"Think about it, Bill. Forget your digestive condition and think of the stars! Think of the symbolic representation of the actual energies in Flux, Trooper! The rampant a.s.sault on the female countryside by the male principle! This is where it's all happening, Bill! If I can short-circuit Frank and Jesse and Billy, the Chinger war will be over, and you humans will be warm, friendly and docile which, P.S., will be a very rare change!"

"Aren't you forgetting about Delazny? He's still sniffing about somewhere!"

"I got my trusty six-shooter, kemo sabe!" shouted the Chinger, waving his little gun excitedly. "I'll waste that bowbhead in the bargain! He tricked me and the whole Chinger Army! I'm gonna fill the varmint full of lead!"

Bill wasn't so sure about any of this. If he didn't die at once all he wanted was to get off the stagecoach.

And stay as far away as he could from more violence. He had had enough.

"That's fine for you, Chinger. But if the Troopers can't find me I think maybe Irma and I will just settle down somewhere and raise porkuswine or something nice like that."

"Strange fella, talking to yourself like that," said Alf Bob. "But let me warn you. People who take on the j.i.s.m gang jest about always end up planted in Shoe Hill!"

"You mean, 'Boot Hill,' don't you old timer?" said Bill, remembering his ACTION WESTERN SHOOTOUT COMIX.

"h.e.l.l, no. That's in Dodge City. What do you think I am, stupid?"

Bill apologized and strongly suggested to Bgr to keep his mouth shut as well for the duration of the journey. Maybe he could get some shut-eye and forget what was happening to his guts. But just as he was dropping off, a plaintive voice interrupted his repose.

"Bill!"

Bill opened his eyes and leaned over the side of the coach. Irma was leaning out of the window, turning a petulant frown his way.

"Yes, ma little desert flower, sweetest blossom of the prairie," Bill found himself saying. Pretty disgusting stuff. Must be Western-speak.

"I don't like it down here. It's stuffy. Can I ride up there with you?"

"Golly - I don't know, honey-bunch!"

"Your lady friend wants to ride up here? Why sure! But she'll have to sit in my lap!"

The scraggly old man wheezed with laughter.

Bill relayed the message to Irma, who decided, after all, to stay in the coach.

The sun was a fiery red ball on the purple horizon when the buildings of Mulch Gulch rode into view, snaggly poking into the air like rotting teeth in a twisted jaw. The dust in the air made sundown a b.l.o.o.d.y thing that washed the outskirts of "the Gulch" (as Alf Bob called it) with bleak and ruddy light and sepia shadows. It was a town that could have been ripped straight from Bill's Three-Dee Comix - cardboard and cheap paint and all. It smelled of horses and dust, and horseapples and open drains, and much less pleasant things, and the people that walked its dusty, muddy streets and snarled at the stagecoach as it pulled in looked haggard and mean.

Bill felt like he was back home on Phigerinadon II.

"Whooooooaaaaa!" said Alf Bob Barker, pulling on the reins just as the horses reached the Uterine Hotel.

"Well, podner. This is it. We'll be a-holding up here for the night. You have ma thanks for a job well done. Them rabbits you scared away were mean varmints!" He winked cagily then turned and threw all the luggage down into the mud before jumping down to help the pa.s.sengers out of the coach.

Bill jumped off as well, opened the coach door and held his arms wide and Irma dropped into them.

Within moments, her own arms were tightly wrapped around Bill's back, and their lips were locked in frantic osculation.

"Oh Bill!" said Irma, panting pa.s.sionately.

"Oh Irma," said Bill, opening his belt frantically.

"Not here, you foolish, pa.s.sionate devil!" she laughed and pushed him away.

"Where?" Bill husked pa.s.sionately.

"I know," said Irma coquettishly. "I'll just go and register at the hotel, my darling. Then I'll go and powder my nose. The hotel desk clerk will give you my room number. We'll order room service so we don't have to ever go out, ever again. We'll spend eternity there. Now, doesn't that sound like real fun?"

It sounded like the stuff that dreams are made of to Bill. But there were other temptations. A glimpse of something very interesting caught the corner of his eye. Across the way, right next to the promised Ovum Bank, was a quite interesting structure, bearing a sign that read, NEW GOON SALOON.

"Good as done, dearest one! Go - and I will see you soonest!" he gurgled, finding it difficult to speak with all the saliva gushing into his mouth.

Irma gave him a sweet peck on his cheek and then bustled into the hotel with the rest of the pa.s.sengers of the stagecoach to check in.

"Come on Bgr," gargled Bill. "Let us mosey on over to that thar saloon and I'll buy you a shot of Old Overcoat!"

"Good thinking old hoss. I can't imagine a better place to reconnoiter the situation!"

They moseyed moistly through the mud and pushed through the swinging doors of the New Goon Saloon.

