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The story of Quicksand, the snake-charmer

 
Engel's picture
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deat


Oilville, outskirts

Quicksand was a good lookin' fella. He had a rugged look that women just couldn't ignore. His eyes were smart and young and his voice... oh that thing was born in heaven but grew up in hell. When he spoke, and he rarely did, people would stop and listen. He grew up somewhere south, but rose to fame when he managed to tame a mutated prairie chicken. He was the first guy to do it. 

After that, he tamed many more beasts but most notable in his collection were a dozen or so of battle-crazed she-clones, some of the baddest bitches in the wasteland. Some of them were mad, some of them were wicked but all were as beautiful as they were deadly. They purred in his lap.

Yep. Quicksand sure was a good lookin' fella. But now he was dead. He didn't look so well right now, shriveled in his simple wooden coffin covered with dry prairie sand.

---

There were no men at his funeral.

Four female clones, four of the wildest and thorniest flowers of the wasteland were standing next to his grave. Although Quicksand never was much of a gambling man, they sure looked like four queens from playing cards.

 

"Pity," said the bald beauty Let's say she was the queen of clubs. "Quicksand was a fine stud."

Wearing a hockey mask, the second woman remained silent. She will be the queen of diamonds in this story.

"Too bad he wasn't a clone," agreed the tattooed girl, barely a child in stature. She looked like she could be our queen of spades.

The third woman, let's say she is the queen of hearts, was wearing a camo-patterned wedding gown. She sobbed openly: "You whores. You never really loved him for what he really was. You only loved him for his body."

"Oh yeah?" the bald girl raised her voice. "Now comes the part where you tell us you were his special snowflake, right?"

The child-like queen of spades tried a conciliatory tone: "We loved him for what he was. He was a snake charmer, and we were his..."

"Oh shut the fuck up!" interrupted the bride in camo-wear. "I said you were whores and I meant it! You pushed him over the edge. You broke him. He was perfect, and you just love to break your toys, don't you?"

"Careful, now," the bald queen of clubs said in a low voice. "You might lose some blood here if you continue speaking like this."

"Please, stop! Can we at least have a funeral without bloodshed, please?" the little queen of spades sighed.

They remained silent for a few minutes. Then the masked queen of diamonds simply said: "You are all wrong. He was never yours. He was mine." She slowly took out a modified shotgun from her back. In an instant - the other queens pulled out their oversized weapons from who-knows-where. The queen of clubs was gripping a spore infected mace, queen of spades produced a pair of glowing pistols and the queen of hearts cocked her high-tech sniper rifle. They stood there for a second, as if facing the inevitable. Somebody pulled the trigger and they started their dance. Bullets and blades ripped at their flesh and wild-colored outfits, destroying their makeup and limbs. Even after the first strike, injured and hobbling, they still went at each other's throats with determined intensity. Pretty soon their pretty bodies, now hacked and glistening with blood, fell down over each other. Thick blood ran down into the ground, racing to reach their master's corpse.

---

 

When all the ladies heard that he was dead
Some wore orange dresses
And some wore red

When all the ladies heard that he had died
He could hear them wailing
All the way on the other side

 

 

Comments

Joe Spivey's picture

((Clones eh? *shugs* What can ya do?

Stick with me kid and you'll be farting through silk.

Betty Hatlevik's picture

(( Wouldn't be a Wasteland Funeral if it didn't end in bloodshed.

In the land of Gods and Monsters I was an Angel, living in the Garden of Evil.

Veronica Volt's picture

((So good! I read it then immediately read it again.

Veronica Volt's picture

((So good! I added a comment then immediately added a comment again.



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