Who Wouldn't Want to Know?

Billy the Kid's real name was most likely William Henry McCarty, not William H. Bonney as is commonly believed.

Latigo Flint doesn't know what disappoints him more about the cute Starbucks cashier's reaction to receiving this information - her words: "Who gives a shit you freak?!" Or the incredulous contempt in her eyes as she said it.

Fine missy, you wanna play it that way? How's this: Latigo Flint hopes that sometime in the future you're at a dinner party with the absolute man of your dreams. You're playing a team trivia game against other couples, and with the entire game on the line you incorrectly answer "William H. Bonney" to the question: "Most Western Historians agree Billy the Kid's real name was most likely ________?"

The well-read and sexy man-of-your-dreams is peeved at you for blowing such an easy question. The two of you end up arguing bitterly in front of everyone. It escalates on the drive home. Back at your shared apartment, lamps are thrown and then he leaves you. You end up marrying a greasy womanizer and you're miserable for the rest of your life.

Reap that whirlwind java-maid.




(Not that it makes any difference, but Latigo Flint did deliver the aforementioned information in the form of whispering lips into ear, right arm around her waist, left hand starting to administer a gentle neck rub, after a stealthy creep around the pastry display case. But hey, she looked like she was having a stressful morning, and western lore with a neck rub is extremely relaxing.)

Where Seldom is Heard...

So it turns out there are a number of overlapping laws and statutes that prohibit the public staging of a good old fashioned cow-punching, campfire sing-along... on a Friday night... on the corner of Hollywood and Vine.

The noble Vaquero, those wild and dashing Mexican cowboys of the old Southwest, have always been a friend and ally to the squinty-eyed American Gunslinger. There was much that each respected and admired in the other. The vaqueros could be fierce fighters when absolutely necessary but rarely sought it out. Love, passion and romance - these were the things the Vaquero lived for and bullets have a nasty habit of violently smashing future opportunities to love. "Lips," so goes the old vaquero saying, "are for kissing a fine woman, not for forming bloody spit bubbles with last ragged breaths."

Over the years, many a tired gunslinger has enjoyed a night of peace, good food and carefree song at a vaquero campfire.

For ten dollars an hour, the gentlemen relaxing outside the local Home Depot were more than willing to help Latigo Flint reenact this comfortable picture of frontier camaraderie. "Campfire songs senior? Of course we know campfire songs. Serapes and cooking pots? No problemo."

We rehearsed until twilight then drove to Hollywood & Vine. Double parked the U-Haul for a moment and quickly set up. And that was how it came to pass that a large crowd of Midwestern tourists got to witness the following scene.

Seven vaqueros hunkered around a campfire, leaning comfortably against saddles and singing magnificently as the frijoles and tortillas warmed.
"El Oh la vida de un vaquero es fino. Caballos y vacas y coyotes y tales. El Oh la vida de un vaquero es magnífico. Tengo gusto de hacerlo oh tanto. "

From somewhere beyond the circle of firelight my boot heal scuffed audibly on the curb.

"Es somebody there?" Juan peered cautiously into the night.

"Not to worry amigos!" I said in a low, clear voice. "Continue to play and sing your fine song. None but a friend approaches your fire this night."

"Es that Lateego Fleeent the esteemed gunslinger? Could it be so?"

"None other my amigos."

"You know you are always most welcome at our fires of camp Lateego Fleent. Step in from the cold and join us for frijoles and tortillas."

"Thank you Juan. You're certain you have enough to spare?"

"For you Lateego Fleent, always. You will of course lend your mighty baritone to our humble song to earn your food."

