“But curling your fingers is actually the slowest part,” Chili John is explaining. “So you slap hard and get some friction, flick it out of the holster, then worry about getting to the trigger on the way up–”
The Teacher is shaking his head. “You still think it matters, how fast your draw?”
Chili John lets himself grin a little at that. “I’ve stood at twenty paces at high noon on the street before, and I reckon I might again, so yeah, I do.”
“Wrong,” says the Teacher harshly. “Only one speed matters, boy. You’re still as slow as your bullet.”
The man Chili John calls Piper doesn’t have a pipe, but a what are they called? Panflute. The chimpfall is fresh. The whole town has come out to watch.
“This better be worth our time,” grumbles the chief.
“What?” says Chili John.
Piper’s dancing a slow, shuffling dance now. He’s moving the panflute; it doesn’t seem to make any sound. There is something shining just over his left shoulder, though.
Huh.
The crowd leans forward, trying to see. Piper moves. The glimmer moves. The crowd moves.
Chili John, his ears stuffed with rubber plugs, grins to himself. The chimps grin too.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
The chimpfall in Puebla is like dew, not rain: around four a.m. they start to accrete on awnings and car roofs, anything flat that stays cool. But they don’t evaporate in the sun.
“They just sit in the street,” grumbles the chief, “not like we need streets in the morning, and eventually they move off some random way. To make room for the next ones! I’d blow their monkey brains out–”
“But they’re endangered,” Chili John nods.
“I’m ’bout to endanger ’em. I don’t know what you’re planning, stranger, but…”
“Can’t fight spontaneous generation, Chief,” grins Chili John, “without a degenerate.”
After the midday lunch break (hard cheese and dry bread), Comet pauses to reorient. It’s getting more difficult as the day goes on.
“That way,” he says at last, trying to sound decisive. “I can tell.”
The rest of the posse squints where he’s pointing. “I don’t know,” says Chili John hesitantly. “It looks kinda… familiar, don’t it, boss?”
“You can’t trust your eyes out here.” snaps Comet. “It all looks alike, and that’s why you got to orient! Now let’s ride!”
With a bit of muttering, they trot out over the scrubland, keeping the sun always on their left.
Thursday, August 12, 2004