The Secret Western of . . . Christopher Luxon
MONDAY
The good people of Dodge City either loved or hated Big Bad Luxon, the baddest man in the whole damned town.
When he walked up the main street in the midday sun, his shadow before him like a long black column of smoke, townsfolk gathered to admire his steady progress towards the governor’s mansion.
“I’m gonna tear that place down,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, “and rebuild it in my own image.”
There was applause from the merchants who were burdened with Governor Ardern’s tax programme.
There was applause, too, from the shopkeepers who wanted relief from the teenage varmints who rode right into their stores and shot them up just for the hell of it.
But there was only fear and loathing from the governor’s supporters — and no one hated Big Bad Luxon more than Governor Ardern’s loyal assistant, Li’l Squeaky Robertson.
Squeaky knew that his days were numbered.
Big Bad Luxon was coming for him. Big Bad Luxon spelled death to the liberal regime.
Big Bad Luxon sure was one tough hombre.
People said he snarled even in his sleep.
TUESDAY
Big Bad Luxon walked up the main street in the midday sun but interrupted his steady progress towards the governor’s mansion to take a sudden U-turn.
He was always doing that. He was always going back on his word.
“I misspoke,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, “but it ain’t no big deal.”
The townsfolk applauded.
WEDNESDAY
Big Bad Luxon held a meeting in the town square of Dodge.
He held a set of leg irons in his hand.
“When you elect me as governor,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, “this is the way I’m gonna deal with the teenage varmints who ride right into your stores and shoot ’em up just for the hell of it.” He rattled the leg irons in the air.
“Also,” he said, out of the other corner of his mouth, “I’m gonna set up boot camps to teach these teenage varmints a lesson they ain’t ever gonna forget even if it kills them, which would be an unfortunate and undesirable outcome but you can’t make an omelette without smashing a few bad eggs.”
The wild applause carried down the main street and filled the many rooms of the governor’s mansion like smoke.
Li’l Squeaky Robertson coughed, and spluttered, and wheezed.
He didn’t look none too good.
THURSDAY
An academic rode through Dodge and held up graphs which showed that boot camp was the goddamn dumbest idea there ever was and wouldn’t make a lick of difference or deter the teenage varmints one little bit.
Big Bad Luxon called on one of his lieutenants.
“Deal to that academic,” he told Useless Goldsmith.
Useless rode through Dodge and told everyone not to believe a damned word the academic was saying. He could have saved his breath. The townsfolk had already made up their minds that the academic, the press, and all of the liberals in Dodge were fools who had had their say for far too long.
FRIDAY
Big Bad Luxon blew out his bedside candle and settled into sleep.
Like his idol Good King John, it was a habit he had fallen into at the end of the day.
But his dreams were restless and tormented.
He dreamed he sent for a horse, and Useless Goldsmith brought him a jackass.
Big Bad Luxon rode the jackass in circles.
No one applauded these U-turns. Finally, the jackass took him to the governor’s mansion.
He saw Li’l Squeaky Robertson run for his life.
But then he saw Governor Ardern. She stepped outside and held her arms low and loose at her side.
“Draw,” she said, and there was a flash of metal.
Big Bad Luxon whimpered out of both corners of his mouth.