I threw back my head and laughed heartily. "Juan my amigo, does nothing ever change?" I stepped to the fire and breathed deeply of the wonderful smells emanating from the kettles. "And so again amigos it has come to pass that-"

The screeching tires and wailing sirens cut me off at that point and the comfortable picture of frontier camaraderie quickly disintegrated into chaos and bedlam. My gentleman reenactors hollered "I.N.S.!!!" and started to scatter, colliding with the suddenly terrified tourists who screamed and began beating them with handbags. The frijoles pot was overturned into the path of several charging police who slipped and crashed into the campfire, sending flaming logs flying in all directions, badly burning several tourists and igniting some nearby magazine racks. A squad of street people charged from an alley and tried to scoop up the musical instruments until enraged, frijoles-stained police, started pummeling them with nightsticks. A large crowd formed out the outside of the circle and started collapsing everyone in towards the flames in an attempt to see what was going on. Then a stray dog darted in, gulped down a couple of tortillas, took a giant sniff from a small dish of cayenne pepper and just went completely berserk...

They're going to try to throw the book at Latigo Flint. You may hear newscasters and court reporters say terrible things about Latigo Flint. But you know they aren't true. You know Latigo Flint was just trying to bring a little frontier camaraderie to a cold, heartless town.

Hey Dern It, Hurry Up

It has recently come to Latigo Flint's attention that there is in fact one final frontier... SPACE!!!

Well *&%#!* come on!!! Why didn't someone tell Latigo Flint sooner?! What on Earth are we waiting for?! (Yes, I thought that was pretty clever too, "What on Ea-" um, anyway...)

Space colonies, asteroid mining facilities, limitless opportunity, a transport infrastructure that requires long journeys, a prohibitively distant proximity from official offices of law--- By the waxed handlebar of Earp, we're talking the Old West all over again, and with it, the opportunity for Latigo Flint, the quickest quickdraw the world has ever known, to actually achieve his one great calling.

Oh caustic irony that Latigo Flint has spent his years bemoaning a birth 150 years too late when it would now seem it might have also been 150 years too early!!!

No doubt about it, action must be taken and right quick. In his early 60's, Clint was still able to stride dangerously, squint menacingly, and slap thigh blazingly, as evidenced by the fine documentary film, Unforgiven. There's no reason Latigo Flint can't expect a similar retention of quickdraw skills. That gives us 30 to 40 years - and actually I'd really prefer it to be much sooner to really maximize the number of years I get to say: "ohm in maa priiiiiime".

So....... GO! Time to get a move on and really scamper along forward now NASA and Branson and Rutan and all 'yall. Friggin' tie the carbon nanotubes already and pluck the antimatter and whatnot.

I said MOVE! How can you be so obtuse NASA? Don't you understand this is my chance? This is my life we're talking about here!!!



Okay, I got a little worked up just then (sorry Dufresne). I'm going to get rip-snorting, dread-shuffling drunk now and when I wake up in a day or two, I had better see some serious progress.

Yeah, I'm looking at you too Asian UCLA students. Show me something dern it!

Of Herons and Heroes

Southern California has recently found itself besieged by rain, and the Los Angeles River runs higher and swifter than any can remember. Today Latigo Flint was enjoying a leisurely stroll across a pedestrian enabled overpass when he heard a frantic call for assistance. He dashed to the far side and found a woman screeching and pointing upriver at something bouncing along with the muddy torrent.

"A great blue heron has fallen in! Someone must saaaave that great blue heron!" Then she noticed Latigo Flint was standing by her side. With a snarl she whirled and shoved me through a large hole in the chain link fence. "Fucking save it!"

I came disastrously close to a nasty tumble down the concrete slope, but was able to regain my balance. "What are you standing around for? You fucking save it now!!!" I followed her pointing finger with my squinty eyes - Eyes much keener than hers apparently.

"Madam, I do not believe that is in fact a great blue heron. I am actually quite certain it is an old, plastic tricycle with a trash bag caught in the spokes."

She threw a fit. "You vile hillbilly, it is a great blue heron on the verge of drowning and it needs rescuing this instant! Or are you a filthy coward!?"

I sighed and eased my way to the water's edge. The "rescue" was beyond perilous. I stood chest-deep in roiling, murderous water, my trembling left hand clutching a piece of rebar that jutted from the bank, and managed with my right to snag and toss the old plastic tricycle with a trash bag tangled in the spokes to shore. I looked up at the woman and shrugged. She glanced at the tricycle, gave me the finger and then kicked a stone down the embankment at my head.

