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pandering to America’s minority of reactionaries, President Biden surrendered
the entirety of Texas to them, hence its secession from the union. When the
Lone Star State became Hell on Earth immediately afterwards, one man within it
defended the innocent as an armed escort of evacuees …
… and hindered evildoers as an industrial saboteur — all of whom knew him by the name, Malcolm Tex …
… accompanied by his companion — the attractive mechanic, Blanca — Malcolm Tex rides an ecologically-sound motorcycle, Solarado, across the Texan badlands …
… dispensing vigilante justice as he’s advised and empowered by spirits; by the ghosts of five of the greatest black cowboys in American history ..!
Blazing Saddles meets Marvel Comics! Malcolm Tex puts the “wild” in the Wild West! Bring justice back to Texas!
“Saab Lofton, the ideals you espouse might be presented in a different way [AHEM], but basically they are in line with Human rights standards and basic Human decency. I applaud your passion.”
–Edith Garwood, Country Specialist on Israel for Amnesty International since
“I’ll tell you what’s at the bottom of it: If you can convince the lowest white man he’s better than the best colored man, he won’t notice you’re picking his pocket. Hell, give him somebody to look down on and he’ll empty his pockets for you.”
–Lyndon Baines Johnson (1908 – 1973), the 36th President of the United States
PICARD: Every member of the Federation entered as a unified world and that
unity said something about them. That they had resolved certain social and
political differences and they were now ready to become part of a larger
CRUSHER: Well, think about Earth. What if one of the old nation-states, say Australia, had decided not to join the World Government in twenty one fifty? Would that have disqualified us as a Federation member?
Star Trek: The Next Generation episode, Attached
WORF: They are terrorists, little more than criminals … They should be hunted
O’BRIEN: What for? Defending their homes? Look at what’s happened to those people. One day, they’re trying to eke out a living on some godforsaken colonies on the Cardassian border, the next day, the Federation makes a treaty handing those colonies over to the Cardassians. What would you do?
Star Trek: Deep Space Nine episode, For the Cause
RO: Starfleet considers you outlaws.
MACIAS: They don’t understand the situation here … One night I was dragged from my bed and beaten. The authorities clucked their tongues and agreed it was an unfortunate incident, and did nothing.
RO: I’m not surprised. The Cardassians intend to make life so unpleasant for Federation citizens that they’ll leave.
MACIAS: Exactly. And no one seems to see that, except for …
Star Trek: The Next Generation episode, Preemptive Strike
“Can one man make a difference? There are days when I believe – and others when I’ve lost all faith …”
–from the 2003 movie,
HANS GRUBER: I assume
you are our mysterious party crasher. You are
JOHN McCLANE: Just a fly in the ointment, Hans … a pain in the ass.
HANS GRUBER: Who are you? Just another American who saw too many movies as a child? Another orphan of a bankrupt culture who thinks he’s John Wayne? Marshall Dillon? Do you really think you have a chance against us, Mister Cowboy?
JOHN McCLANE: Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker.
–from the 1988 movie, Die Hard
It began with a moronic, as in, absolutely imbecilic decision … After four monstrous years; after the antiquated Electoral College distressingly elevated one Donald J. Trump to the American presidency, an elite only interested in profit greatly overrated the understandable fear of another term with Trump in power — as a result, America’s electorate (once again, unfortunately) settled for a lesser evil, rather than optate an actually ethical candidate …
And during his very first press conference as the forty-seventh President of the United States, Joseph Robinette Biden Junior risibly declared what an incoming administration would do to repair an America which was marred by the Trump Regime’s narrow-minded ethnocentrism.
“Dah, Mistah Bloomberg said we need unity and civility and healing,” President Biden oafishly told those assembled members of the press within the White House’s West Wing, “so I’mma let Texas be its own country so dah Republicans can have someplace where they can do whatever they want, dah …”
A flurry of whispers and murmured remarks were heard within this briefing room, but soon afterwards, the first to clearly articulate how utterly incredulous this collection of journalists had been by this declaration was CNN’s Jim Acosta. “Setting aside how inherently dangerous it is to essentially give the Alt Right its own ethno-state, especially after what this country just went through,” Acosta stressed that last point most emphatically; without any regard for how partisan he might come across to some, “you’d need two thirds of the House and the Senate to go along with this, and that’s not likely.”
