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I C O N O C L A S T : W E S T E R N . P R O M I S E S
Across the west Texas plain, a rogue tumbling hay bale kisses the whiffed up dirt just beyond the setting sun. A mostly broken wooden post. Rotting fence pieces laying in a distinct path, as if broken through in an ambush from one direction into the other. A muffled scream heard with a southern draw. The specific accent sounds like an older style of speech. As if some woman from another time is struggling to fight off a thief, or... worse. The sun faded peeling orange shingles on the roof. An entire section missing as the dying sunlight sneaks through to a rickety spring-less bedding below. Closer down, the face of a woman in pain. She struggles to push off a man that is only seen from behind by broad shoulders and a plaid collared shirt. Bloody scratches and wadded dirt make up the lining around his filthy neck. His pants around his ankles. She reaches into the air toward a child tucked into the corner covering her ears holding a beat up doll with shaggy red hair. She motions for the child to not look, and begs God for help. The light grows weaker with every passing instant. Like the woman's faith in her situation, it begins to turn dark quicker than expected. She eventually succumbs to the thrusting nuisance of grunting followed by a pathetic whimper.
Sinful men do but sin,
They enter matches they have no business in.
Against foes who collect outlaws,
Like matches burning up brush still raw.
Doing deeds that lick up the light,
Lunk-headed heathens without skills to fight.
The saddle-burn stings as hero's ride,
Onto Lethal Lottery to conquer and divide.
Salting wounds in just the first round,
Delivering on western promises in front of a crowd.
Warfare the likes these heathens in, have no interest,
On their wanted posters until you all bare witness.
Galloping horse shoes sprint across the barely lit horizon; toward the small shack in the distance they appear to be driven. Scanning up the muscle lined dark brown and white spotted legs of a horse... to a saddle bag, a mounted rifle, and a swaying holster along the course. Drifting over through the ride. Another stallion, black and white. Up to the back of a cowboy with long blonde hair. And a whip to command the beast here or there. Like knights from a begotten era they ride onward. Truth and consequence their swords with which to plunder. A saving grace for the graceful willing to be saved. In the cold western nights, or the heat of another suffering summer day. When chaos strikes the heart of such radical dilemma's, the cowboys carry through with righteous will's to adjust XWF viewer antenna's. It may be the old west, but one thing remains current, when the odds are stacked in any direction... the Icons will be your reassurance. Past the barn, the horses are tied to post. In the front door, Chris lifts the child to safety telling her that she matters most. Gabe slides through to shield them with a hand on his steel dream taker. The heathen rises pulling up his pants, as the woman whispers "make him meet his maker". The man ties his drawers back up, and reaches for his coat holster beside the bed. "Tisk, tisk" Reno murmurs, the man stops cold not wanting to be splattered with lead. Gabe looks at the woman, who motions to finish it. Chaos emerges from the back door, cornering the inbred. He goes for his pistol; the quick draw is a fistful. Five shots rings out before they can be seen. The smokes clears as Reno looks over at the fiery eyes in his partners gleam. He walks over and puts a hand on Chris' head. Chaos looks at Reno... "he was better off dead". The woman rises and hugs the two bounty bulls. With renewed faith in the lord's prayer, and a hug for her returning child so full.
LEAD PUSHERS
A sound of thunder, as the kerosene lantern's are lit for vision. Four men have surround the place, trying to locate their friend that be missin'. A whip of lightening along the flat desolate plains. An omen of things to come from where the clouds make their way. Chris looks at Gabe; the mother and child into the cellar are lowered. The two Icons gesture, as the men outside make their way forward: A click and reload... casings hitting the floor absent to the life they just stole. New bullets in revolvers speckled with blood whether new or old. Chaos motions left, Gabe runs across the room. Reno motions right, as Chris tucks and rolls into position before the first boom. Backdoor creeks open, ever so slightly; a man with a red bandana over his face tip toes in, having seen the tied horses outside, cautiously. Front door bangs, as another scoundrel is afoot; banging softened by the pinging rain from the thunderstorm in the now pitch black dark like soot. The woman in the cellar under starts to hum a tune. She tries to wish them luck, but they simultaneously put fingers over their lips, hearing voices of the other two. Creeping up the back hall, the man with the red bandana; swings open a door, but has no luck finding his friendly cabana. A crack in the front door, from being hit so violent, Chaos stands beneath, as it swings open from such a tyrant. Double barreled .45's spin before the pendulum hits... stopping on a dime, then blowing the intruder at the front door into little bits. Gabe runs down the hall, and slams the splintering door into the red bandana's face. Putting his head in the crease, while shouting "SAY MY NAME". Crumbling to the floor the man; but Chaos whistles quick, Reno runs back over, as the last two men resembling Main and Crowe have guns to Chaos' dick.
