerous Cowboy across the land. Yeah, baby. Now run along and fix me a room. I need a nap.”

  The old lady attempted to erect her body, but she only managed to get halfway up. Hunched over, she dragged her feeble bones off while muttering total gibberish.

  The whispers had already started up among the townsfolk, and slowly people began to pour out into the dusty streets. They had come to see if it was true. It was true all right. Cowboy Billy was in town. A small kid ran up and came to a halt in Billy’s shadow. The kid had dirty-sandy hair, freckles spread across his cheeks, dried milk around his lips and two missing front teeth. He stank.

  “Mista mista, is it true you’ve shot and killed nearly one hundred men?”

  “Somebody’s been telling lies to you, kid,” said Billy, while raising his leg and resting his boot on a wall. He struck a match against the heel and started jacking up a fat cigar. Even that looked impressive.

  “I’ve killed over five hundred men,” continued Billy.

  The kid liked that.

  “Wow.”

  Billy chewed on the cigar while considering his own greatness. Finally, he tossed a silver coin high up, and the kid jumped and plucked it from the air. The kid put the coin between his teeth to test it. It was solid silver. Cowboy Billy was class.

  “Kid,” said Billy, ducking down, “some advice. Wash yourself. And when you’re done, repeat the process.”

  The kid ran off, waving the coin high in the air.

  Billy’s room was the largest one available. When he entered the bathroom, the tub was already filled with piping-hot water. He stripped off and admired himself in the cracked mirror. That was some gigantic pecker he had. His great muscular body was ripped and grainy, and his face looked like it had been sculpted by the gods. At least, he thought so. Even his knees looked tremendous in this light. He was the total package. The only thing missing was some human kindness. He released a great belch. To hell with human kindness.

  Billy climbed into the bathtub and slid down slowly into the warm water. He submerged his body and kept his eyes wide open. Suddenly, he sprang out of the bathtub, landed like a cat, reached, grabbed the Remington, rolled and cocked it. It was loaded. It always was. He swung the door open and stood there, balls naked. There she was. A buxom dame, dressed in a frilly red blouse and long skirt. She had everything, and she knew it. Her lips were wet and pouting. The eyes were dark and wide. She had a perfect button nose. White teeth, tiny dimple on her cheek, and she radiated health and beauty. She had everything. Then she spoke.

  “Hello, Jerk, I’m Daisy.” She flashed a beautiful grin. “I got sent here by Old Carlson.”

  Well, Billy thought she had everything.

  “That fool still alive?” asked Billy, mobbing his nut sack to one side.

  “Yeah, he’s waiting for you across the street,” she replied, delicately pointing her finger toward the window. “At the Sunset Inn. He wants to blow your balls off.” She glanced down. “And other body parts too. He wants to collect the reward.”

  Billy leaned up against the doorframe.

  “Really,” he said, in a slow drawl, “well tell Carlson when I’m done washing and drying my nut sack, I may come over there. I’ll be thirty minutes, minimum. Unless you wanna hurry the process up and wipe?”

  Billy handed her the towel. She belted Billy across the face and stood there inhaling with rage as her breast almost busted out of the blouse.

  “Or maybe you prefer to wash?” He grinned.

  Before she could make contact again, Billy caught her hand and pulled her in close. He could feel her angry breath against his face, and it was too much for him to handle. He put his mouth on her lips and jabbed his tongue far back into the depths of her throat. He wiggled his tongue around and danced it up and down in her mouth and finished off with his tongue gymnastic routine. Daisy was in a daze. Finally, she pounded her two fists against his chest and broke off.

  “Hey, I’m Carlson’s woman,” she said, with her red lipstick smeared across her cheeks. “We’re set to marry. Don’t ever touch me again.”

  Billy jumped back, repulsed. He spat on the floor, ran his tongue against the towel, spat on the floor, grabbed a pouch of tobacco and jammed a large wad into his mouth and chewed it feverishly. To be certain, he spat on the floor once more.

  “That’s disgusting, little lady. You’re young enough to be Carlson’s daughter. You’re young enough to be his granddaughter. Never put your lips upon mine again,” he said, turning his nose up to the air. “Anyhow, good luck with the wedding.”

  Billy went to close the door…

  “Wait, I have one more very important thing to tell you,” plea
ded Daisy.

  “Yes?”