Confused by this correspondent’s parliamentarian delineation, Biden turned to the notes he had crudely scribbled in crayon earlier and clumsily read from them. “Dah, Mistah Bloomberg said, ‘dah United States is governed by dah Constitution, and when it comes tah a state leaving dah union, dah Constitution is silent,’ dah … Kinda like dah silent movies from dah 1920s, huh? I like Charlie Chaplin, dah …”
And so, a dimwitted commander-in-chief unilaterally issued an executive order allowing the Lone Star State to officially leave the polity it’s been a (reluctant) part of since 1846.
Deep in the heart of Texas itself; within downtown Austin, is the blanched, columned mansion where resides every Texan governor, and its current occupant, Gregory Wayne Abbott; a wheelchair-restricted conservative, sat in an affluent office and conversed over the phone with a persnickety supporter of his who was overly concerned with the boudoirs/private affairs of strangers, “as I said when I was attorney general, I’m against any sexual gratification that’s unrelated to procreation,” an obtuse administrator irrationally ensured, “so no, the ban on ‘sex toys’ won‘t be lifted. Not on my watch.”
The governor’s anal retentive conversation was interrupted by the unexpected entrance of two dozen men — most of whom were rotund, adorned in threadbare paramilitary gear and carrying either foreowned derringers/revolvers or rummage-sale semi-automatic firearms. Gubernatorial employees were promptly taken hostage by some — even as certain windows/doorways were secured by others …
… and when one intrepid security guard tried to stand against this incursion, he was soon gunned down with a brutal cruelty by one of the insurgents who wasn’t that corpulent.
An alarmed administrator soon found himself surrounded by a handful of these second-rate, mostly overweight mercenaries who aimed their weapons at him, and he demanded to know, “what’s the meaning of this?!”
“It‘s about the future,” accompanied by a particularly muscular bodyguard — who boasted a bare chest littered with a litany of racist, penitentiary-anointed tattoos — was a Napoléonic individual; a five foot tall, portly, hollow-eyed elder with raddled wrinkles in a chalk-white outfit …
… and a particularly large ten gallon hat that matched, “it’s about whether the great state of Texas will be someplace where we can raise our families in decency or will it be a cesspool of mongrels; about whether Texas will finally be free of all them damn outside influences and subversive perversions that I know you despise as much as I.”
The captive conservative governor recognized that microbic reactionary in white as a major campaign donor of his and stammered, “Buford J. Terwilliger? Don’t tell me you‘re responsible for this outrage?”
Before Terwilliger could answer, another one of those venturous security guards tried to regain control of this mansion, “ain’t gonna let no cross ‘tween Boss Hogg and Yosemite Sam get the best of me ..!” Only to first be swiftly beaten to insensibility …
… and then have a reddened neck broken …
… by that tattooed mountain of a man accompanying him.
“As far as Terwilliger Petroleum is concerned, I’m at a board meeting, Weißer Falke here is still locked up in the Huntsville Unit,” the oil executive equivocated with all the elusiveness of a Mafioso, “and the rest of these boys are havin’ themselves a good ol’ time at Haystack’s Bar & Grill off Highway 99. None of this ever happened, and far as anyone knows, you’re in charge of what will soon be the independent nation known as ‘the Republic of Texas,’ but in actuality, I‘ll be runnin’ thangs … Every-single-thang …”
To keep from confronting the distinct prospect that his tenure as governor was virtually over; that he’s been forcibly reduced to a figurehead within an instant, Abbott equivocated a bit himself as he inquired about a slightly off-topic subject, “what kind of name is Wiener Fault?”
“Weißer Falke means Winter Hawk,” in the thickest of Germanic accents, the oilman’s Herculean chaperone sternly responded as the blood that stained his hands was unceremoniously smeared onto the denim pants which were worn by him.
