Chief Red Ass
I’d just gotten a blowjob and my spirits were high. I was thinking really clearly, clearer than I had in years. It had been one of those nice ones, too: no teeth, not too fast but not too slow either. Like a good bandleader, she had established a rhythm and conducted the whole affair with great aplomb. It can be like a steam valve down there: sometimes you don’t know how much is built up until you unload it, sticky and cloggy into some poor girl’s throat. “Ooh that’s salty,” she says and you’re self-conscious for a second but then you think, I’m a man and all you’re tasting is testosterone, sweetie.
Needless to say, my mind was unfettered and it was a good thing, too. How else could I have conquered Chief Red Ass? His skin seemed to be made of leather, with the texture and finish of a well broken-in baseball mitt. His eyes were two arrowheads that could pierce through any Paleface. He was nearly seven feet tall and he dressed like a cigar store Indian. He spoke so rarely that when he did, Wurlitzers stopped mid-song. “What Mother Fucker,” he steamed, his tobacco-leaf voice rugged and guttural, “just copped a hummer off my papoose? I kill the MotherFucker.” His f’s and k’s stabbed you worse than any tomahawk ever could. I thanked god for the blowjob, seeing as how it would probably be the last one I ever got.
The drunks all trembled on their stools as Chief Red Ass, high and stiff as a totem pole, stood in front of the door, his arms over his chest like crossbows. “I kill the motherfucker,” he kept saying over and over. Nobody moved; there was no protocol. Galvanized by the blow job, I proclaimed with a conviction I’d never felt before: “It was me, you goddamn alcoholic buffalo jockey. And what the FUCK are you gonna do about it?” Globules of spittle fired from my lips like tiny musket balls. Chief Red Ass stammered. The crimson drained from his face and he seemed to shrink to an average man’s height and shrivel like an armadillo. “I kill motherfucker” he repeated, only in a much duller tone than before. Emasculated, he turned, shoved the saloon doors open and slunk out ingloriously.
I don’t know what came over me. I still don’t. After Chief Red Ass was out of sight, everyone wanted to buy me a beer. I got home shitfaced later that night and when I undressed for bed, I found my drawers still crusty from earlier. My bedtime cigarette tasted better than any I’ve ever smoked before and I slept a full eight hours for the first time since I was nine.