Inside The Gazebo

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Location: Central Michigan, United States

Spent a long career making lots of money for other people. Now it's my turn. _____________________________ Email:

Sunday, January 28, 2007

Jess - II

NOTE: If you would like to read the first scene of “Jess”, before reading this one, you will find it a couple of posts down.


Jess pushed open the bat-wing doors of the Lost Arrow Saloon and stepped out into the balmy night. It was over now. He had just blown the brains out of the two men who had fucked his young wife brutally enough to kill her. He pulled the cork from the full bottle of whiskey and drank deeply. It tasted good. Maybe he should ride out of town a few miles, make his camp for the night and get drunk, he thought. He doubted anyone would follow him to seek revenge, or even justice, for the two murders. The whores and the men in the Lost Arrow Saloon had seemed grateful for the killings. That’s what he had done, though, murdered the two men in cold blood.

The big mule pinned its ears and curled its lips as Jess flicked the reins from the hitch rail. Jess snapped the mule on a nostril with his index finger and growled, “Don’t you even think about it, Ben. I ain’t in the mood to fuck with you.” Ben bumped Jess hard in the chest with his muzzle. In spite of his mood, Jess chuckled. “Godammit, you are an ornery bastard!” He grabbed one of the mule’s ears and gave it a sharp tug.

Jess put his left foot in the stirrup and lazily swung his right leg over the saddle and mounted the mule. Ben pivoted his head around and nipped at Jess’ toe. Jess tugged sharply on the off-rein and growled, “You just gotta do it…don’t you? Point our ugly head south and your asshole north, Ben. It’s comin’ on winter where we came from, so let’s stay warm for awhile.” Jess pointed Ben’s ass to the north and they left the Lost Arrow Saloon and two corpses behind.

As Ben jogged south out of town, Jess noticed lamps had been lit in windows of the few houses and in the small apartments above the dark business store-fronts. He supposed the sounds of his gunshots had awakened the residents who had turned-in early for sleep, or a piece of ass, maybe both. Jess had often turned-in early with his wife.

Ben kicked a hind hoof out at something, not just once, but twice. That was normal; Ben liked to kick---but usually at Jess. Jess turned enough in the saddle to look down and to the rear. Trotting along with them was a mongrel dog; black as Ben in color, and almost as ugly to look at. It had a big head, long neck, long gangly legs and large floppy ears. Jess grinned and said to the dog, “Well, dog, you are a handsome devil…almost as handsome as Ben here. Are you as good natured too?” The dog looked up toward the sound of Jess’ voice, bared its teeth and growled. Jess laughed and turned forward in the saddle.

Several miles fell behind Jess, Ben, and now the dog, as they continued south. Jess could no longer see any light from the town when he stopped to look behind and check his back-trail. As he had thought, nobody followed. He’d look for a comfortable place to make camp soon.

Tired. He was both physically and emotionally very tired. He hadn’t realized how tired, until now. The flames of the small fire licked at the night and the pot of beans. The burning wood crackled and Ben snored. Jess looked over toward the big mule laying just a few yards away. The animal was on its side, legs stretched straight out and he was for sure snoring. Jess smiled. “Damdest mule I ever saw,” he mumbled softly. “You sure are a different kind of critter, Ben. Meaner than a pissed-off snake most of the time and more unpredictable than a woman, always.” The word “woman” brought images of his dead wife into his mind. Tears began a sudden flow down his face. Jess wiped them away quickly with the back of his hand, shook his head hard from side-to-side, and took another big drink of the whiskey. God he was tired!

Behind him the dog growled. Jess snapped his mind back to the present. He heard and saw the pot of beans bubbling over. He set the cup of whiskey aside and quickly crawled the short distance to the fire. With a sturdy stick of wood he lifted the pot by its wire-loop handle from the heat. “Thanks,” he said to the dog, “my daydreaming damn near ruined my supper.” Startled by the commotion, Ben thrashed his way onto his feet. The mule shook, farted, and then trotted off toward the nearby spring and its pool of water.

