Ship of Fools - Chapter 19
Showdown at the HiLo
[Start at the beginning of the novel: Prologue.]
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Welcome back to Ship of Fools, my satire about a science journalist trying to make sense of conspiracy theorists, flat-earthers, moon-landing deniers, New Agers, and more.
Slim and Shorty, having parted ways with Reverend Lee, set out to determine the full extent of the Nazi infestation around Sombrero Flats, starting with the town saloon.
THE SWINGING doors flapped to and fro behind Slim and Shorty as they entered the HiLo Saloon in downtown Sombrero Flats, the glare of the low-angled December sun still operative on their rods and cones so that the interior remained a penumbral array of dim outlines. Neither could see much as they stepped over the threshold, the voices and clinks of glasses in the bar going quiet as a cold wind off the plateau swept in behind them.
As their eyes adjusted, the cowpokes scanned the saloon. The crowd was about as per usual for early on a weekday afternoon: a few drilling roughnecks finishing up their lunches of Hatch green chili burgers and steins of lager, several Central American farmhands over by the plate glass windows, wearing ball caps with a variety of logos and nursing Budweisers as they whiled away the dead hours of the off-season.
Only one group seemed a little off — two strangers seated at a table in the middle of the room, men in their thirties, looking a good deal better groomed than the usual HiLo customer, potentially even devotees of “manscaping,” if one were inclined to use faddish terms coined in far-off metropolises of the coasts. Their eyebrows were carefully trimmed, with not a speck of nose, ear, or neck hair to be seen, while the haircuts were close-cropped on the sides and back and longer on top, which was carefully gelled, and showed hardly a speck of the red dust so common to the surrounding environs.
Lil, waitress and sometime HiLo entertainer, was attending to their every need, it looked like. She glanced over at Slim and Shorty, a warning in her eyes, as they walked across the sawdust-strewn floor to the bar, their spurs (dull points only) jangling with each step.
“What’ll it be, gents?” asked Jake, the bartender. “Whiskey?”
“Tad chilly out,” said Slim. “Make mine a black coffee.”
“Same here,” said Shorty.
Jake gestured toward the strangers with his eyes. “You’re not lookin’ for any trouble, I hope. You know I like to maintain a peaceful establishment.”
“Us?” Slim exclaimed, all wounded innocence.
“Preventin’ trouble, more like,” said Shorty.
“That’s right. On the track of some Nazis, white supremacists, and similar in-bred filth. Soon as we show ’em outta town — heck, outta the whole darned territory — we’ll be done with trouble.” Out of the corner of his eye Slim saw one of the strangers reach into his jacket and adjust something near his left armpit.
They’d parted ways with Reverend Lee that morning after riding back to the spread, where Pedro, the blacksmith, having business in the same direction, had offered to drive the Rev back to Lee’s Ferry. The reverend was grateful, since he’d only be a few hours late for his rafting trip.
Having said their farewells with the pastor, the pardners had consulted their consciences as to their best course of action. “Reckon we oughta go after those Nazis, Slim?”
“Reckon so, Shorty.”
They’d returned to the scene of the one-sided shootout and followed the vehicle tracks back out to the road, where they could trace them no farther. So they’d come into town, hoping to pick up the lowdown on the whereabouts of the Nazi scum.
Now Lil came sashayin’ over, leaning against the bar, her lowcut, frilly gown revealing her ample charms.
“See you got some new friends, Lil,” said Slim.
“Their money’s green, and more plentiful than most folks’ around here. You’re not gonna ruin a good thing, are you?”
“Depends, might have to. It’s the principle of the thing and all. What’s their story?”
“They say they’re tech workers, overseeing the installation of broadband in these parts.”
“At last!” Shorty exclaimed, with more than a hint of sarcasm. “Sorta hard to believe.” He turned his back to the bar so he could get a better look at the newcomers, who either feigned indifference or truly neither noticed nor cared.