Neither the woman nor I could have possibly been more surprised when a loud squawking suddenly sounded from upriver and a drowning great blue heron tumbled around the bend and collided with my face. I somehow got both of us to shore, staggered up the hill as the terrified bird pecked and clawed at my eyes, and collapsed at the woman's feet.
"Told you so asshole!" She kicked me in the kidney and dialed Channel 7 Eyewitness News.

The TV reporter conducted an extensive interview with the "heroic" woman, the two of them kneeling compassionately next to the rescued heron who sat cozy and warm, wrapped in a big yellow blanket. I lay next to the fence, two hundred feet away, moaning softly as I feebly tried to extract a muddy hypodermic needle that had somehow lodged in my shoulder blade. When the interview was finished they all ran to their vehicles and drove away - they took the blanket with them.

I managed to raise up onto one elbow. The great blue heron was stumbling around in the middle of the street, watching the cars disappear. It squarked sadly to itself.
"Hey big fella, got a name?" It turned at the sound of my voice, trotted over and stood majestically above me. Then it went for my eyes.
"No!" I weakly cuffed it upside the head. "Friends don't go for each other's eyes damnit!" I thought a moment. "I shall name you Billy - Billy the Great Blue Herron." Billy squarked agreeably. I fished around in my buckskin pouch, found a piece of jerky and took a bite. "Billy, my name is Latigo Flint." I offered him the other half and he eagerly ate it.

Then he went for my eyes again.

Grease-Fire Annie

Latigo Flint is a silent, stoic, man of action. Sympathy, counterproductive in any form, is a foreign emotion to a man such as Latigo Flint. And as such, Latigo Flint has never been very good at consoling girls - especially girls who recently lost all features that make a face look human in a horrible grease fire.

Grease-fire Annie is the bar regular no one sees. One look at her charred and twisted face and even the bravest begin to retch uncontrollably. Retching patrons are very bad for business so Bartender Gus set up a special table in a hidden corner for her where she sits every night, drinking and whispering softly to herself.

The other night, the bar was empty and it was very close to closing time when for some reason Grease-Fire Annie choose to leave her hiding place and approach Latigo Flint. Latigo Flint was slumped against the bar, trying halfheartedly to teach the lyrics of R.E.M's End of the World as we Know It to a handful of bar nuts, and didn't see her approach.

"Can I talk to you Latigo?" Her voice was low and mushy. I was busy glaring at a cashew who couldn't seem to holler: Leonard Bernstein!, in time with the others and her words didn't register. She gently touched my shoulder.
"Latigo, please." Startled I looked up and instantly began to retch uncontrollably.

Five minutes later I regained my composure and by staring at a point five inches above and to the left of her bacon rind ear I was able to accompany her back to her table and attempt to give the conversation and social interaction she so desperately needed.

We spoke randomly for a few minutes, the weather, favorite songs on the jukebox and such, then without warning she broke down and began to sob.
"Oh God Latigo, who's going to love me?! Who's ever going to love me now?!" My mind raced. "Umm, Bartender Gus likes you. He likes you a bunch." I gestured around at her tiny enclosure. "Best seat in the place - and reserved for you every night." She cried harder, tears gushing now and tumbling down her blasted visage.
"Goddamn it Latigo - Gus loathes me!" She wiped her eyes and looked sorry for the outburst. When she spoke again it was in a near whisper. "Gus pities me. He loathes me and he pities me. Who is ever going to love me." That time it wasn't a question, and I breathed an inward sigh of relief.

We sat in silence for many minutes, then I stood to leave. I mustered up all my intestinal strength and stared directly into her cloudy eyes. "It was very lovely talking to you Annie. We must do it again sometime." She gave me a tiny smile - probably the first she'd attempted since the accident.
"Bless you Latigo. When you look at me like that it gives me hope that I'll find love." I gulped, suddenly very very nervous. She continued, "Hope that someday I'll find a man exactly like you - except of course, a heterosexual version of you."

I nearly yelled my shock and outrage but at the last instant, wiser thoughts prevailed. With a slight sashay in my hips I took a step toward her and placed my hand on hers.
"You go girlfriend. You go!" The words were bile in my throat but I managed to make them sound just as sweet and sassy as can be.