Despicably positioning himself behind a disabled administrator, Buford Terwilliger whispered as he grasped the handles of a wheelchair, very jarringly, “it’d be a damn shame if someone were to push you down a flight of stairs, wouldn‘t it ..?”
“Yes,” Gregory Abbott nervously stuttered, “yes it would,” finally rustling up enough fortitude to be concerned about someone other than himself, he timidly inquired, “is my wife safe?”
With this obscure coup d’état came the prompt removal of America’s banner and the insertion of an ominous amalgamation of Texas’ state flag with that of the fallen-from-grace Confederacy …
… up until this point, that hateful symbol was always without the destructive power of a modern nation-state, so its display, though distasteful, was ultimately an example of freedom of expression in action.
Unfortunately, the newly formed Republic of Texas; the Republicans who already inhabited it …
… as well as an unparalleled influx of Alt Right acolytes, who migrated en masse to Texas seemingly overnight — not to mention the swarm of dogmatic fundamentalists and the bloodthirsty totalitarians who’re still en route from every corner of the planet …
… weren’t even remotely interested in limiting their hysterical hate to, ahem, merely expressing themselves.
White Rock Lake. A public park near northeast Dallas hosted a rotisserie comprised of numerous employees stemming from Garland County; a handful of pale skinned, blond/scarlet haired city workers and over a dozen of their bronze/ebony brunette counterparts frolicked synergetically …
… reveling over a couple of professional grade broilers as they roasted assorted pork and heifer — infusing these fried-to-perfection refreshments with seasoning on occasion …
Everyone was enjoying themselves, most harmoniously, until an achromatic woman who seemed enamored with complaining advanced upon these festivities and insisted that they cease. “I live nearby, and there are too many of you people here, so get out before I call somebody to make you go!”
Initially, the assumption was an entirely understandable concern with noise from those enormous stereos they listened to, but the volume of their musical selections was compassionately low, so … “Look, ‘Karen,’ or whatever your name is,” a handsome example of African-American masculinity emerged from this assemblage and smiled amiably, but acrimoniously, at the same time, “half the folks here are police officers and the other half are either firemen or paramedics! I myself been with the DPD [Dallas Police Department] for a decade! Now, how about you take yo’ racist ass the fuck on somewhere before you’re arrested for abusing Nine-One-One ..?”
The interloper disparagingly referred to as Karen departed as she conversed into a cell phone …
… only to return several minutes later, when her ears were immersed with laughter from those city workers who’d gathered in that park for recreation. “You really are a glutton for punishment, ain’tcha?” The Afrocentric officer from earlier remarked with a morose smirk. “What’d I just tell you ’bout abusing Nine-One-One?”
A sinister, unnerving grin appeared on this Karen’s countenance …
… as nearly one hundred pale skinned ruffians wearing guerrilla regimentals and bearing firearms came into view as they vehemently stormed from behind her. “Who said I called Nine-One-One ..?” She snickered darkly as their firearms were aimed at most of those municipal employees — all of whom were off-duty, and therefore, unarmed …
One of the worst massacres in Texas history occurred that afternoon, but as nefarious as those murders were, as depraved as the rape of an apprentice paramedic that transpired during this overall assault upon the innocent had been …
… in the end, an especially malevolent event happened — the handful of European-Americans amongst those civil servants were intentionally singled out; shielded from this onslaught and corralled into a small circle, which was patrolled by several of the deplorable assailers.
“You’ve been spared for a reason,” one such assailant finally explained via a bullhorn, but only after the last person of color was slaughtered, “you have a choice, you can either join us, or die. It’s that simple. You have thirty seconds to decide.”
To their everlasting credit, four of those five representatives of civil servitude favored the afterlife over living with dishonor, so they were summarily terminated …
… however, a singular officer surrendered his spirit to the very assailants who’d just gunned down his friends. “What’s your name, white man?”
“Uriel Andros,” the craven collaborator tried to ignore the corpses which littered the parkland all around him while he answered.