  “Carlson will be…”

  Billy slammed the door shut and slid back into the bath. It was still warm. Nice. He finished off scrubbing his balls. Then he got between his toes and moved to an underarm. He worked away on the underarm, lathering it up real good. The average cowboy you could smell a mile off. Not Billy. He kept his hygiene in check. Even his diet was perfect. Other cowboys ate Mexican stew and pork fat. The cheap shit. Not Billy. He only ate eggs, steak and beans. His farts were tremendous. He could really let rip. One time, Billy was lying down in his hotel room, blowing off, when he heard a loud banging at the door. It was Cowboy Jessie, two rooms over. He had his shotgun pointed at Billy’s gut. Jessie was unshaven, his eyes were glazed and his hair was wild and pointed in many directions. Billy’s farts had woken him up. They had kept him up for hours. Everybody in the hotel was awake. They all wanted to complain. But the next morning, nobody saw Cowboy Jessie at the breakfast table. Nobody ever saw him again. For the rest of the week, Billy loaded up on eggs, steak and beans. He even ate seconds. He let off some real corkers that week. Nobody complained.

  Thinking of all that food was working up an appetite. He toweled off and began to dress. He felt good. Lucky. But Billy never needed luck. He was the best shot in the whole world. Luck was for mummy’s boys.

  Billy walked out into town and crossed the street. The moon was up and shone down upon Billy, revealing his great stature. Goddamned moon looked beautiful as it hung in the sky. It almost made Billy choke. But not quite.

  Ten horses were tied up outside of the Sunset Inn. Billy took a step onto the wooden porch and pushed through the double doors. The floorboard creaked as his boot hit the wood. He turned his head nonchalantly left and then right. The place was full of losers. They were either dancing or yapping. Then the fat bank manager saw Billy. His mouth fell open, and he became silent. Everybody became silent. The old fella at the piano stopped hitting the keys. Billy rather liked that. Then somebody sneezed and ruined it.

  Billy took a stool at the end of the bar. The skinny guy at the piano was just sitting there looking at Billy. He had lived his whole life in fear. Now, even pressing a key shook him up. Billy nodded, and he cautiously started playing an old tune again. Everybody went back to dancing or yapping.

  The barman was at the other end, cleaning out a glass with a dirty rag, ignoring Billy. Evidently, he thought he was a tough guy. His lower gut hung from the dirty white T-shirt and fell below his belt buckle, revealing a mass of dirty hair. He glanced over to Billy. Gosh, thought Billy, the poor man has no neck. It was just head, then shoulder. Finally, he threw the rag over his shoulder and waddled over.

  “Help yer, cowboy?” he asked with a grin.

  “Whiskey straight,” replied Billy, disgusted with the girth of the man. “Take your time. I don’t want you having a heart attack.”

  “Hey, buddy, you’re nobody in here,” he shouted, puffing out his nonexistent chest muscles. “This is my bar. They say you’re a great shot, but you couldn’t hit a sitting bird in a tree.”

  Without even raising his eyelids, Billy let off two rounds in a westerly direction. Nothing happened. Everybody waited, but Billy seemed to have missed. A dog barked in the distance, and an owl rotated its head fully. A cat pranced in and then pranced back out of the bar. Then an old man with one strand of hair poking from his scalp came running into the bar. He was holding up two dead birds and had a huge smile across his face.

  “LOOKEEE HERE, BOYS, THESE BIRDS JUST FELL FROM THE SKY. GOD MUSTER SENT ‘EM. IMAH EATIN’ LIKE A KING TONIGHT. WHOOO HOOOO.” He did a little jig then ran off.

  The barman quickly grabbed a bottle and started pouring.

  He laid the liquor down in front of Billy, and after a few slow slugs Billy felt a heavy presence hovering over his shoulder. Then the stool next to Billy’s got filled.

  “Hello, Bill,” said the croaky voice of Carlson.

  Billy waved for the bottle, and the barman sprinted to retrieve it.

  “Carlson, I have something to tell you,” said Billy glancing over. “Your head resembles that of a maggot. I could reassemble your facial features for you if you wish. I’m a nice guy like that.” He grinned.

  “Still a smart mouth eh,” spat out Carlson. “Maybe I’ll blow a tiny hole through your butt so you can talk shit through that instead. He he he he he.”

  The bottle arrived, and Billy filled his own glass, then poured Carlson a large one. Billy tilted the glass to his mouth, rested it against his lips and then belted the whiskey back without wincing.

  “Carlson, I thought I knocked your teeth out last time.” Billy pinched his own nose. “It still smells like you’ve been brushing them with horse manure and rinsing with cat pee pee. Please speak in the opposite direction.” He nodded toward the exit. “The winds-er blowing south.”

  Carlson elaborately swept the glasses and bottle from the bar top. There was broken glass all over the floor. The whole bar became silent once more, and Carlson stood, gun out, sucking up air.

  “HOBBLE YOUR LIP, BOY. ENOUGH WITH THIS TALK. I CLEAN MY TEETH OKAY. NOW LETS GET THIS OVER WITH. I WANT THE TWENTY THOUSAND REWARD.”