On the way home I stopped and purchased a copy of Guns & Ammo, Field & Stream, a SI Swimsuit Edition and a tin of Skoal - and not the minty flavor either.

Sam Elliott's Beer

(Latigo Flint has been extremely busy on top-secret gunslinger business - which may or may not involve intense physical rehabilitation and asking strangers to help him wipe his ass... depending on how truthful you believe these posts to be.

In the meantime here's one from the archives - November 9, 2004.)

Sam Elliott's Beer

So it turns out you should never, ever, under any circumstance, take the last beer in Sam Elliott's fridge. No one has ever received a beating the likes of which Latigo Flint received last night at the hands of Sam Elliott.

You see, Latigo Flint stopped by Sam's house to pitch his movie idea of a time traveling gunslinger. Sam was out running a couple of errands so Latigo Flint told the Guatemalan housekeeper a few white lies about being Sam's favorite nephew and such, and settled into the kitchen to wait.

Then Latigo Flint got a little thirsty. You'd think a big movie star like Sam Elliott would have multiple fridges and plenty of beer, especially if he's that passionate about it.

The beating Sam Elliott administered upon returning and discovering his last beer in Latigo Flint's hand was unemotional, methodical and without a shred of mercy. It was probably awesome to behold. Probably the sort of beating Latigo Flint would have loved to watch had it not been happening to him.

On the scale of actors whose last beer you should never take, if Anthony Michael Hall is a 1 and Russell Crowe is a 10 - without a doubt, Sam Elliott is a 14, maybe even a 15.

So They're Blades, and They Roll?

It recently occurred to Latigo Flint that one of these days he could be called out by some upstart quickdraw looking to make a name for himself - and as the challenger, it would be well within the rights of the little punk to stipulate that the combatants wear rollerblades.

Latigo Flint is the quickest quickdraw the world has ever known. He can slap thigh and shuck iron so fast that Aaron Copland would be inspired to compose again... from beyond the frickin' grave.

But Latigo Flint does not rollerblade. It had never even crossed Latigo Flint's mind to touch a rollerblade, much less strap it to his foot. And this is a potential weakness - Latigo Flint recognizes this with grim clarity. The quickdraw of yesteryear, beyond his prodigious skill with a firearm, needed only to ensure he possessed the supplementary skills of walking, running, crouching, squinting, horseback riding, spitting indifferently and moseying. We live in a very different era now - an era in which the specter of gunfight failure demands I learn to rollerblade.

The events that transpired between this realization yesterday, and my wheelchair assisted release tonight from the local emergency room are much too depressing and pathetic for Latigo Flint to attempt to relate - even to you. And besides I have next to no memory of them, especially anything after sliding into that intersection.

As far as the hospital, I do faintly recall, while in a morphine induced stupor, screaming at a nurse:
"I don't think you understand the lengths I'm prepared to go to see you naked." I'm pretty sure she struck me at some point. I may have struck back. Frantic intercom calls were made. I think my abdominal stitches came undone. Things were beeping. There was beeping everywhere, beeping and running and shouting... spent cartridges falling to the floor...

I'm sorry. I must rest now.

Latigo Flint - Public Speaker

"Howdy little buckaroos! Life got you down? Nobody cares about you? It's all starting to feel just a little bit pointless? You been having those dark, slippery thoughts again haven't you? You been starting to think about how much better it would all be if you were dead.

Well no problem!!! Go right on ahead and do it... after you scalp yourself that is. That's right cherubs, you heard me: Suicide yayyy!!! Be our guest, you've got everyone's blessing... right after you scalp yourself.

Oh it's easy you pale little whiners. Knife edge to hairline, grasp a clump of hair, slice, tug, peel, repeat. When you're staring at the oozing underside of your own cranial flesh you're done. Congratulations, you must really mean it. You now have our full permission to jump, chug the pills, topple the chair, step into the electrified tub - whatever you want. Mommy's proud of you, Daddy's proud, Latigo Flint is proud and you should be too. Nothing in this life is easy, including ending it. You had the gumption, the grit, the determination and the rarrin' to see it through. You've proved your unflinching desire to explore that one great mystery, now have a wonderful time, you've earned it."