“Well, Urinal Anus–“
“–that‘s Uriel Andros.”
“Whatever,” an assailant who sported a Beretta A391-Xtrema2 as well as a nine millimeter Glock nonchalantly turned around and began returning to his van, which could be seen in the distance, albeit barely, but succinctly explained to a still-bewildered collaborator while he did so, “don’t wanna keep from being made fun of? Change your name to something more Aryan! Embrace your Teutonic heritage! This here’s a new Texas; one where whites rule ! Claim your piece of it!”
The Massacre of White Rock Lake, as it was infamously monikered, became a much discussed atrocity that absolutely infuriated Human rights activists across the country and around the world. Unfortunately, incidents of this villainous sort were rapidly becoming so commonplace within the newly formed Republic of Texas that even Nobel Peace Prize-winning Amnesty International was challenged to remain informed of them.
For his part, a spurious governor, Gregory Wayne Abbott, either ignored requests for interviews or obligatorily clamored on the internet about how such massacres were presumably “very rare” and how “offensive” it was to “associate them with the vast majority of the Texan population.”
A little over a mile away from the gubernatorial mansion, in the neighborhood of Cherrywood; near the University of Texas at Austin was the residence of a professor who also happened to be said university’s Chairperson of the History Department.
This scholar was originally a northerner — a dark skinned transplant from the inner city — who eventually grew weary of all the filthy litter, boisterous stereos and the murderous turf warfare occurring between philistine, sanguinary gangsters there …
… and ventured to the Lone Star State for a fresh start. He’s prospered since then and even managed to become a happily married man, but sans any children, as a result of him also becoming extremely time-consumed; becoming someone whom the media has come to depend on as a credentialed, reliable source of historical information.
And though this was winter break, that instructor of color refrained from frolicking or even vacationing, but instead, opted to sit inside an office adjacent to the rest of the house as he revisited a not-so-recent interview of his online …
The Battle of the Alamo, in and of itself, was relatively insignificant, tactically speaking, but it gained recognition decades later, in the 1890s, as backlash against African Americans gaining more political power and Mexican immigration increasing. In 1915, Birth of a Nation director, D.W. Griffith, produced Martyrs of the Alamo, which solidified this myth by pitting supposedly virtuous white Texans against those racist caricatures of Mexicans seen on screen. In reality, Mexican Americans fought alongside white Texans. The Alamo became, in some ways, a sort of symbol of Anglo-Saxon preeminence; of what it meant to be white. Trump wants to tap into this symbolism and that must be resisted.
… early that morning, the professor’s spouse; a flawlessly resplendent blonde, had searched said house for her husband and was most disappointed to find him, once again, essentially reminiscing about himself. “I’m on my way to work, dear heart,” she soon went from sounding pleasant to sardonic, “will you be all right in here, all by your lonesome, with the big bad internet? Lord knows you won’t intentionally look up anything the least bit disturbing, but if you ain’t too careful, you might accidentally stumble across some news about what happened at White Rock.”
“Kira …” That teacher of history turned from his computer towards the alluring lady he married and sighed. “… you heard the governor; even a broken clock like Greg Abbott is accurate twice a day and he’s right when he says White Rock was an isolated incident.”
“You‘re the one who’s ‘isolated,’ husband of mine! I can’t recall the last time we went out to eat! Let alone go on a road trip! Then again, I’m hesitant to go out on the town anyway, given everything that’s been going on lately!” Kira started to wonder about her marital partner as she raised an otherwise distaff voice, but was still gentle, “I know what you went through; how hard you worked to go from being a renter to a homeowner, but I got a bad feeling about this secession business. I think we should leave; move out of Texas, as soon as possible. Hell, I’ll call the mall, right now, and just quit so we can pack; rent ourselves a truck.”
