The Justin stands booted and ponchoed in the town’s dusty street, gently playing his own standoff music.
Doors down the strip burst open, and howling varmints blaze their guns. The Justin draws the Martin and assumes Defensive Southern Mantis, blade spinning and sparking; bullets make unlikely noises and bury themselves in facades. His opponents fall flat. They were only cardboard standups.
“Not bad,” says a chuckle behind him. “Ready to duel someone worth your time?”
The Justin turns slowly to look at his opponent. Oily mustaches outline a too-white grin, and the razor teeth of his monstrous accordion bellow wide.
The Justin rides atop a slow boxcar, transposing a Buddy Holly song to E minor. His Martin leaves notes like tissues in the moonlit wind.
Then there are ninjas.
“Did you really think it was over?” asks their kunoichi. “That you were free?”
“Lord Riaa is dead,” he says gravely.
Does she smile beneath the mask? “Perhaps. But he was only one of a Cartel–none of whom have any interest in seeing you as ronin. Come with us or die.”
The Justin nods. Then he draws the neck of the Martin from its body, and slices them all in half.
The girl on the porch swing looks up from her Kate Chopin and blinks. “Mister J. T.?” she asks.
“Don’t have to be formal, the Girl,” he says.
“I suspect I do.” She nods at the long black guitar case. “A new accoutrement?”
“No,” he sighs, “just the only woman I’ll ever love again.”
“Ah.”
“Yes.”
“Why’d you come here, Mister J. T.?” She’s trying not to clench the book.
“I had all this sexy left over,” says the Justin, and hitches up his shirt just enough to pull the red vial from his waistband. “Thought you might want it back.”
Thursday, August 10, 2006
“Deploy snowboards!” shouts the Justin, and he and Ptah slam sliding into the side of the black glass pyramid. They cut their chutes away; they slalom down with pink neon in their wake. But the charcoalsuits can afford to land harder, and they’re close behind.
There’s a rosewood Martin at the bottom, plugged right into the building.
“The Justin can’t play guitar!” says the Justin, panicked. “He took pop-and-lock lessons instead!”
“Let go of pop, the Justin,” says Ptah. “Play your soul.”
The Justin closes his eyes and hits high B. The suits scream. The pyramid sings the blues.
Monday, December 19, 2005