Shorty made sure his voice carried across the room. “Say, Slim, you ever hear of Schrödinger's haircut?” The saloon, having returned to something of its usual low hum of lazy afternoon activity, went silent again.
“No, Shorty, can’t say as I have.”
“It’s a hairstyle that can be simultaneously fascist and anti-fascist.” He nodded over to the two strangers, who persisted in studiously ignoring the cowpokes.
“How’s that possible, Shorty?”
“Well, Slim, it’s like this. There’s no way to tell whether this particular haircut represents fascist leanings or just fashionable ones. That’s why it’s called the Fashy, get it?”
Slim noticed that the strangers were both drinking PBRs, which argued for the latter interpretation.
“And the only way you can sort out this superposition of states is to, as it were, open up the heads ’neath those haircuts to see what’s inside.”
“Is that so?”
“Only there’s just one hiccup. By the very act of investigatin’ and takin’ the measure of the person beneath the haircut, the observer resolves those superimposed states into one position or the other, and that action of observin’ affects everything that comes after.”
“You don’t say. Sounds like quite a pickle.” Slim looked over at Shorty. “Should we make our inquiries?”
“Now, boys,” Lil protested.
“It’s all right, Lil,” said Slim. “We won’t mess up your floors with any blood. And here’s for any potential lost income.” He tucked a large bill down her décolletage.
The pardners strode across the room to where the strangers sat, setting their mugs down none too gently at the empty places on either side of the four-top. The strangers looked up at last. “Is there a problem, mister?” one of them asked.
“That depends,” said Slim. “Can we stand you boys a round?”
The strangers looked at each other. “Sure.”
“Jake, better bring the whole pot.”
The cowpokes took their seats as Jake brought round the pot of coffee and two more PBRs, the bottles clinking together as he set them down with one trembling hand. “Remember, boys, no trouble.”
Slim gave him a wave simultaneously reassuring and dismissive, then opened the proceedings. “You boys ain’t from around here, are you?”
“We’ve been here working on this project for nearly a year now. First time in this bar though.”
“Like I said, you ain’t from around here. So, in all your travels as you’re puttin’ in this, what’s it called, broadband?”
“Fiber optic cable and relays, that’s right.”
“You wouldn’t happen to’ve seen any Nazis, fascists, white supremacists, ethnic nationalists?”
“Onanists?” Shorty added helpfully.
“Fascists?” the second stranger asked in a quizzical tone, as if he’d never heard the term before. “No, I can’t say I’ve seen any, per se. But listen, white people have the right to protect the interests of our own race, don’t we? Aren’t we right to be worried about becoming a minority in our own country? About other groups trying to replace us through excessive breeding? And how about these illegals coming in and taking our jobs?” His eyes slid over to the farmworkers by the windows. “We can’t just let two thousand years of superior Western achievements be swept aside in a wave of woke political correctness, forced diversity, and scheming Jews. If we’re forced to take up arms, who can blame us?”
“Take up arms?” Shorty asked, sounding a tad incredulous. “No one’s makin’ you take up arms. Unless, maybe, you’re hopin’ for the return of your Führer, could be ridin’ in a spaceship?”
The stranger’s eyes went wide. “That’s what you commies and globalists always do, lump us in with a bunch of crazies and wackos, when we’re just good upstanding Christian Americans defending the homeland from filth and vermin.”
Slim pushed his chair back. “Shorty, enough jawin’, I think we have our answer.”
“That’s right, Slim. The unresolved apparently self-canceling possibilities have now resolved themselves into a single, definitive state.”
The unmistakable sound of pistols being cocked came from beneath the table, down at hip level. One of the strangers made to put his hand inside his jacket.
There was a loud blast and the table next to the fashionable stranger splintered. “You know,” said Slim, “it’s not only that concealed carry is for wimps and scallywags who don’t have the balls and the pride to carry their pistols out in the open for all to see, it’s a whole lot less convenient. Wouldn’t you agree, Shorty?”