Jess had set the pot of beans on a fallen log to cool while he rummaged through his saddle bags for the slab of bacon and the package of hard biscuits. He noticed the dog sitting near the pot of beans rapidly licking its muzzle and brushing the ground with its tail. Jess wondered if the dog had ever been able to eat its fill. He put an extra ration of bacon and two additional biscuits in his frying pan.

Jess scooped a generous amount of the now cooled beans onto his tin plate. He was as hungry as he was tired. He cut several pieces of the well cooked thick bacon in half and dropped them on the beans. He put two of the biscuits, warmed and softened by hot bacon grease on top of the pile. Jess grinned and set the heaping plate of food down in front of the mongrel dog. “Here,” he said, “you protected it; I guess you can have some of it.” Without hesitation, the dog began to devour the food. Jess picked up the frying pan, poured off the remaining grease from the bacon and ladled in beans and biscuits for him. With a tired sigh, he sat down on his bedroll, poured another generous amount of whiskey into the cup and ate his meal.

The dog licked the plate clean, pushing it across the ground as it sought every drop and crumb. Jess, soaking up the remains from the frying pan with one last biscuit, laughed at the dog’s tenacity with the tin plate and said. “You seemed to like the beans, boy!” Through a mouth full of soggy biscuit he added, “Maybe that’d be a good name for you…Beans.” Jess swallowed the biscuit, washed it down with a couple of big swallows of whiskey and laughed. The dog, Beans, trotted off in the direction of Ben.

Jess picked up the whiskey bottle to pour another dollop in the cup. The bottle was half empty and Jess was beginning to feel the effects. I’d better not, he thought. Instead, he got up off the ground, found the dog’s plate, picked up the frying pan and staggered toward the spring to wash the dishes and his utensils. He would cover the pot of beans and eat what remained for breakfast.

Ben was grazing on the lush grass that surrounded the spring. The animal rolled its eyes and pinned its ears as Jess came near with his dishes. Jess, stumbling a bit, walked next to the mule and leaned against its hindquarter. “Don’t worry, asshole, we aren’t going anywhere. I’m going to do the dishes and get in my bedroll,” he mumbled. “Where’s that damn dog?” Not getting any response from the mule, of course, Jess carefully made his way over to the pool of water and washed his plate, pan and utensils.

Returning to camp, Jess put his eating equipment and the bottle of whiskey back into his saddlebags and unrolled his bedroll. He stripped down to his underwear, threw a few more pieces of wood on the fire then took a piss. While doing that, he looked around for the dog. Not seeing or hearing it; he looked down at the puddle of urine forming on the ground and muttered, “Sure, I fed ya and now you’ve gone on your way. Well, I can’t tolerate a mean cur anyway. Good riddance.”

Within moments of laying his head on a rolled rain-slicker he used for a pillow, Jess drifted into a deep sleep. Crickets chirped their nightly song. A family of coyotes yipped in the distance. In the dying fire one small log rolled off another. Ben moved to graze a little closer to his master’s camp---to be his sentry. A small fluffy cloud drifted angel-like across the face of the moon.

Beans curled and pressed his body against the back of Jess’ legs.

Saturday, January 20, 2007


Martha held the back door open to let him hurry in from the bitter cold night. She wore a short T-shirt and nothing else.

Mike stomped the snow from his boots as he pulled off his heavy parka. Martha fumbled with the zipper of his jeans. “Damn,” he said, “you must be really horny!” Martha slipped her warm fingers through the flap of his briefs, wrapped them around his soft chilled cock and stated, “It’s been too long since we’ve been together. I’m in a hurry for you. And, I want you often tonight.” Mike was warming fast.

He sent a perfect smoke-ring up toward the lazy fan that hung from the high ceiling. The slow turning blades disfigured it first then whisked it away. Mike grinned, pulled her tighter against him and said, “You ever do it with another woman?” She giggled, nuzzled her face against his neck and kissed him lightly. “You mean have sex with another woman?” she asked. “Yeah,” he answered.

Martha laughed, plucked a small clump of hair from his chest and said, “Why do you ask such a thing when I’ve let you screw me god only knows how many times, and just now too?” “Just curious.” Mike said, and then added, “I think most women have thought about having sex with another woman. Maybe even done it. It’s to satisfy their emotional needs, I think. The satisfaction of the emotions and gentleness they don’t seem to get enough of from a man. I was just wondering if you ever had.” Martha kissed his neck again and began fondling his now soft but still damp and sticky privates. Stroking him, she giggled a little nervously then admitted, “Yeah, well okay, once,” she paused then added, “with my college roommate.’

