THE BALLAD OF SOUPY LAIDL
This here's the tale of a naughty man who comes out of the
East
He goes to the North, he goes to the South to see which he
likes least
He cocks his hat and he sets his frown
Rides his bike to a no-horse town
Draws his gun and his pants fall down
Which thus untuck his vest
Soupy, Soupy Laidl
The Wildman of the West
Some say he's the devil in disguise, some say he's not
that bad
Some say he's scum, and some stay stum in case they make
him mad
Stands in the street in the noonday sun
The little kids laugh to see such fun
Pulls up his pants but he drops his gun
Which shoots him in the chest
Soupy, Soupy Laidl
The Wombat of the West
It could be the end of our tale right here but there's no
need to cry
Our man's alive and kicking but one thing he's not is dry
'Twas only a water pistolette
It don't make you dead only make you wet
He slips in the drips as he bends to get
Oh how we are impressed
Soupy, Soupy Laidl
The Wazzock of the West
He leaves in a huff and a voice that's gruff and enters a
saloon
But the driver's piqued and his nose is tweaked and she
names him as a goon
He tries to rob a bottle bank
He holds up a train while the bride looks blank
And the page and the bridesmaids kick his flank
But at least he's done his best
Soupy, Soupy Laidl
The Winker of the West
Oops!
I didn't mean to say that
Let's hear it for the pest
Sing "Yee-hah!" for Soupy Laidl
The Wossname of the
fiddlediddlediddlediddlefiddlediddlediddlediddlefiddlediddlediddlediddledee
West!
*
Bobswell had developed a bit of a head, and had taken his leave mumbling something about parrot boxes. Perhaps he had to take his pet to the vet. Mervyn settled back in a deckchair - his new home had come furnished, luckily, but he had kept his old belongings for firewood, in preparation for the day when he had a home with a fireplace - and fingered through the box at his side to select a book with which to while away the rest of the afternoon. Ludicrous Fictions; Standing on the Landing (an import, published here as The Stairs My Destination); Extracts from The Pop Eclipse; ah, The Atlympisfard Chronicles! That had been a freebie from a man he had met at last year's Armadillocon, Pilmo's SF convention. Arnold Earthpig? Something like that. It was obviously a vanity press publication, but perhaps he'd give it a try.
Staggering
blindly across the burning desert, far now from the smouldering ruins of the
city…
He managed the first page easily enough, but then the words started swimming before his eyes. Removing his glasses, he gave them a huff and a polish with his jumper, but upon redonning them he found no improvement. The letters were beginning to move across the page in a soothing pattern, creating a pleasurable narcosis in the nucleus accumbens portion of his brain, drawing him in steadily as it gathered speed, becoming a whirling vortex sucking his consciousness down and deep…
And as he was squeezed through the plughole to drop down the drain, somebody flew out past him.
*
"A pint of Doodle and a Mabaloo & pomegranate please."
"And a bottle of nuts."
Soob and Dennis staked a claim on a table. Dennis opened the bottle and began ramming its contents down his throat.
"Don't bolt your nuts."
The merry duo fell off their chairs and rolled about laughing. It never failed to amuse. The patrons were always ready to snigger at a couple of idiots guffawing their nodes off over a bad joke.
The brace of buffoons resettled themselves, wiping away the tears.
"Ee, we do have a laugh!"
"Yes, Dennis. Your attempts at regional dialect are also quite laughable."
"So, what shall we do now? Continue with our cheery banter for a while until something happens?"
"Yes, I think that would be for the best, and it will give us a chance to enjoy our drinks. Not that anything is likely to happen, judging from past experience, although at least we know we haven't been completely forgotten."
"Oh, so you saw him sitting at his desk in the middle of the street too."
"Couldn't very well miss something like that could you?"
"Most people did. Remarkable how they can walk around what must be an empty space to them without realising what they're doing."
"This hardly qualifies as cheery banter, Soob. We appear to be discussing the nature of our existence."
"OK. Let us change tack and engage in trivia. Did you see that film last night?"
"No."
"But you were watching it with me."
"I was sitting next to you on the sofa, and my eyes were focused on the screen, yes. Yet inside I was contemplating the nature of my existence."
"Were you?"
"Yes."
"But were you really?"
"No. I was watching the film."
"Rubbish wasn't it?"
"And yet this conversation is even more so. However, it qualifies as cheery banter because we are grinning as we engage in it. Hurrah!"
And they continued, for nothing had happened yet.
*
Now why am ah wearin' these peculyiar garmints? A man cain't be seen in these, why, he'd be laughed out of town! Now ah knows ah've gots a stash around hyar somewheres... some varmint's moved 'em all roun', but ah'll find 'em…
In a box they were, and soon he was dressed appropriately in faux leather chaps, fringed waistcoat and ten pint hat (he had checked it out by filling it with root beer and obtained a partial refund), and he had fastened spurs to his sandals. But where were his shootin' irons? He located another box and inside, a gun-shaped thing; no, this wasn't it, it was altogether too brightly coloured and when he pulled the trigger a friction motor inside made sparks through a clear plastic panel. According to the legend on the barrel it was a Chunk Bedrock Lazer Blazer. Sure sounded like one mean hombre, but if this was the best weapon he could come up with, jes goes to show the name don't mean nuthin'. And here, a Rock Bedchunk Laster Blaster, looking very similar yet obviously cheaper and not as well made. When he pulled the trigger it didn't do nuthin'. Now where in heck did these dangfired contraptions come from? Ah, there they is! Mah babies! And complete with belt!