“Wholeheartedly, Slim. Now, gents, thumb and forefinger only, just ease those weapons out of their holsters and put them on the table.”
The strangers eyed each other, but did as they were told. “What are you, a couple of commie cowboys?” one asked.
“That only goes for one of us,” said Slim, “but my pardner’s more along the lines of a anarcho-socialist, or maybe that’s a social-anarchist, I forget which.”
“You won’t get away with this.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Shorty, removing the magazines from the semiautomatic pistols and tossing them into a corner. “Seventeen rounds,” he said, almost to himself. “No self-respectin’ shootist needs seventeen rounds.”
Slim checked the strangers for ankle holsters, finding a Derringer on one.
“Okay, hands up and stand up.” The strangers did as they were told, and the pardners each grabbed ahold of one of their opponents, arms twisted behind backs to ensure compliance, Shorty taking the taller one.
“Now, boys,” Jake pleaded.
“It’s gotta be done,” Slim said. He turned to the farmworkers. “Disculpame, amigos, por favor.” The men seemed happy to move away from the windows.
“Okay, Shorty, together now.” On the count of three, the pardners flung the fascists through the plate glass windows with a crash.
Slim returned to the bar and slapped down a hundred-dollar bill. “For your trouble, Jake. Put the rest on our tab.” He straightened his Stetson and the pardners went out to the street, where they found the strangers struggling to their feet in a daze, brushing glass from their Chinos.
“We’re not done with you,” Slim said.
The cowpokes each grabbed their respective Nazi and hauled them over to a watering trough standing at the curb, left there less for any practical purpose than for the quaint, old-timey impression it gave to the occasional tourist who happened to slow down long enough to get a look on his way to Moab or Monument Valley. In went the fascist heads, the cowpokes apparently hoping to use this method to cleanse them of their hateful ideology.
“This’d work a whole lot better if they kept these things filled with water,” Slim opined as he brought his fascist up for air.
“Yeah, we oughta talk to municipal services about that, or maybe the C-o-C.”
Still, the remnants of half-eaten fast food meals, the fall crop of cottonwood leaves moldering in a slurry of spilled Diet Pepsi and Mountain Dew, not to mention a few loosely bagged dog turds — this being the old widow Mummerschanz’s favorite walk with her cockapoo, Fifi, and the trough being the only thing resembling a trash can for the whole stretch of Main Street — seemed to have the desired effect, as Shorty’s fascist spluttered for air and whimpered before being plunged back in again.
“Now when we let you go,” Slim said as he brought his Nazi back up, “you’re gonna go back to your Imperial Wizard, your Führer, your Grand Dragon, your Great Titan, or whoever’s in charge o’ this whole Aryan operation, your Grand Council of Yahoos, your Supreme Cyclopean Committee, as you will, and you’re gonna tell ’em they all gotta clear outta the territory. And if not, we’ll be comin’ for all o’ ya, and not just us, but all the fine, upstandin’ patriots of Sombrero Flats, Bluff, Blanding, Monticello, even as far off as Moab. Is the message clear?”
The Nazi gasped and nodded. Slim hauled him to his feet and with a kick to the rear, propelled him out into the street, where he was almost run down by a passing gravel truck. The driver, apparently grasping the scenario at forty-five miles an hour, tooted his horn and leaned out the window, yelling, “Better luck next time.” Shorty did likewise with his Nazi and the pair ran down the street, jumped into a black Ford Expedition, and squealed off down the road.
“Good riddance,” said Shorty.
“I believe we taught ’em a lesson, pardner.”
The pair dusted off their breeches, hoofed it to where their horses were tethered at the edge of town, and headed back to the ranch, congratulating themselves on a job well done.
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Something tells me Slim and Shorty have only stirred up the hornets’ nest.
Next up: Chapter 20, “Jesus H. Christ”, in which Reverend Lee deals with frustrations large and small.