Ship of Fools - Chapter 16
The Worst Kind of Socialist
[Start at the beginning of the novel: Prologue.]
[Go to the Table of Contents.]
Welcome back to Ship of Fools, my satire on conspiracy theories, hoaxes, and anti-science beliefs.
Did you forget about Slim and Shorty from way back in the Prologue? You didn’t think you’d seen the last of them, did you? We pick up with them just after their conversation was interrupted by several vehicles stopping in a nearby side canyon.
CRESTING the low rise between washes, Slim and Shorty took cover behind a large redrock boulder and peered down into the sandy streambed below. Four SUVs — Jeeps and Expeditions and the like — formed a circle at a wide spot in the wash, all with their headlights still on, each sporting a pop-up tent on the roof (considered by the rugged cowhands as gear appropriate for sissies and Easterners). But these accommodations were not the most remarkable thing about the vehicles. Each bore at least two large flags on flexible poles attached to the rear bumpers, featuring iron crosses, screaming eagles, sonnenrads, Confederate flags, signs of Odin, a former president dressed up as Rambo, and of course the favorite symbol of this political ilk, the swastika. All the men wore tactical gear, including kevlar vests, most of it in camo but some in matte black. All bore semi-automatic pistols, while a couple carried AR-15s on chest slings.
“Looks like we’ve run into a group o’ those alt-righters who’ve become so prevalent in these parts now that the long arm of the federal government has been withdrawn,” said Shorty.
“Nazi socialists, the worst kind of socialist. Vermin and scum who have to band together instead o’ standin’ on their own two feet like free men and women.”
“Now, Slim, they ain’t really socialists at all, as I’ve told you before. And it ain’t the bandin’ together that’s the problem, it’s the hatred for every other group outside their narrow, eugenically defined circle. Whaddaya reckon, wishin’ we had a little more o’ that federal authority in these parts right about now?”
“Nah, we could take ’em, if it came right down to it.”
“Look! We just might have to.”
One of the Nazis, this one with the typical shaved head and neck tattoos, had dragged a handcuffed man out of the rear seat of an SUV, throwing him roughly to the sandy bed of the wash. The victim was clean-cut, wearing khakis and a cardigan, his wire-rim glasses askew on his face, glinting in the headlight glare. He curled himself into a fetal position, as if expecting a blow. The Nazi who’d thrown him down feigned a kick and the man flinched.
“Nah, Reverend,” the assailant said, “you’re good until tomorrow, then you’ll see what we’ve got planned for you.”
After that, they left the man alone, going back to poppin’ up their pop-up tents, hauling out coolers, firewood imported from parts farther north, portable grills, folding tables and chairs, lanterns, and other gear which Shorty and Slim considered more suitable for glamping than roughing it.
“Sissified Nazi shits,” Slim said, feeling the profanity was appropriate in this case.
“See, Slim, these folks live in a world where the Protocols of the Elders of Zion is a bona fide historical document and the Stab in the Back actually happened. And their reality is bumpin’ up against that poor fella’s somethin’ awful.”
Slim didn’t dignify this observation with a response. The Nazis were now roasting German sausages on the grill and cracking open bottles of imported pilsner. “I’m gettin’ my rifle.” He moved carefully back from the boulder until he was below the top of the rise, then turned and walked back toward camp.
Shorty caught up to him. “Better wait ’til mornin’. Looks like they’re going to leave him alone, and they might be a tad hungover by then.”
Slim eyed the moon and the stars and the canyon wall. “We’ll have the sun at our backs, too. Sounds like a plan.”
They smothered the remaining embers of their fire, retired to their bedrolls, and tried to get some shuteye.
Before dawn the next morning, the pardners were all set for a quick liberation and getaway, their camp struck, their horses packed and saddled, and their guns cleaned, oiled, and loaded. They made their way back up to the divide between washes. Sure enough, no one stirred in the camp below. The figure of the prisoner was still visible, obscured under a blanket one of the kidnappers had thrown over him.
With the sun just cresting the canyon wall behind them, Slim motioned for Shorty to cover him with his trusty Winchester. Shorty gave the rifle a pat. “Rifle that won the West, apologies to the indigenous folk who fell victim to it. Now it’s time to put you to better use.”
Slim eased quietly down the slope and into the camp, crossing the open ground to the sleeping prisoner without alerting a soul. All was going according to plan, the prisoner awaking silently, Slim’s hand over his mouth while helping him to his feet and propping his glasses back on his nose. They were halfway back to the hill where Shorty stood watch when one of the Nazis, who must have been out for an early morning pee, appeared from around an up-canyon bend. He saw what was up in an instant, going for his shoulder holster. But Slim was quicker, quicker even than Shorty with his long gun, drawing from the hip as he turned to shield the prisoner, winging his assailant in the knee. The Nazi dropped his gun as he drew it and fell to the sand, screaming and clutching at his leg.