He strapped them on and checked himself out in the full-length mirror that seemed so incongruous in this caravan full of such eclectic furnishings. Yup, he sure looked a fine figure of a man! Now what was it he was going to do… oh yeah… he was heading for a showdown with the Existential Kids. They would be probably be in Glugs.
He exited the caravan to make his way to the saloon with his special cowboy walk, the one which gave the impression he had lost his horse. Watch out Existential Kids, Soupy Laidl's comin' to getcha!
*
The thing about an octuple vodka is that it saves you seven trips to the bar. Of course, Morgana was sitting at the bar anyway, but any excuse eh? She was whiling away her afternoon listening to the conversations around her. The couple sitting directly in front of her in the sunken alcove had started off with a bad joke, moved on to rubbish, and had now advanced to utter tosh.
"Tosh tosh tosh tosh tosh" they went, "blah blah blah yadda yadda yadda rhubarb."
No, there had to be better things to do than listen to this nonsense. Damned if she could think of any though. Fortuitously, the something that was being waited for to happen chose this moment to do so, thus creating an event.
The door swung open and in walked Soupy Laidl using his aforementioned traditional omega-shaped gait.
"Mah name's Soupy Laidl and ah'm the roughest, toughest, rootin'est, tootin'est sonnuva bitch in this hyar town," he proclaimed, proving his adjectives in order by striking a match on his chin, bending a knife on his knee, leaping into the air waving a banner bearing the legend "Go Team!" and parping a froghorn.
"What about the bit where you prove the noun by showing a picture of a doggie labelled 'Mother'?" challenged Soob, the minx.
"You leave ma mama out of this!" Soupy's ire was roused. "Ah'm all those things wot ah jes said and ah've come for th'Existential Kids!"
"The who?"
"The you!"
"We're the Existential Kids?" Dennis rhetoricaled, "That's a pretty dull name, it doesn't rhyme or alliterate or even roll off the tongue! I'm not pleased with that, I can tell you!"
"Well, pardner, it don't matter a twinkler's cuss whether yer pleased with it or not. Ah've come to getcha an' ah'm gonna getcha…
"Reach!"
Soob reached, grabbed her empty Doodle bottle and flung it at Soupy. It landed atop his hat, and lodged there.
"Damn! It was the same in the finals of the Bottle-throwing Championships! My nerves got the better of me and Bottlethrow "Bottle-thrower" O'Bottlethrow the Bottle-thrower took the cup[1]!"
"You didna oughtna shouldna done that, Missy," growled Soupy "Bottlehat" Laidl, "Now ah'm REALLY mad!"
In a flash his guns were in his hands and in another he had pulled the triggers.
"Aaaaggghhh!" screamed Dennis.
"Aaaaggghhh!" screamed Soob.
"I'm all wet!" screamed Dennis.
"You can say that again ha ha!" screamed Soob.
"I'm all wet!" screamed Dennis.
"Stop all that screaming!" screamed Morgana.
"You didna oughtna shouldna got involved, Missy!" screamed Soupy, and levelled his shooters at her.
But she was too quick for him. In a flash her whip was in her hand and in another the cowboy's hat went flying from his head. The bottle remained in position for a second, then succumbed to gravity with a resounding clonk.
"Dang! Some doggone varmint done crept up behind me!"
He toppled to the floor in his own puddle.
"So, who is that bespectacled nerk anyway?" Morgana inquired of the damp ones.
Soggy Soob answered. "He said his name was… Soupy Laidl."
There was a pause during which no orchestra played ominous chords.
"And what's he got against you two?"
"I don't know," admitted Dennis, "We're possibly missing a plot point."
"Plot point?" Morgana was mystified. "What plot? This isn't a story you know. This is life. Things just happen."
"Er… never mind. Just my little joke."
At an apparently empty table, the Author took a sip of his cola and underlined some words in his notebook:
THESE TWO ARE TROUBLE!
His plan had failed abysmally. He had intended Soupy Laidl to be a mean and dangerous man, with real guns shooting real bullets, but Mervyn obviously wasn't up to the job; or maybe it was the story. It was far too light in tone to contain any such realistic violence. He had intended it to be a fun read, and more importantly a fun write; he had no idea whether he had succeeded in the first aim, but as far as the second was concerned he was having a little difficulty. He could feel deep in his hindbrain that what had started as a simple throwaway pastime was on the verge of becoming an obsession. It was almost as if it was a living thing, burrowing its way through his mind in an earwig stylee. And what's more, his characters were getting out of control. Even now Dennis was looking this way. He couldn't be seen of course, despite the illusion that the ill-defined guitar-playing character was focusing on his creator, but it was quite disconcerting nevertheless.
The Author wrote himself out of the scene, silently cursing his experiment in post-modernism. It hadn't been a very good scene anyway; it wasn't worthy of him, more like those written by a much lesser talent. In fact, he could hardly believe he was the person responsible for it.
"He's gone now," Dennis informed Soob.
"No he's not, he's still lying there," Morgana contested, indicating the prone cowpoke. "What shall we do with him?"
"Oh, just leave him there."
So they did, and when he awoke some time later they were gone.
Why does my head hurt? thought Mervyn, then noticed his attire. Oh no, not again.
Now why do you suppose he thought that?