(Is what Latigo Flint wished he'd said today when his community service plea bargain required him to speak at a local high school assembly. Instead Latigo Flint squinted at his scribbled notes on the hazards of drinking and driving unattended road graders while the little bastards threw snack-pack custards and batteries at him.)

Score One For Pedro

Latigo Flint's friend, Kid Relish, is writing an epic motion picture drama titled Score One For Pedro.

Score One For Pedro tells the heart-warming story of Pedro Gonzales, a deaf, blind and mute soccer goalie as he leads his small-town, rag-tag Peruvian team down the long and often treacherous path to the World Cup. All they wanted was respect. All they had were each other. All they need is what's in Pedro’s heart.

Kid says his film is going rake in a ton of cash and awards because he's going to sub-title it and pretend it's a Peruvian independent film. Kid says you could practically film a jar of mayonnaise for two hours and if people in the entertainment industry think it's a foreign independent they'll friggin' chuck awards at it, and all the art fags in the big cities will flock to see it.

Latigo Flint was pretty dubious. I told Kid Relish "Yeah Kid, they're sometimes gullible but come on, I don't think to that extreme." Kid just smiled wickedly and said, "You'll see Latty - they'll all fucking see... and then they'll pay for their petulance with their lives."

As I turned to leave, Kid Relish tried to smash me in the Adam's apple with a vicious elbow chop, but I was expecting it and a blazing hand slapped thigh. Kid rubbed the bruise on his arm where my pistol had struck, grinned his wide-eyed maniacal grin, and trotted away.

Hey, Make up Your Dern Mind

Women today don't seem to respond as positively to a stranger calling them a "dusky little gypsy temptress" as they did in generations past.

Latigo Flint remembers seeing the famous 3 hour long, cinéma vérité style documentary from the late 1950's in which a Cleveland man traveled the U.S. calling women dusky little gypsy temptresses. He was met with pleased blushes, giggles and warm embraces wherever he went.

Latigo Flint tried it today and it was an abject failure. I've never collected so many blank stares, rollings of the eyes, cruel replies, slaps to face or harsh, deriding laughter in my life. The woman in the elevator actually went so far as to blast Latigo Flint in the eyes and genitals with mace.

Make up your mind ladies - you sit around chatting all night with your girlfriends about how, ohhhh if I could only find a man who'd call me a dusky little gypsy temptress... and then when one actually does, you blast him in the eyes and genitals with mace???!!! Come on now, does that make any kind of sense?!








Fiiiiine... I guess honor compels me to mention that today I did choose to leave the house wearing nothing but open-faced chaps, facial war paint and my cow-skull bolo tie, but still-

Do the Math

Whenever someone tells Latigo Flint's friend, Kid Relish, to "do the math". As in "Well, what do you think - do the math." Or "Hey man, do the math - it'll never work." Kid Relish's response is always the same.

First Kid Relish snaps his head up and to the side and stands for a moment, finger to temple, lost in deep, contemplative thought. Then he whirls to face an imaginary chalkboard and pantomimes the furious scribbling of equations like a coked-up John Nash. He'll pause from time to time and step back to survey his progress. Tongue will clamp to upper lip, brows furrow - then with an exclamation of discovery, (typically "AH-HA!" But occasionally "Presto-pesto!") he'll dive back in, more animated than ever.

Kid Relish keeps this up for as long as the person feels like watching. The instant he or she turns to leave in disgust/frustration/anger etc., Kid Relish whips a small ceramic abacus from his back pocket and extends it to them. "Please help me double check something." Kid Relish says just as polite as can be. Everyone tends to instinctively reach for something thrust in their direction - the moment they do, Kid Relish slides his fingers through the abacus slots and uses it to beat their face and head into a bloody mush.

People rarely tell Kid Relish to "do the math" more than once.

A straight-shooting gunslinger like Latigo Flint probably wouldn't ever engage in such elaborate theatrics, but I can certainly respect Kid's style.