It was like unto a paradise to Bill! Without a doubt, it was his kind of place. The problem with Trooper canteens, as well as most of the bars in the known universe, was that they were far too high-tech. You didn't really know where the plastic ended and the good honest booze began. No, Bill liked his bars not only soaked in atmosphere, but just plain soaked, and the New Goon Saloon certainly fit the bill. And the Bill.

The place was dark and roomy, awash with the smell of ancient beer, spilled whiskey and dead cigars, the sound of clinking gla.s.s, drunken conversation and melting livers. The bar - a dark mahogany affair - stretched the length of the large room, brightly shining with bra.s.s fixtures. Behind it was a huge mural of a reclining woman with bits of gauze drapery falling from her plump body. She smiled down warmly on the alcoholic scene below. The bartender - a bald-headed large-moustachioed individual with an impressive gut - was lazily polishing a gla.s.s. He looked up as they entered. He did not seem at all surprised to see a four-armed lizard wearing a western outfit hop up onto his bar.

"Name your poison, gents?" he said.

"Hydrofluoric acid on the rocks," Bill said.

"Ho-ho, sonny, yore quite a card. Quintuple bourbon in a beer mug coming up. What about your little green chum here?"

"Just a sarsaparilla for me, please," said the Chinger. "And I'll need a straw with that."

Eyes growing accustomed to the cool dimness, Bill looked around at the crowd. Men in western garb sat around tables here and there. In the corner, there was a small poker game going on.

"What a great place!" said Bill happily.

"Here you go, gents!" said the bartender, sliding their drinks down the smooth surface of the bar. "That'll be six bits."

"Gee - my friend's paying," said Bgr. He washed his hands in the sarsparilla then ate his straw.

"Uh - how much is six bits, mister?"

"No jokes, sonny. Seventy-five cents."

"Yeah, sure." Bill turned out his pockets. All he had was lint. He took a healthy gulp of his whiskey, just in case. "Do you take Trooper Cred Fingernails here?" He held up his pinky, upon which was implanted his meager Trooper credit account.

The bartender scowled. "No funny games, cowboy. This is a cash and carry bar. Pay up. And no greenbacks. If it don't clank I don't want it."

Bill hadn't the slightest idea what the barman was talking about. He had none of those things. But maybe he could barter. Trade his gun for booze. He pulled it The bartender, eyes starting with fear, shoved his hands high in the air and wiggled his fingers like crazy.

"Bubbling Beezelbub buster! Don't shoot! Them drinks is on the house."

What a kind man this bartender indeed was. Bill dropped the pistol on the bar and grabbed for the gla.s.s.

As the revolver struck the hard wood the cylinder popped free and bullets spilled across the bartop. The bartender poked hesitantly at the bullets and his jaw dropped. Bill glugged and the Chinger munched his straw.

"Well, hogtie my little doggies," the barman said. "This here's a silver bullet! I'll be happy to take it in trade. For a silver bullet you gentlemen can drink till you drop. But that's beside the point. If you've got silver bullets that must mean -"

The bartender looked at Bill with awe and wonder.

"Why, that must mean that you're the Stoned Ranger!"

CHAPTER 18.

THE BALLAD OF BILLY THE KIDNEY.

"The what?" said Bill.

"The Stoned Ranger, man! I thought you looked familiar!" The bartender was beaming and fawning at the same time. Very difficult to do.

All heads in the bar turned their way - even the ones on the beer mugs.

"You must have heard that Billy the Kidney was coming into town with the j.i.s.m Gang!" The bartender handed the silver bullet back to Bill. "Here. I'm on your side. You better take this back. You're going to need all your bullets, big guy!"

"Stoned Ranger?" whispered Bill to Bgr. "What is he talking about?"

"Don't rock the boat, as we say in the Chinger navy," said Bgr. "We're getting free drinks and straws aren't we?" He jumped up onto the bar and grabbed a handful of straws and started munching them.

A man dressed in buckskins, sporting a long, dangling beard and mustaches stood up from a table and walked over to the bar, extending a welcoming hand. "Well, howdy there, partner. Been wanting to meet you for jest a bundle of years. Name's Hiccup! Wild Will Hiccup!"

"Pleased to meet you, Wild!" said Bill, feeling agreeable with all the whiskey now tucked beneath his belt and working its way irrevocably towards his already hobnailed liver, and looking forward to an endless day of free drinking ahead of him. "But I don't really know what you're talking about. My name is Bill.

With two l's."

"Don't listen to him!" shouted Bgr, jumping up and down on the bar, waving his arms for attention. "He's the Stoned Ranger all right, sure enough. Just that he's a bit shy in front of strangers, admitting that he has gunned down more men than could fill an entire train. And caboose. I know all this for I am his faithful Chinger companion, Procto. Or something like that. We're here looking for deadly destiny with the j.i.s.m Gang and Billy the Kidney. And by the way, you all ain't seen a critter name of Delazny hereabouts, have you?"