“Did you like it?”

“It was fun at the time! We were both quite inexperienced with sex then. My roommate had screwed only her high school boyfriend and I had had sex with just two of mine.”

With her still snuggled against him, his arm under and around her shoulders, Mike gently rolled her left nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He squeezed the nipple and said, “So how did it come about that you had sex with each other?” She moaned from the pleasure in her nipple. “We started talking about sex one night in our room while we were drinking beer. After awhile, we just started to touch each other…kind of showing each other what had felt really good with our boyfriends. The conversation, and the beer, had made us both very horny.”

“Did you do it just the one time?” Mike queried. “Yeah, just the once,” she replied. “We both felt guilty as hell and embarrassed afterwards! But over the long term, I think it has helped to keep us the truest of friends. We are still closer to each other than we are to anyone else, by far.

Mike sent another smoke-ring toward the fan then offered the cigarette to Martha. She took a long draw and inhaled deeply. When she finished coughing, she said, “I don’t know why I enjoy a smoke so much after we’ve had sex, Mike. I normally hate the damn things!” Mike grinned and said, “It’s in the definition of fucking. Fuck, then have a cigarette is what the definition says.” Martha giggled some more, tugged on his swelling shaft and teased, “My, aren’t you the literate one!”

Since Martha was fondling his masculinity, Mike thought it was only fair that he return the courtesy. He snubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray they had placed on his chest, set it on the table next to the bed, and then rolled onto his side to begin strumming Martha’s clit. “Mmmm,” she moaned. Spreading her thighs wider, she whispered hoarsely, “I guess I’m going to have to have another damn smoke soon, huh? Mike chuckled, pushed a finger in and said, “Yep, and we have almost a full pack.”

Sunday, January 14, 2007


Yesterday, I walked toward a pretty woman.
I looked into her eyes, she looked into mine.
As we passed, she smiled.
I wondered what her thoughts might be.

Yesterday, I walked toward a handsome man.
I looked into his eyes, he looked into mine.
As we passed, he smiled.
I wondered what his thoughts might be.

Sunday, January 07, 2007


Jess peered over the batwing doors---a big man, rugged and confident. More than a month had passed since he had been in civilization. He itched from the dirt and stank from sweat. No matter, he was there to kill.

The odors of stale smoke and unwashed bodies permeated the air at the entrance to the small saloon. Raucous laughter, punctuated by the profanity of illiterate men, accompanied the smell. Three past-their-prime whores worked the crowded room; pushing support-lifted tits against dirty shirts and rubbing clapped-up crotches against denim covered thighs. Sour notes tinned from a never tuned piano. Jess lifted the retainer thong from the hammer of the double action Colt, inhaled a deep breath of the repugnant air and parted the batwing doors of the Lost Arrow Saloon. It had been a long, hard search.

Now, the smell and the noise almost overwhelmed him as he entered the dreary room. The combinations of coal oil, cigars, stale beer and human stench was oppressive after weeks of tracking his prey across tall grass blanketed Plains and through high clean mountain passes. The two men he trailed had known their destination, he hadn’t. He had to find them the hard way; by following the occasional signs they left along their route. Many times, he had thanked God there had been no rain.

Jess leaned his lower back against the rounded edge of the badly scarred bar. His eyes scanned the room; a cold shadow seemed to tint their color. In the din of noise he felt, more than heard, the bartender approach from behind him. He turned to the side. “Whiskey or beer?” asked the bartender. “Both.” Jess replied. The bartender passed a dirty hand through his greasy hair and looked Jess square in the eyes. A chill slithered down his spine. “Sure,” he said. The man lifted a glass and a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar, poured a full measure, and then turned away to pull the beer. Jess resumed his scan of the haze filled room.

“A nickel for the beer, a dime for the whiskey,” the bartender said. Placing the coins on the bar, Jess said, “What’s the ugly one’s name? The one with the big blood-mark on his face?” The bartender didn’t hesitate, “Don’t mess with him! He’s crazy, rabid-dog crazy! He goes by Cross.”

