MehhFollow

Not in my last life. . . I think it was my last life but one. Late 1920s, so thinking about it, it may have been 3 lifetimes ago. Anywho, I'd just quit a job breaking in mustangs for an atheist gas station owner in South Dakota. We never get along - he kept bickering about there not being a God, and I kept ******** his wife.

After a couple of weeks in the back of station wagons, box cars and the odd freight train container, I landed up in a hick town in South Carolina with $8 in my pocket and a small mongrel hound named 'Kaiser'. I was looking for work and lucked out on the first day.

Ed and Elsa Schmidt ran a small Heraldic Research Institution out of a shack by the railroad station. They made a decent living researching the lineage of folks passing through when the locomotives stopped by to refill their water tanks. A sign above the door read "Your Coat of Arms in 20 Minutes or it's Free". It wasn't a big fancy Heraldic Research Institution - just a Mom and Pop affair, but it kept a roof above their oddly-shaped heads.

They were an unusual couple.

Ed was a 55 year old hunchback with one eye and a tattoo of Mount Rushmore on his forehead. He hardly ever spoke. Aside from the occasional "Put that fUckin' Gun Down!" or "What were you just doing with Elsa in the back parlour?", barely a word passed his lips.

Elsa was 6'4" tall with long blonde curly hair and a slender frame, despite her astronomically full bosom. Younger by almost 40 years than her husband, her outlook was young, vibrant and sexually complicated (I more than once had to decline the offer of her tiny teenage fingers up my ne'er-to-be-mentioned).

They'd overheard me chin-wagging with the Station Master about my hobby of doodling Lions Rampant en Sable on a background of Chevrons d'Or. Who knew that this was one of the most popular Heraldic devices? They offered me $2 a day, a room in the outbuildings and as many Falafels as I could eat. (Did I mention that Elsa was an imaginative cook?)

I'd been there a couple of months and life was OK. Ed kept himself to himself, Elsa was a gymnastic if noisy lover, and Kaiser had all the cow-Shit he could eat from the corral where the steers were held between rail road journeys.

The evenings were drawing in, so I guess it was maybe October when things started to go wrong. Elsa mentioned that she was pregnant. I asked who was responsible. She quickly ruled out Ed as the father (his ***** had been broken years earlier in a freak cake-making accident). She said it was 50/50 whether the culprit was me or Kaiser.

I was stunned. It took me a few minutes after shooting Kaiser in the head to decide what to do.

Grabbing Elsa tenderly by the throat, I pulled her to the rail road station and bought two one-way tickets to Armpit, Nebraska. I had contacts there from my Goat-Shearing days. One of them, Zeke Poontang had once casually mentioned that when he wasn't shearing goat fleeces, his hobby was experimenting with violent and unhygienic abortion techniques. I had to get to Zeke.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After a few blind alleys, I finally tracked Zeke down in the patent office where he was arguing furiously with the clerk about his "Sprog-Away" steam-powered 'family planning' device which involved the blades from a Sugar Cane cutting machine and dynamite.

Once he'd finished in the patent office and we'd cleaned most of the clerk off the walls, Zeke listened patiently to my predicament. Elsa made a few pathetic, muffled whimpering sounds, but I'd put a few air holes in the suitcase so I knew she was fine.

Zeke asked me to let her out so he could inspect the goods. A few prods to her now protruding belly and he nodded knowingly.

"Yep" he said. "3 ******* and 2 dogs in this litter. You done right shooting Kaiser. I can adios the litlle bastards now, or look after her until she's popped the pups."

"Your call" I said.

"Y'all come back in a few months and I'll take the pick of the litter"

Snow was falling as I strolled over to the telegraph office to message Mom that I'd be home for Hanukkah.

. . . to be continued (when I can be ***********

[sm]Edited, Aug 5th 2010 3:37pm by Nobby

A fascinating story, do go on.

Will Else get a smish-smortion?

Steampunk abortion clinic.

I want to live in the universe were both of these items are necessary on the same machine.