It was a short and squatty cabin,
Thick dirt roof and round corral,
From the distance, it looked interesting,
Stopping to rest our horses for a spell.
If only we had known the trouble,
These wild-eyed bandits had bubbled,
A Crowe and a Main,
Maybe we should've shook hands first,
Told them our names.
Said we were resting from a fever,
And that we had the lonesome blues,
Then maybe, they'd of offered bed and breakfast,
If we would share the latest news.
Yet, rape isn't a funny thing,
Wrong is wrong when a woman says no more pain,
They seemed glad to violate her wish,
Rustling up some dirty deeds,
While we pulled up to it.
The woman before had some supper going,
I could see a load of wood,
She just wanted a peaceful dinner,
For her child before slumber's hood,
With no idea's scoundrel's were outside up to no good.
We had to reached down into our belly's,
Through exhaustion to our pistol's, Dare and Nelly,
Before you know it, those old wolves had the drop on Chaos' nads,
We were helpless to move, or they'd end in a Universal dash,
Stuck by the heathens we soon faced, we recalled what Icons have.
Gabe looks up wondering how this could have happened, lowering his holster, so that Chris' offspring's don't go down clappin'. Taken outside, and placed on their knees, Reno begins to pray... Chris promises to make them bleed. The men cock their triggers, ready to depart. Shots rings through the cool rainy west... but a few seconds apart. Two culprits faces cringe with realization, while they were goin' to shoot facing north, it's south that they shoulda' been facin'. Falling to their knees, then onto their plump bellies, the sight for sore eyes beyond their bodies is telling. A tip of the hat, and a wide white grin. Cutting the ropes that bound our two favorite men. Talia Areano had caught up to the trail; turning up the heat, to send the heathens to hell. Gabe gets up and hugs her tight, stutters at first, but eventually gets over the fright.
Talia, you beautiful Angel... let me come over tonight?
Oh yeah, or I could come over to your place...
She straddles his western vest. Chaos impatiently taps his foot off to the side as if muted by their passion.
Guys? Are we gonna get out of here, or..?
Yeahhh?
Take off my... shoes. Then we could make sweet...
She toils with his buttons.
Yeahhhhhhh?
Fresh lemonade to drink. Then get down and dirty...
Leaning toward her lips and closing his eyes. Chaos finally stomping off toward the post to get the horses seemingly ignored.
Oh, JESUS.
Oh, fuck yeahh!
While we do my... laundry. Then we could turn up the heat...
He leans in for the kiss.
Mmmmhmmm! You promise?!
Oh yeah... turn that heat right up... on the stove... and make some... enchiladas. I'm starving!
He completely misses her and stumbles nearly falling over. Chaos gathers his belongings and unties the horses shaking his head. Talia gets on her horse and winks playfully, riding off into the night. Gabe mounts his stallion next to Chaos who hands him the reigns.
You're an idiot, you know that, right?
Shut up! She's good at making western promises.
She's enjoying this, you realize that?
Maybe she's not the only one...
The two icons ride into the darkness, as the saved mother and her child hold each other tight amongst the dead bodies that will surely rot and are too heavy for them to carry; smiling at their saviors and the savvy damsel that helped turn the tide. The two tuck back in the door as the camera rises and fades off into the western sky.
☆
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