A Cell Phone for Cougar Jack

Old Cougar Jack was an occasional drinking buddy of Latigo Flint's, even though he was nearly 40 years my senior. Last year Cougar Jack died alone in a cheap motel room just outside of Bakersfield. That's just background information though.

Cougar Jack refused to buy a cell phone. He always claimed that while convenient, the portability and ubiquitous nature of cell phones also ensured that from time to time someone would be forced to listen to a loved one's slow, agonizing death - and he damn sure didn't feel like doing that.

In the fall of 2003, Cougar Jack's estranged daughter sent him a package. It arrived six days after his birthday and eight days before hers. (They were both Scorpios, not that Coug' knew or would have cared if he did.) The note simply said: "Happy Birthday to both of us Dad. This makes 10 since we last spoke. I love you. Jen." A phone number was written at the bottom. For over a week Cougar Jack kept that cell phone on the bar stool next to him. He came close to tossing it away at least a couple times a night. On the tenth night he asked Gus the Bartender to show him how to "work the dang thing".

Jen was driving down the Pacific Coast Highway when Cougar Jack's call came in. The five minutes father and daughter spent talking after years of mutual silence were the happiest either could remember. The sixth minute, not so much. Jen downshifted with her right hand, held the cell with her left, steadying the wheel with her knee. Then she hit a pothole and flew off the road. Cougar Jack sat on his stool in the deserted bar and alternated between hysterically screaming her name and listening as she died horribly, trapped in her burning car.

When Gus the Bartender returned from his break, he found Cougar Jack on the employee side, methodically pouring himself shots of Everclear. Tiny pieces of the cell phone covered the length of the bar.
"Twit knew I hated cell phones. She shouldn't never have sent it no-how." Gus just shrugged in reply and kicked him out for the night. Gus didn't know the whole story and Coug' never told him, Coug' told only me. And it made me so darn sad I hiccupped for like 15 minutes straight. For a gunslinger, quickest draw ever, that's a positively pathetic display of emotion.

We've Come so Far

It is all too easy to take for granted the advances made in the medical sciences over the years. Latigo Flint is as guilty of this as the next person, but when Latigo Flint found the following pamphlet - published in 1987 - things were really put into perspective. I think you'll agree. (Kid Relish broke my scanner a while ago, but here's the pamphlet, word for word.)

So Your Child Has Contracted Rabies - A Quick Reference Guide

Copyright 1987 - Office of the Surgeon General

#1. How did this occur.
Avoidance should be your first priority. You certainly don't want to catch it yourself. If your child has recently taken a woodland creature such as a raccoon, marmot, fruit bat or a great crested grass weasel as a pet, then this could be your first clue to contraction.

#2. Isolate yourself from the possible source of contraction.
For instance if your child has been keeping a wild raccoon in a bucket underneath his or her bed, immediately shut and barricade the bedroom door.

#3. Was your child in the room when you barricaded it?
This is information you need to know - it affects subsequent steps. Write yourself a reminder note either way.

#4. (If Yes to #3) So your child is safely barricaded in the bedroom.
You are doing very well thus far. Pour yourself a stiff drink to steady your nerves, you've earned it. Move on to #6

#5. (If No to #3) Well done on isolating yourself from the source of contraction.
However your child now represents a very real threat to your well-being. Find a second, secure room and barricade your child in it. Important: Under no circumstances should you allow your child to bite you. When completed see #4.

#6. Your child is as good as dead.
The sooner you accept it the better. Spend the next week guarding the barricaded door. Play musical records or cassette tapes of your choosing to obscure any unpleasant sounds. In one week contact your local mortuary.

Note:
Your spouse may solicit the false opinion that rabies is completely curable from a fraudulent, alternative medicine-practicing quack - probably a Gypsy. This raving dementia all but proves that your spouse has already contracted the rabies from your child. Repeat steps 5, 4 then 6 - mentally replacing the word "child" with "spouse". Important: Select a third room. By now your child and the raccoon have no doubt set nefarious traps for you in their respective rooms.

