Horsie Tales from the files of The Crusty Cowboy Club
Published: June 10, 2022
While we are waiting for the Crusty Cowboys Ride Again! show to hit the stage (Saturday July 2), I thought I would keep you informed of some the activities our various members get up to when they’re not punching bovines out on the range. This tale concerns a business venture Rusty Sheriff’s-Badge and I got into the last time we had to keep a low profile.
Under the scrawny cactus tree the township smithy stands,
Six foot three, pale as brie with muscles like rubber bands.
Rusty Sheriffsbadge and I had come in off the range, having run out of money — and therefore experiencing a lack of friendly barroom beauties and foaming jugs of beer as well — and started up a blacksmith business to cater to the growing trade in horsie-related stuff out west. Rusty is a brute of a thing and can swing a ball-peen hammer in a way that makes me think of mass murderers and floors awash with blood, but as long as I keep him busy we’ll stay out of trouble.
Business had been good; lots of repeat customers. We were using chinese-made horse-shoes that only last for about ten thousand clippity-clops. When the customer comes back to complain we blame the council for the crappy roads. I know it’s dodgy but we were holding the fort.
Then, into the port-cochere of our establishment a dread shadow fell, and with it a chill that froze my blood and even put a frost over the furnace.
I waited…
“Ting”. Bastard…! The scary customer had crossed the door sensor and was coming in. Nothing to do but meet and greet.
Horror of all horrors – it was Poindexter the Perfectly Puerile Philistine of the Prairie. And he was a real Prick.
“Shoe mah horsie…!” he growled through a sneer.
“Well, you’re the customer. Shoo, horsie! Shoo!… go away and take your rider with you!” said I.
Poindexter reached down and put two gloved fingers up my nose holes and lifted me up on tippytoes. He spat in my face with halitosis venom: “Put new shoes on my horse and don’t use that imported junk; I want your best iron on mah cayuse cause I’m a-ridin’ out through the Badlands….”
“Tough gig,” said I.
“Yeahhhhhh,” drawled Poindexter ominously. “… And after the Badlands I’m riding into the Fukknawful lands. So get on with it, Shitferbraynes!”
What a situation! Our hoist was busted so I had to lift up Poindexter’s horse while Rusty slapped on the shoes. It was fukkn hard work because Poindexter didn’t get out of the saddle — and he’s no prairie chicken, himself. I was pretty rooted by the time Rusty had done the job and I let down the horse and Poindexter with great relief.
“OK,” I said while counting on my fingers. “Three bucks a shoe… that will be fifteen bucks.”
“Not that I had any intention of paying you, Shitferbraynes, but your maths is bent,” snarled Poindexter while whipping out his pocket calculator. “Four shoes at three bucks is twelluve bucks, you cheatin’ little poo-fly!”
“Ahhh, yes…” I countered. “Four on the horsie’s leggy-ends … and then there’s the spare.”
“A spare-horse shoe…. What for??” roared Poindexter.
“Well… I case you get a flat or something… so you can … sort of… get yourself going agen… You know… if you’re not in the RHA….”
“And where would I carry the … this ‘spare’ …?”
“Ah. Yes. Well…. The spare is often carried on the back of these big off-road horsies…” I said. “Like this…!” And I nailed the thing to the horse’s arse.
That gave the nag a bit of a fright. Well… a big fright, really — a quite spectacular fright, I thought — and the angered beast charged off like a missile from a cannon. So fast it made one of them sound barrier explosions. My eyes nearly popped out of my head at the sight of it all. Rusty ambled up beside me.
“He forgot to pay,” said Rusty, watching his wages disappear down the street.
“Yes. Well… he is bit of a naughty fellow; reputation for it, Rusty, you know. Hullo…. What’s this??? They’ve had a crash! Oh… it looks bad. Oh! My Gawd…! it’s awful…. Oh, the humanity…. Let’s go have a look.”
It really was a terrible mess. Both horse and rider. Hamburger. Raw hamburger. Lots of it.
“Ah, well….” I said, respectfully. “Might as well get our money out of his saddlebag before the cops arrive.” And I shipped a bucket-load of Poindexter’s ill-gotten gold and silver into my apron pockets.
“At least he won’t be able to sue us, being that both of them are minced meat,” Rusty said with hope in his voice. “I wonder what made them crash?”
I bent my attention to the wreckage. “Rusty…” I whispered conspiratorially… “It’s your fault… look at the shoes.”
“But I used the good shoes, Sleepy, not the cheap chinee ones,” wailed Rusty.
“Yes. You did use the BMW shoes. But, you big lummox, the shoes have come off — you forgot to do up the laces!”
We didn’t want to get busted for poor workmanship so we set fire to the wreck to burn the evidence. The smell gave me a new idea: we closed the blacksmith shop, dragged our port-cochere down to the blaze and opened a pop-up burger stand. ‘2-meat gourmet burgers’.
We’re doing well, too. Poindexter had a big horse and, as previously mentioned, he was no prairie fukken chicken, himself!
Anyway, don’t forget to book tickets to our July 2 show at Diverse-City, 116 Grote street.
Sleepy-Dawg Dawson
Get tickets through moshtix. moshtix.com.au/v2/event/t-crusty-cowboys-ride-again-/139846
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