“Just wanted to know his name,” Jess said. He knocked back the glass of whiskey and then picked up the beer. He drank about half, set the mug on the bar then stated, “The three men playing cards with him don’t seem to be frightened.”

“The one across the table is his brother. The other two are the local blacksmith, and a whiskey drummer that comes through here every couple of months. Cross needs the blacksmith to keep his critters fit and the drummer gives him free whiskey from his sample cases. He probably won’t ever kill either of them…unless one of them pisses him off.

“Pour another whiskey,” Jess said. He drank the rest of the beer, set the empty mug down and added, “Fill that one too.” As the man did, Jess asked, “Cross have any friends in here…besides the brother?”

“Ain’t hardly!” snorted the bartender. “Like I said, he’s crazy mean. Take my advice, enjoy the drink and put the questions about Cross aside. Your curiosity about him will get you dead!”

“Don’t have any more questions, friend,” Jess said. “None.” The bartender shivered.

Jess lifted the full beer from the bar, pushed away with an elbow, and began to make his way through the noisy customers and toward Cross’ table. One of the whores snatched the sleeve of his shirt and said, “You look like you could use a good fuck, mister. I’ll suck and fuck you ‘til ya drop, baby.” He looked down at the worn-out whore, smiled and said kindly, “Yes, ma’am, I’ll bet you would. I’m a mite dirty now, though…maybe another time.” He moved on, the whore sighed.

At Cross’ table Jess placed his free hand on the back of an empty chair while taking a sip of the beer. Cross looked up at him and snarled, “Want somethin’, asshole?” Jess smiled. “Just passin’ through. Wondered if my money was any good at this table.” Cross leaned back in his chair, and with a sneer said, “I’d be glad to put your money in my pocket, just as long as you understand we play by my rules. Like ‘em or go fuck your sister!”

“Don’t have a sister,” Jess said quietly. He set the mug of beer on the table and began to pull the chair back and away from the table. His eyes focused on the blood-mark on Cross’ face. Cross appeared ready to make a comment when his brother tossed the deck of cards in front of him and told him to “deal”. Jess smiled.

As Cross lifted the deck of cards, Jess lifted the big Colt from its holster. In a single smooth motion, he touched the muzzle to the center of that ugly blood-mark and pulled the trigger. Brains, blood and bone splattered the grimy wall. Cross’ brother jerked up his head, wide eyed and mouth agape. Jess, already turning toward him, shoved the hot muzzle into the brother’s open mouth and pulled the trigger one more time. The three whores screamed.

The echoes from the big gun died away. Burned gun powder and the sickly-sweet smell of blood masked the other smells of the room. Jess’ boots thumped wearily on the wooden floor and two empty brass cases plinked there too as he reloaded and walked back to the bar. All heard the softly spoken words of a man in the crowd…”sweet Jesus”…

“I’ll buy that bottle to go,” Jess said to the bartender. “Whatever you want,” said the man, “a bottle of my best, on me! The man paused then added, “What caused you to make such a mess in here, son?” Jess didn’t answer the question. Instead, he thanked the man for the generosity and told him he’d just as soon pay. The deadly Colt holstered, Jess dropped more than enough money on the bar and picked up the unopened bottle of whiskey. The bartender leaned with his elbows on the bar. Shaking is head slowly with disbelief; he starred at the two bloody bodies on the floor.

With his free hand, Jess grabbed the top of the batwing door on the left. As he began to push it open, the whore called to him from the center of the room. “Mister!” she said. “I’d be real pleased to give you a bath first!” Jess turned enough toward her to face her fully, he smiled and said gently, “Yes, ma’am, and I’m sure it would be pleasurable. Had a real pretty wife once…she liked to give me a bath.” He gave the woman a curt nod of his head then pushed through the batwing doors and stepped out into the night.

The two batwing doors of the Lost Arrow Saloon fluttered back and forth on rusted hinges. Human gore oozed silently down the grimy walls. The bartender had the answer to his question.

The whore sighed. She rubbed her crotch against a denim covered thigh, a tear trickled down her powdered cheek, “How about you, cowboy…want a bath?