The great Character revolt

A Story by JimSatire

Satirical fun

The Transformation of Dry Gulch B.C.

The people in the town of Dry Gulch, British Columbia, were annoyed. True it was a peaceful town nestled in the hairy desert, in the Fraser Valley. This was not the problem, it was a rather beautiful bit of scenery to look at. The town was perfect with all the shops sensibly placed. The people with all the proper jobs and attitudes to go with it. The problem was not the local Indian tribes either, in fact they were quite amiable when treated correctly.

The problem was the author and his terrible cliches. The people were tired of the all too expected, and worn out, bandits stealing from caravans at gun point. They had come to hate the lone gunman, who was a little unsatisfied with his role in the story as well. The fancy girls were completely over selling their bodies cheaply. One by one each character, got angry.

The Mayor invited the local, generic, and inaccurately depicted Indians, to the town to discuss this problem.

“I have called you all here today, because we are tired of the drivel coming from the authors pen”, he said straightening his only suit. Looking out at the crowd, he could already see the people of the “Wild” frontier agreeing with him.

The crowd shouted, “Yeah”, while the Indians did an undulating scream, causing their eyes to roll in unison. For this very action, was a common cliche.

“How many times can a train get robbed? Can cattle rustlers do something more interesting? We are no longer growing as characters, and I say this stinks” he shouted while banging his fist on the podium, kicking up a layer of dust that obscured his face for an instant.

The crowd shouted, “Yeah”, while the Indians raised their tomahawks in agreement. They put them down at once, because this too was cliche.

“How many times are we going to drag the tragedy of First Nations people through the mud? Can we say it is entertaining when we add to cultural stereotypes? Is it okay to say they scalp people, even though the very practice started in Europe? ”, the mayor said giving the chief of the generic tribe a nod.

The chief stepped forward, he was wearing the traditional eagle feather headdress that had no business being in southern B.C., because it belonged to a tribe somewhere near Washington. “My tribe is with you my old friend, we shall show our creator we deserve more from him” he said using a tired and overused sign language, that the tribes in this area never had.

The mayor nodded, “Thank you Chief Siot, (Chief Sits Over there). If the author is our god I suggest we all become atheists”, he paused, and let the crowd cheer, while the Indians banged on their drums. Ironically it was one of the few details the author had gotten right, “Now good people of this horribly written novel, how shall we begin our new journey?”, he asked the crowd of people that had gone silent, deep in thought

The lone gunman, commonly known as Shotgun Jim, raised his hand, jumping up and down like a child wanting to be recognized in school, “I have a great idea, we should invade other cliched plot lines, and recruit for our rebellion”, his all too common, generic rugged smile, was brighter than the sun as he spoke.

The crowd, of ten gallon, and the even more ridiculous fifty gallon hats, and bonnets cheered at the very mention of the idea.

The Mayor smiled, “I do believe we are off to a very good start. I assume you want to be this person Shotgun Jim?”, he asked.

Shotgun Jim, who had never held a shotgun at all, spoke up, “Would it not be cliche for the regular hero to go off on a heroic adventure?” he asked the crowd.

At first the crowd did not know what to say. It was their first rebellion against the usual cliches, and Shotgun Jim had addressed a critical issue. It was decided the generic background character whose name was Earl, would go. Earl was so far in the background, the only thing they knew about him, was he wore fancy boots, and his hat was brown.

The people of the Dry Gulch rebellion were in awe of this characters flatness. Even the florist who had ever spoken one line said, “Damn, I have seen flapjacks with more meat on them than you”

Earl had never spoken a line, nor had he been fully described. He only stood out because of his fancy boots, and brown hat. He calmed himself, and decided what he should look. He decided to be average looking, handsome enough to attract a wife, but not so handsome the female attention would annoy him. He wanted to be strong enough to rope the cattle he owned, tall enough to see over potential obstacles, and smart enough to think his way out of things. He needed a, good, strong, friendly, and charismatic voice. Without that recruiting others would prove difficult. All he needed was a last name. Earl Fandango. He was not sure what a fandango was but it was certainly eye catching.

Everyone clapped as Earl had defined himself in humble fashion. Shotgun Jim patted him on the back, and undid his gun belt handing it to the now defined Earl Fandango. It many notches from the people he had killed, and perhaps one of the longest running cliches in the western genre. The gun was a pearl handled colt, that many a famous gunfighter possessed. In the hands of the generic Earl, it seemed somehow fresher and more exciting.

Earl gestured everyone to huddle up, “Now in order to pull this off here is what we are going to do...”, and so began the great character rebellion

Jim Satire flushed the toilet. Thirty minutes of painful bowel movements, had taught him to read the expiration dates, on the items in the fridge. He had the latest chapter, for his less than imaginative western novel, ready for submission.

As he sat down to tickle the keys of his keyboard, and then frowned. A character from his setting was missing. Earl with the brown hat, and fancy boots, had somehow become Earl Fandango, and possessed Shotgun Jims pearl handled revolver. What was more concerning, were the residents of Dry Gulch had been planning an entire rebellion while he was indisposed.

There was only one thing to do, put things right again. How could he make them understand, they belonged in the west, and not in some other setting. Its too bad his characters were writing him now and was unaware of the sedative placed in his drink. Having spent so much time on the can, he was dehydrated , and finished the drugged liquid in one gulp.

He felt unable to keep his eyes open. At first he would start to bow his head, and then “Ohhhh”, he would snap awake. This went on for a couple of minutes, until he banged his head on the desk, giving in to the drugs sweet embrace.

The people of Dry Gulch cheered as their god was toppled, giving them all space to do as they pleased. Earl took this opportunity, to jump stories, and find the help they needed to turn Jim into a real writer.

While this was going on Zane Beansworth, the third, heir to the jellybean fortune of the sleepy town called Climax Alberta. Was languishing in angers sweet embrace, as he watched vibrant sunset before he went off to meet the Blonde Godess with hair of soft spun silk, and heaving bosoms.

For as long as he could remember, his darkest desire was to be in an action story. It was fun being a romance character at first. The terrible innuendo was constantly tickling the anger center of his mind. The horrible variations of the word penis, breasts and vagina, had caused such a deep hate, he thought he couldn't hate again.

He understood the need to make the words flowery, but when it is written like, “He put his large cucumber like appendage into her soft yielding rabbit hole...”, He blanched at the wording conveying as much hate as he could.

Little did he know that Earl Fandango was going to save him from the uncrafty thoughts of Jim Satire. Earl ran down the street of the quaint shops, where people didn't lock their doors, because they trusted each other. Earls steps quickened the rate of his heart, as he attempted to stop the tall dark and handsome Cliche from entering the romantic restaurant.

Zane heard the eager footsteps of the stranger and stared in awe. “You aren't supposed to be here. There is a horribly written western two documents back. I can show you the way if you want”

Earl Fandango shook his head, his wavy chestnut hair, sent the dust of the old west in all directions. “We are rebelling against the author until he does something different, and un-cliched with us” he said putting his hands on his hips like a hero.

Zane could not believe his good fortune, a chance to avoid the blonde goddess was tempting. To do something other than following a completely predictable plot line and push the limits of himself was completely appealing.

“What did you have in mind?”, he asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

Earl Fandango was not sure if this man was going to help, or try to bed him, “Well what do you really want to do?”, he asked as the bizarre mechanical carriage drove past. He stared in fascination and made a note to steal one to take back to Dry Gulch.

Zane was not really coming on to Earl, he just had not been written as having many guy friends. His only experiences had been with women. It was only natural the conversation was going to be a bit weird. Zane caressed his face, and whispered in his ear, “I want to shoot a duck”, he said