A movement in one of the roof-mounted tents caught Shorty’s eye — a head poking out, followed by the muzzle of a pistol. Shorty fired, aiming for the shoulder, resulting in more screams.
“We’ve got you pinned down in those candy-ass tents, you evil Nazi city slickers! If I see one tent so much as flap in the breeze, I’m fillin’ you all full o’ lead.”
Between the wounded man’s screams and Shorty’s threats, the rest of the Aryan militia seemed cowed for the moment. Slim backed slowly up the slope, keeping an eye on the one with the wounded knee, while the prisoner struggled with his footing, what with his hands cuffed behind his back and the completely inappropriate deck shoes he was wearing.
Wounded Knee was crawling back toward his fallen pistol, so Shorty put a slug into the sand near his head. The man recoiled and turned toward his attacker, shielding his eyes from the sun. Shorty’s shadow almost reached him, the broad brim of his ten-gallon Stetson nearly as wide as his shoulders in the penumbral image. “What is this,” the Nazi asked, “some kind of Brokeback Mountain bullshit?” A funny question, coming from one of the more stylish breed of Nazi, with a carefully trimmed beard and one o’ them fashy haircuts. He’d have fit right in at a bear bar.
“Only when the trail stretches long,” Shorty said, “and what’s wrong with that, I ask you?” He planted another slug in the sand, this time a tad closer. “Not feeling so superior now, are you, you Aryan asshole?” Another round, the sand next to the cowering Nazi’s head spouting into the cool morning air. “But hey, I’ve always wanted to ask, do you shit white, too? I guess if we checked your drawers right about now, we’d find out.” Another blast from the Winchester.
Slim and the Nazis’ victim had cleared the top of the rise now. “Come on, Shorty, quit yer speechifyin’ and let’s vamoose.”
“Good idea, the stench of Nazi is somethin’ awful in these parts.” He turned and followed, reaching the horses before Slim and his companion. He held Slim’s horse while Slim boosted the prisoner up and then climbed on behind, never a comfortable arrangement with a western saddle. Shorty mounted his own horse just as engines roared to life in the adjacent canyon.
“If they try to drive those things without lowering the tents, they’ll get all tangled in the cottonwoods,” Shorty opined as they galloped up the canyon.
“We still better make for high ground where those jeeps can’t go.”
After a time with no evidence of a chase, the canyon having grown narrow and rocky, the released prisoner spoke for the first time. “I must thank you for rescuing me. So fortunate that you were nearby, and so brave of you, in the face of all those thugs and their guns.”
“We’re not out of the woods yet, Mr.…”
“Reverend Paul Lee, of Young Creation Ministries.”
“Ah,” put in Shorty, “a follower of Jesus, one of my favorite anarcho-socialists.”
Slim ignored his pardner. “Pleased to meet you, Reverend, but we better keep quiet ’til we get out of this canyon.”
“Is there a way out?” the reverend asked, looking up at the vertical cliffs growing ever closer on both sides. “All one hears about in the canyon country are blind draws and unscalable cliffs.”
Slim assured him that he and Shorty knew these parts pretty well. In a quarter mile they came to the goat path Slim was aiming for and urged their reluctant horses upward. The path hugged the canyon wall then met a pour-over where a smaller streambed entered the larger branch of the canyon. Following this defile brought them, through increasingly thick blackbrush and cliffrose, gradually level with the tops of the canyon walls, where they emerged onto an expanse of slickrock that seemed to stretch in all directions, broken here and there by the eerie figure of a hoodoo or the bare, upraised arm of a dead juniper.
“Are we safe now?” asked the reverend.
“We better put some distance between us and them, case they decide to follow on foot,” opined Slim. They rode on, disappearing into the slickrock desert.
Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this chapter, please give it a like, a share, a restack, or a comment. And if you really enjoyed it, I hope you’ll buy me a coffee or upgrade to a paid subscription.
Does it seem a tad more than coincidental that the Nazis would bring the Reverend to the canyon next door to the one where our brave cowboy-philosophers had set their own camp? Remember, as the conspiracists like to say, “there’s no such thing as a coincidence.”
Next up: Chapter 17, “Intellectual Theft,” in which Clive runs into a few bumps on the road to monetizing his astroanamorphoscope.