Rising from where he had rested in front of the internet, a swarthy colored professor attempted to impart some of his composure upon the glamorous woman who married him. “Dear heart, the people responsible for those handful of incidents have a completely outdated, backward idea of what Texas is; that it’s all cowboy-hat wearing, God-fearing, belt-buckle oilmen, when in reality, Texas has changed so much in the last twenty years. Texas’ population has diversified in the last decade, becoming forty percent Hispanic and there’s a growing population of South and East Asians. The people responsible for that massacre refuse to recognize just how much the state has changed and blossomed, but they will be dealt with. As far as secession is concerned, it probably won’t last, but even if it does, Texas is comparable to Australia in terms of having a Gross Domestic Product of one point five trillion, so financial solvency won’t be an issue. At least, not for a long while. Nothing will fundamentally change. We’ll be fine.”
Without another word, Kira irritably departed for work; to perform in her long-standing capacity as a beautician within the Macy’s perfume/cosmetic department inside the Simon Mall of Barton Creek Square, where an inordinate amount of stares and whispers from rumor mongering co-workers were repeatedly discerned whenever she sauntered near enough to wherever they herded that day.
Hours later, after those aristocratic co-workers of hers glared from afar or whispered remarks once too often, she finally hollered at them out of exasperation, “what the actual Hell is it, already ..?!”
Minutes afterwards, Kira was ordered to report to her supervisor for a private conference …
… a smarmy manager who pursued a career in hair care and other, similar concerns only so he could be around women more often than a man ordinarily would, “I’ll shoot straight from the hip, li’l lady,” Mister Dingleberry leaned uncomfortably close to an already upset employee, “you look like Reese Witherspoon, you’re married to, ugh, a Wesley Snipes lookalike, and a lot of us have a very serious problem with that. Now, if I were to go out there on the floor and tell everybody you saw the light, so to speak, that’d go a lonnnng way towards securing your future here … Know what I mean ..?”
Utterly furious, but simultaneously embarrassed, over how backwards; how abhorrent and reprehensible a Caucasian such as herself was sounding during the twenty-first century, the beautician spat with contempt at her former employer, “who I’m married to is none of your concern! It’s no one’s! And you’ll be hearing from my lawyer!”
“Lawyer?! Which law?” Dingleberry called out from his solitary workplace while a sexually hassled blonde damsel angrily glided out of it so she could collect her belongings and leave, forever. “America’s or the Texas Republic’s? It’s a new world, li’l lady ..!”
However, as Kira departed, one of the gossipers still employed at this beauty salon couldn’t wait until the maligned blonde’s departure before caterwauling for all to hear, “I don’t care if her husband’s supposed to be some big time academic! A nigger lover is a nigger lover ..!”
Rather than remain and remind said gossiper that her husband has forgotten more about history than the entirety of this perfume/cosmetic department will ever learn, she instead bolted through its entrance and towards the parking lot.
Unfortunately for Kira, a particularly hyperactive ignoramus overheard that gossiper’s lurid slur.
The ignoramus then opined to involve himself in Kira’s personal affairs by lumbering in her general direction as he recurrently/rhetorically cried out, “that true? You really a nigger lover ..?”
This ignoramus’ cronies accompanied him from where they had slumbrously lingered outdoors …
… and soon, all ten of them cornered a terrified Kira before she could enter her parked car. “Nigger lover!”
When the sun had set on that fateful date, Austin’s skyline was blanketed, as it often is, by a lavender glimmer, marvelously sublime and almost empyreal, which many armchair meteorologists claim is the result of a billowing cloud of lithium that encompasses the city …
… as the Texan horizon took on this amethyst radiance, the Chairperson of the University of Austin’s History Department donned an apron and began preparing dinner for an irresistible marital partner, who was awaited with baited breath …
… he had been in the kitchen when that discordant knock on his front entrance was first discerned.
Even a historian who cherishes reason and abjures the supernatural could internally glean that a horrendous event had transpired before ever approaching the door …
… and yet, he still opened it. “Professor–“
“–it’s about my wife, isn‘t it?” An already-distraught dark skinned man interrupted as he was perceived staggering marginally within his doorway by a pair of police officers and the smattering of Austin’s journalists who aimed their cameras at him.