  Billy stood up, his eyes facing the ground. All Carlson could see was top of his Stetson hat. He briefly looked up and winked at Daisy. She blushed, and her cheeks turned a darker shade of red. Then Billy brushed past Carlson and walked out into the street. The moon above lit up the town. Carlson followed him out, closely flanked by everybody in the bar who piled out onto the street. Candles lit up the windows in houses, and curtains were twitching. There were now two owls perched on a tree branch, and the town doctor was ready with his leather medical bag.

  Billy stretched out his arms and did a little neck twist to loosen up. Then he cracked his knuckles and did a jog on the spot and finished off with a few star jumps. He liked to warm up like an athlete.

  Carlson walked into the moonlight, and it brightened his face. Beneath his hat, he had this long, slim head, slits for eyes and thin cracked lips. Some loose skin dangling beneath his chin and his teeth were black and decaying. He was infected with gum disease, had a bad case of hemorrhoids, had this cleft palate and he had a rotten heart and a goddamned curly moustache. To top it all off, his face was a big old mass of dog meat.

  Both cowboys stood facing each other, ten paces apart. Carlson was erect, stiff bodied, snarling, ready to kill. Billy was looking at the ground disinterested, kicking stones. He blew onto his nails. Then he yawned. Some tumbleweeds rolled in, then rolled out of town. A tied-up horse took a hot shit. An old blind man stumbled into the road, tapping his stick onto the ground, sensed danger and disappeared into the saloon. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. Then it happened. Carlson reached, and he fired. A shot rang out. Both men stood still. Then Carlson rocked in the wind and fell onto his back. Billy spun his pistol into the holster. Then he made an imaginary gun with two fingers and pointed at Daisy. He fired. She blushed. He winked. Such style.

  Billy walked to Razor and leapt onto his back. He looked around one last time. The moon. The stars. They were all there. But the rest of it. Just a piece of shit town. Billy spat a blot of tobacco onto the ground. Razor kicked up onto two legs and then bolted off into the darkness.

  The following week, Billy was riding through Indian Territory. There didn’t seem to be many Indians around, thought Billy. There was no wind, but there were large grey rain clouds up above. Maybe all the Indians were off somewhere dancing. Billy came across a large tree, and an arrow had pierced a sign into the wood. Billy climbed off Razor and tore the sign down.

  50,000 DOLLAR REWARD FOR COWBOY BILLY.

  DEAD OR ALIVE.

  An artist had drawn a nice little picture of Billy’s face. He liked that. Billy yanked out the arrow and used the sharp end to scratch his ass. Then he nailed the wanted sign back up.

  Cowboy Billy climbed up onto Razor and rode on, enjoying the scenery. He came across a 150-year-old cactus p
oking from the sand. It was big and mean with prickly arms that poked out in various directions. Billy tugged the reins and bought Razor to a halt. Prickly son of a bitch would be the only thing to outlive Billy. Billy drew the Remington. He thought about it. Then he spun the shooter away. The cactus deserved to live.

  Billy rode out of town and into what looked like a big pile of sandy nothing.

  The Ex-Pro

  Jack jammed a cigar into his mouth, struck a red-top match and put it to the end. He puffed it six times until it flamed up then settled. He sat on the bench, puffing and waiting. His teammates slid farther along the bench to avoid the cigar fumes. Fuck them, thought Jack. His team was 2-0 down. Sunday league. Jack was in his ill-fitting football shirt, tight shorts, dirty socks, no boots. He watched his teammates passing the ball around like amateurs. They reminded him of little children in the park that ran in useless circles and seemed to gain great pleasure from it. Then the opposition banged in another goal. Three-nil down. Christ. Jack puffed on his cigar.

  Jack was an ex-pro. Forty now. Finished. But in his day he was pure class. Premier League. Won cups. Everything. He even had a little silver player of the league 2007 trophy. Then the booze took over him. Parties. Drugs. Women. He blew a small fortune. Now he was broke. He made guest appearances at parties and small events for some scratch.

  Jack heard a voice from the turnstile, calling him. He turned and saw a small boy with his father. A fan. The boy had on a little bobble hat, sweet face, and was around eleven years old. Jack waved as the boy shouted.

  “Hey, Jack, you couldn’t score in a brothel, you fat bastard.”

  Then the manager screamed in Jack’s face.

  “Jack, warm up. You’re going on.”

  Jack laced his boots, slowly stood up and did a side stretch. Almost tore a muscle. He took one final pull of the cigar and tossed it onto the grass.

  The board went up, and Jack was subbed on. He jogged a few yards onto the pitch and scratched his gut. The ball came to his feet. He dummied once, moved left and drilled a low shot that caught some wind and flew into the top corner. Game over. Three-one, final score. The players jogged off at ninety minutes. One of the opposition team ran up to Jack, “Hey, man, you still got it. Just shape up, and you could go pro again.”