The Gentle Trapper and His Lady Whore
The gentle trapper sighed as he stared across the room at stinking buckskins draped over the back of a pine board chair. His forty-five minutes were almost up. It wouldn't be long now before he'd have to untangle himself from lavender scented sheets and trade this warm room for a thousand miles of half-froze marsh and lonely, dripping campsites too cruel for even wolves.
He let out a half-laugh, more grunt than mirth, and stroked the lady's leg through the sheet.
"Dern those wretched buckskin clothes. I wish that they would just crawl away." He glanced back over his hairy shoulder and grinned. "Then I'd have to stay here with you--wouldn't be decent to tromp nekkid through the halls."
Sarah Fallows stared back at him through half-closed eyes. She hated almost every man she'd ever met. This one was a great big filthy bear of a man; the sort every whore dreads. But he'd been coming to see her for three years now, and one day she discovered she tolerated him for reasons she couldn't explain, not that she'd ever bother to try.
"Well Charlie," she replied. "I think it serves you right your clothes don't crawl away." A smile fluttered for an instant across her mean-set lips. "The baby animals you trap can't! They just have to sit there and wait for you to break their necks and gut them hole to hole."
Sarah watched the pain ripple through his massive form and immediately regretted the jest. Charlie stood and slowly made his way to the chair. He eased into his pants, shuddering a bit at their greasy touch. He kept his face turned down.
"Charlie, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-" Sarah frowned a little; she couldn't remember ever apologizing to a client before.
Charlie's eyes were damp when raised his head to gaze at her.
"It's okay... I reckon you described it pretty right." He chewed on his tongue to keep the sobs at bay. "The wretched truth is I love them, every last furry one. Always have."
"Then why--"
"I was a miner until three years ago. I had to give it up. I wasn't making enough."
Sarah shook her head in disappointment. "How much money does a man need?"
Charlie gave her a sad smile and opened the door.
"See you in a few months Sarah. I'll pay up front... same price as always?"
She nodded instinctively and then he stepped through the door and was gone.
posted by Latigo Flint @ 11:30 PM
18 comments
18 Comments:
You have a gift for subtle imagery that would do any writer proud.
Few can faithfully convey comedy, let alone be able to shift from wry humor to something with a more resonant view.
And yet, here we are.
That's sweet as!
I never thought my heart would go out to a poacher and his whore.
yes.
Great writing.
Tears flow, Latigo. Tears flow.
Not for very long, of course. However poignant the love of a miner-turned-trapper who adores baby furry animals and prostitutes, it can't compare to the angst of a gunslinger born 150 years too late. (Or 500 years too early, for that matter. According to Serenity, the Old West is coming back in the future. Guess you'll just have to die until then, stop, and re-emerge in the blaze of glory you've dreamed of.)
I hope Charlie comes back and guts that filthy whore from hole to hole. Whores can be so mean!
Women can be so cruel...but I guess you can't fault a whore for her cynicism.
I feel for the trapper, but he's made his own bed as well, so to speak. There is something noble in suffering for a prize you can never attain, to live in futility and still strive onward.
Dead sexy, I dare say.
"He eased into his pants, shuddering a bit at their greasy touch."
My god. The pain of this visual is beyond the comprehension of mere mortals.
I like to think of you as the trapper and me the whore.
I waited and waited for Charlie to cut her hole-to-hole and gut her for her insensitive remark. He has a great deal more restraint than you do.
That was a stunningly beautiful story, Latigo. My hat is off to you.
I want more.
More Charlie and the Whore-chiquita.
She is his chocolate factory and there is a story to be told. But,it might be the bottle of Scotch I drank.
Lovely words, sir
*picks up cake fork*
*carves 'Flint 4 evz' into forearm*
*blacks out*
That was really quite moving. It was, however, a bit historically inacurate in that you left out the bit where the miner leaves and the whore thinks to herself, "Damn! I own his ass."
At least the trapper is getting some. I'd cry all day like a whimpering baby if it meant I was getting laid.
Well writ Latigo, as usual you weave a story that is both sad and witty.
I'm so proud to hear you think so Wulf. You turn a mighty pretty word yourself.
Thank you very much Ultra Toast. I do the best I can before the booze lays me out. Charlie and Sarah's story needed to be told. I'm so glad it moved you.
Oh Slarrow, you have always seen through the manufactured sorrow to the grief that is my life, twisted hopelessly out of time. Um... and then I don't feel so alone and stuff. And that's one of the reasons I like you.
Yes Macek, well, I don't think Charlie is going to do that. Call it a hunch.
Dead sexy indeed Monkeypotpie! You have probed to the core and found the bitter triumph. Splendid work I say.
Yes DMor... Alaskan deities know, as do I of course, how truly icky filthy buckskins can be.
That's the mural above my bed Ho... I'm glad I don't have to change it.
Charlie loves her Old Hoss. Perhaps I didn't make that entirely clear. As for me... well... wait, what was the question? Hell, what's it matter--I'm quite certain booze is the answer.
Thank you Steve. Every once in a while I move myself. I can only hope it subsequently affects.
You got it Amandarama. Upcoming are one thousand posts about Charlie and Sarah. (But in some parallel world where I don't have to work and my joy doesn't flee.)
Let it out Faceless. I won't tell anyone.
You promised you would Greta, and now you have. I'm moved, and what else is there? Mind the infection now. I hope the fork was clean.
That's forthcoming in the sequel my fine young Doerflinger. (The one I write with bleeding wrists and a bottle of pills in my gut.)
I'll mention that to Charlie next time I see him Dave. I'm sure it'll cheer him right up.
Peter... you have struck so close to me that I fear you have planted spies. (And thank you. I'm very glad to hear you liked it.)
It's like a box of lovely chocolates on a Christmas morning in Texas, this is. One gem after another. Greasy pants-related gems that create joy, amazement and envy in the peruser.
Please don't stop spinning stories, Lat. Not ever. Not ever ever.
Men work because whores cost money.
Profound.
funny
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