“There’s been an incident,” a Latin policeman — one who could easily be mistaken for a Caucasian, given his skin tone and facial features — started to offer a series of heartfelt condolences.
Regrettably, that Latin’s Teutonic partner blurted out — in a manner unworthy of any constabulary … “Should’ve stayed with your own kind, but instead, being married to you got her killed.”
“Noooo ..!” A sedate erudite most of the time; content to study lengthy dissertations, to watch esoteric documentaries, this teacher of history unexpectedly lunged upon — then, out of unrestrained passion, tried to strangle — the policeman who sounded so exceedingly inconsiderate. “You bastard!”
The professor was rendered inert by that segregationist enforcer; by a bludgeon which was violently flung alongside a scholarly skull …
… luckily, while said scholar plummeted, catatonic, onto his front lawn and an intolerant example of a constable attempted to murder him …
… he was spared before this could occur; before a firearm was discharged, by an officer who actually cared about law enforcement. “The Hell are you doing? With the press right behind us?!” The policeman of Latin descent mentioned softly, but intensely, and pointed out the concentration of not-so-distant journalists. “He’s obviously gone nuts over what happened, so let’s send him to the nuthouse.”
“Assaulting a police officer is a third-degree felony! Up to ten years in prison!” The segregationist pretended to be concerned with jurisprudence in case any of the aforementioned reporters were within earshot.
“The nuthouse, dude,” the Latin tested his racist partner’s forbearance, and with a whisper, he even resorted to bribery in order to spare the professor’s life, “I’ll pay for a trip to Whataburger — seriously, my treat …”
The Texas State Lunatic Asylum, on 4110 Guadalupe, is the oldest, continuously operating psychiatric facility west of the Mississippi River …
… and its latest resident — a certain once-celebrated-but-now-pitied historian — was unceremoniously escorted inside by attendants, who had restrained his torso in a straitjacket and imprisoned him in a room completely muffled by a polymer foam.
He tearfully shrieked in melancholy, like a mythic banshee, nearly the entire time.
Late that night, after stray, acerbically cruel talk circulated throughout this minatorial infirmary of lobotomizing; of arranging shock therapy for this illustrious teacher, the strangest of experiences occurred inside his cell …
… after mysteriously appearing near him, out of thin air, a handful of individuals levitated as they began surrounding the wrongfully-bound historian in a manner similar to enormous insects hovering overhead.
Initially, he genuinely questioned his sanity for the very first time, but then, an unprecedented energy was infused into him; this university chairperson was invigorated like never before.
“On my worst day, I could still wrestle a six hundred pound steer to the ground in a couple of seconds after dismounting a wild stallion galloping at thirty miles per hour,” a tawny gentleman in 1890s attire lightheartedly chortled, “they called me ‘the Dusky Demon’ for a reason , and now, you have all my strength and speed, so go on! Bust out of that … Whatever the Hell that thing you’re wrapped up in is!”
“Don’t let Bill’s talk of ‘Hell’ or him being called a ‘demon’ frighten you none,” the second of these apparitions, one with the thickest of mustaches, assured the professor, “as I know — as you now know — the Quapaw used to call our boss ‘Wakatakeh’ or ‘the Great Spirit’ and that‘s where we come from; that‘s who sent us, so it ain’t as if you’ll be in league with the Devil or anything … Go on … Break out of there, already …”
Searching his panoramic memory, the historian began to recognize the spectres who had approached him as he strained only slightly …
… and astonished himself when that straitjacket was torn asunder as if it were mere cardboard instead of tarpaulin. “Bill Pickett … Bass Reeves … Bose Ikard … John Ware … and you must be Nat Love AKA Deadwood Dick, right ..?”
A leather-colored gunslinger with frazzled, dangling locks of dark hair and a certain swagger about him answered, “they called me Red River Dick too.”