Wild Will raised bushy eyebrows high. "Billy the Kidney, you say. Weeee doggies! You're gunnin' for a slippery character all right. Don't know nothin' about no Deloozknee, Stoned Ranger and Procto, but I can tell you a heap of tall tales 'bout Billy the Kidney! 'Fact, Ah happen to be not merely a biographer of the Kidney, but a bibliographer of all the ballads, legends and penny dreadfuls that have been written about the durned fella."

"Well, I guess it wouldn't hurt none to hear about the man we're after, right Bill?" said Bgr.

Bill shrugged, picked up his drink and drained it. "Just keep the alcohol flowin', companeros, and I'm all ears!" He smiled blearily as the gla.s.s was slammed down in front of him. Something tickled at his memory. Something? Someone? A new wave of alcohol washed away the thought and he groped for the drink. Raising it to his new friend Wild Will Hiccup, they heartily toasted one another's health.

"Doc!" cried Wild Will, cupping his hand. "Doc Sh.o.r.eleave! Bring my sack from the table over here." He turned back to Bill. "Got myself a couple of new books just today 'bout the Kidney. I'll jest wet mah whistle here, and we'll have a public readin'!"

Wild Will sipped from the large whiskey gla.s.s, then gave the rest of the drink to the man who carried his bag. Doc Sh.o.r.eleave had a hacking cough and dreadful bags under his eyes. "Thanks, Doc. Poor Doc.

Accidentally got beamed down here from the Starship UNTERMENSCH. He and Sheriff Wyatt Slurp go way back with the j.i.s.m Gang, don't you, Doc?"

The Doc just muttered something about spocks before his eyes, slammed the rest of the triple down his throat, then went back to slump in his chair. Wild Will rummaged through his sack, pulled out two cheaply printed books with garish covers and pulpy paper. He cleared his throat, raised his hand for silence and commenced reading the first: THE PALM IS A HAIRY MISTRESS.

(being the eleventh volume in The Putz Thru Tomorrow series) By Robert A. Heiny Denver shot its wad.

Shot great streams of rockets, trying to nuke Billy the Kidney and I, out in the desert.

But little did the hardware jockeys know it, but Billy and I were on the Moon mining ice and having our way with our line-marriages of nubile p.u.b.escents and worshipful women, they were harsh mistresses indeed!, up there with our good buddy, Shylock the hardup computer. (l.u.s.ty bucket of neuristors just didn't want any old piece of flesh!) My old man, Lazarus Hung, taught me two things. "Be kind to women" and "Don't take any c.r.a.p from them." So when Denver bombed our Freehold out in the desert we figured we better give them a taste of their own medicine, so we diverted a few asteroids from the s.p.a.ce-lanes and nailed the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds but good.

TANSTAAFL.

That means "There ain't no such thing as a free lawyer." Ask me, I know, I was known as Litigious Larry before I changed my name. I've had more lawsuits than you have had pastrami sandwiches. It's d.a.m.ned true. Toe-of-a-b.i.t.c.h!

Anyway, back to Billy.

The Kidney and I, we go way back. Sucker never does get older, don't know how he does it. I remember heading back in my time machine, the S.S. BOOTSTRAPS, and meeting him and Pat Garrett at a pleasure house in Oklahoma City. The Kidney was just a squirt then, went by the name of William b.o.n.e.r. Mean little sucker. Watch him gun down five men in cold blood, and I think to self, this guy's just a skin full of testosterone! We sure could use him back on the Moon!

Says, "Okay!" when I tell him about all the free s.e.x. Don't tell him about the lawyers or the lunches, though.

Funny thing though.

Time travel ride shakes him up lots.

And h.e.l.l, he mutates!

So how am I supposed to know this would happen.

Anyway, Billy the Kidney's still a great guy and all, we just have a robo-mop trail along after him, cleaning up.

Like Lazarus Hung says, "A man gains immortality through his brain and his s.e.xual endeavors." Sounds nice, though a little male-chauv-piggish.

The reading was interrupted by a hoa.r.s.e shout from without the swinging saloon doors.

"It's the j.i.s.m Gang! They're here. And the Kidney is -"

Bang! The sound of an echoing shot was followed instantly by a bwanng sound as the ricochet whistled about the room.

"Arggh!" said the voice. A big man in boots and a b.l.o.o.d.y vest staggered through the swinging doors.

"They got me!" He collapsed, his spurs pointing toward the ceiling, still jingling like Christmas bells.

"Oh Lordy!" said Wild Will, hastily closing his books and ducking under a table. "It's the Kidney! And he's a-comin' here! Hide, Stoned Ranger! Hide, Procto! The Kidney's a killer when he's in black spirits, and when he hears the Stoned Ranger's here, he's not gonna be in a good mood!"

Such was the air of gloom and doom projected by all the drinkers in the saloon as they dived beneath chairs and tables, that even Bgr's knees started knocking. The Chinger made a swan dive behind the bar.

"Hide, Bill!" he shouted back. "I got bad vibes about this!"