When Bartleby Willard, dark and stony as obsidian, mounts his tall dappled-grey charger, riding barefoot in nothing but buffalo-skin pants and stormy looks, charges madcap into the fray, all the six-shooting desperadoes yank their steeds round, trying to whirl out of Dodge. But Bartleby can’t let them get away so easy. These lowdown Love-rustlers are biting into his profit margin!
Has ever man looked so much like an obsidian greekhero statue? Has ever a man flashed such fire-red eyes while barreling down so relentlessly upon scattering bandits? Have ever silver guns rang so clear and precise in the naked sunlight of a desert-dry afternoon?
One by one the villains–many of them but yet boys–fall face-first into the dusty dirt, bleeding themselves out into the hot indifferent ground, tangling their gasping wounds up into the all-enveloping dust kicked up by their panicked horses and own crashing, flipping, twisting, breaking bodies.
Has Bartleby gone too far? They were just grizzled desperadoes, running for the payoff that never came, shooting at the star that always got away, asking for a glitzy comfy glamour they couldn’t really believe in anyway.
And so, in his regret, this obsidian devil lifts the whole story up inside a great Oklahoma twister, and in the swirling chaos heals the broken players until all are read to be gently set atop the hard red-dirt Main Street. “Now, git!” And off they fly, all these smelly, scruffy, tired, clammy-handed, lonely, pimply-nosed bandits. Off they fly, canteens full of the purest, most incorruptible Love that ever there was.
We’re keeping track of all these posts here: The Logbook. Maybe it can be a words-only comic strip of our Pure Love moguling.
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This Logbook becomes a chapter book at Logbook of a Pure Love Mogul: Chapters
Author: Bartleby Willard
Editor: Amble Whistletown
Copyright: AM Watson