“What‘s going on? How exactly was I able to … To …” The Chairperson of the University of Austin’s History Department momentarily glanced at the discarded remnants of those restraints he had just freed himself of. “… and my mind … All these concepts and images are coming to me … Events I’ve never lived through …”
“We’re a part of you now,” Bose Ikard, apparently an elder figure of sorts amidst this unearthly handful, explained amiably, “least the best parts of us — like my medicinal knowledge; me being able to tell which plants can heal you and how … You’ll also have all my tracking skills, though I’m sure Mister Reeves here would claim that his ability to hunt is supposedly better than mine.”
“Far better, actually,” Bass Reeves sneered with (a partially gracious) arrogance.
“Pickett was born in Williamson County, Texas … ‘Deadwood Dick’ worked for the Duval Ranch on the Palo Duro River in the Texas Panhandle … I myself grew up in Parker County, Texas … Ware here was born a slave in South Carolina, but moved to Texas after the War Between the States …” Ikard continued unabated as he elucidated to the liberated erudite. “… most of us have some spiritual connection to Texas, which is why we were sent and why you were chosen: Texans need an avenging angel — now more than ever — and we’re, rather, you‘re it.”
“Bring justice back to Texas!” Pickett abruptly lifted his spectral fist upwards with angst.
That imperative reminded the chairperson of his murdered bride and he started to tear up, but stopped himself from doing so, as a ruptured spirit muscularly calloused while it healed, “I know someone who certainly needs to be avenged.”
“You got my riding skills and sense of balance,” John Ware — an abundantly-bearded, sturdily-built rancher — yearned to be elsewhere, “so how about we get ourselves a horse and ride up on outta here? Tired of starin’ at these all-white walls!”
With the sinew bestowed upon this historian by Bill Pickett, he onerously exerted a sufficient amount of pressure onto that padded cell’s entrance for its fastening mechanism to eventually fragment, permitting him to vacate and when one of this mental institution’s attendants then tried to clandestinely snatch an absconding inmate, most of those ghosts simultaneously clamored, “ behind you ..!”
A single punch, which was thrown by a forewarned university chairperson when he whirled around, and that attendant was sent to the ground, nursing a seriously wounded chin, in pain. “I assume only I can see or hear you guys ..?”
“There’s a buncha them white coat-wearin’ white men comin’ ’round the corner,” John Ware’s apparition informed before inquiring, “where the horses at?”
“It’s the twenty-first century,” the professor surprised attendant and inmate alike by not only outfighting, albeit barely, those who opposed him; who attempted to stop his escape …
… but also by talking to himself, similar in manner to a schizophrenic, within one of this asylum’s hallways, “we don’t ride horses any more, but the first order of business is for me to get something else to wear other than this hospital gown.”
Immediately after bursting past the secured confines of that infirmary, the Chairperson of the University of Austin’s History Department came across a bystander who happened to be adorned in the most recent of Texan fashions — an ensemble comprised of Confederacy-inspired designs …
… and subsequent to another one of those sacramentally-enhanced punches, the chairperson purloined the bystander’s garments, much to the latter’s chagrin. “I just bought that outfit from Alex Jones online! Spent a fortune on it! Hey, don’t leave me buck naked, man ..!”
“ A perfect fit …” The historian derived a perverse pleasure from how well the clothing he’d stolen felt on him. “… this made from hemp? If so, I’ll go to Alex Jones for all my fashion needs!”
“You colored folks are supposed to be peaceful! Peaceful! Like Martin Luther King!” The nude bystander cried out prior to realizing who had plundered him. “Wait … I know you! I’ve seen you on TV talking about Texas history! You’re Professor–“
“–that name no longer has any meaning to me,” an acclaimed chronicler, still recovering from all that he’s recently lost, strenuously corrected, “from now on, my name is — Malcolm Tex ..!”
Since most of them have been deceased for nearly a century, that quinary of apparitions was understandably bewildered. “King Martin? Thought America wasn’t supposed to have kings,” Deadwood Dick’s shade pondered under his breath with concern.
“Malcolm who ..?” Bass Reeves similarly, rhetorically queried afterwards.
“I’ll explain later,” Malcolm Tex left his victim perplexed as he spoke to those equally confused spectres, “now, where’s the nearest source of guns and ammunition ..?”