Office of the Surgeon General - 1987

And that was it, except for a number of very crude diagrams. Several different families were depicted, covering four of the five major ethnic groups. Apparently Latinos can't contract rabies - or there weren't any Latinos in 1987 - or the Surgeon General just really didn't give a shit if Latinos contracted rabies. (Absolutely deplorable if it's the latter.)

Confession Time

Latigo Flint has something he needs to get off his chest. Latigo Flint knows he'll feel better once he tells his good friends. Please don't judge Latigo Flint too harshly, it takes a lot of courage to admit this:

I would love to kill a dolphin.

There, I said it. I'll say it again. I would love the chance to kill a dolphin, one on one, mano-a-fin. (Maybe with a hatchet.) Not multiple dolphins. Certainly not all dolphins. I'm no monster. Just one dolphin. (Perhaps with a battery powered circular saw.)

I'm feeling much better already. You have no idea how long I've been keeping that bottled up inside. I know having such a feeling borders on perversion, but it's just not fair. We get to kill other animals if we want to, and some of them are smart and social too - why can't I kill a dolphin damnit?! (With a decoy mackerel and a ball pein hammer.)

How about if a dolphin attacks me? Then can I kill it with a bailing wire strangle cord and a steak knife? What if a child falls into the Dolphin Bay attraction at Sea World and I dive in and preemptively kill the dolphins with a pitchfork? In their curiosity, those dolphins might have bumped her to death - I would only be acting the in best interests of the child, right? What if I suspect a dolphin has rabies?

Anyway, thanks for listening. I had to tell someone or I'd have gone mad. I'm feeling much better now.

(With a bathtub drain stopper and some duct tape.)

For Every Action...

Newton's Third Law of Motion states that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Latigo Flint has proven unequivocally that this law does not necessarily apply if said action is... A gunslinger type action.

Latigo Flint spent most of today wandering through a crowded shopping plaza. At random, Latigo Flint would give passers-by a hearty helping of intense, piercing Squinty-Eye. In every case the subject's eyes would fly open in shock and fear a much greater distance than Latigo Flint's had squinted.

But this discovery shouldn't come as too much of a surprise. Heck it wasn't that long ago those quantum scientists discovered the traditional laws of physics don't necessarily apply at the sub-atomic level. I expect it's just a matter of time before all our physics texts contain the pertinent Gunslinger Exceptions.

Field Dressing

Latigo Flint has long held the theory that an exceptionally good way to impress people, and especially girls, would be to self-cauterize a wound in front of them.

Yesterday Latigo Flint finally got his chance to test the theory when he cut his index finger on the cracked edge of a Burger King food tray.

"Apparently I have received a flesh wound!" (It was necessary to command everyone's attention and shouting that seemed to do the trick.) "It is imperative that this cracked food tray be removed from circulation." The Burger King staff shot uneasy looks at each other but none made a move toward me to collect it.
"Please good staff. Why, a child could injure themselves on its wickedly jagged prominence." I gazed dramatically around the room. "A child who would not be as capable of dealing with it as I."

With one hand I expertly snapped open and lit my Zippo lighter then carefully inserted my house key into the center of the extravagant flame. A teenage couple was giving me a very strange look. I nodded at the guy and winked platonically at his date.
"Not to worry kids," I said, inspecting the key that was now starting to glow slightly. "We call this a field dressing. No big thing. I do it all the time." I took a bite of my burger and chewed nonchalantly. I squinted slightly at the ceiling for effect then raised the glowing key and placed it to the cut.

I came to in a hospital bed. They say when I screamed, the mouthful of burger lodged in my windpipe, choking me. The paramedic report claims I staggered around the room grunting - one hand at my throat and thrusting the index finger of the other into people's soft drinks. Apparently I then made a stumbling charge in the direction of the ice dispenser, slipped on a tray that was lying in the isle and smashed chin-first into a table.

But Latigo Flint doesn't believe those jealous bastards for one second. Likely the self-cauterization went off without a hitch and after every female in the place crowded admiringly around me, I was badly beaten by a furious mob of boyfriends and husbands.