All Entries in the "Fractured Opinion" Category

Back To The Range Returns to Old Cowboy Tradition

If you listen real close to Doug Robert’s new CD you can almost taste the trail dust. If you kick back and lend and ear you might just see Charles Goodnight or Oliver Loving riding furiously across the plains or sleeping gently under the stars to the sounds of the dogies wailing.

The artists on the selection of cowboy tunes wanted to create a mood, a sense of the authentic and they did it…Songs of drovers and wranglers, bits and bridles…spurs a-jinglin’.

Included on the work are familiar pieces written by the likes of Roy Rogers and Gene Autry plus an insight into the lyrical, tough old cowpunchers who worked dawn to dusk then slept with the herd following the American Civil War and far into the 20th Century.

What do Hopalong Cassidy, the Cisco Kid and Yosemite Sam have in common? They were all fictitious inhabitants of the range. These were never the John Chisums depicted here. Do you tear up at the sight of a Fredric Remington and love the rodeo ? Is Tom Mix your hero? Buy this CD.

Starting off with Back to the Saddle Again and moving into the haunting The Goodnight Loving Trail it is apparent that the preservation of the cowboy culture is paramount. The old Ernest Tubb favorite Walking the Floor Over You while not exactly a cowboy tune, showcases Robert’s fine voice and Miles and Miles of Texas features the talents of Gary Cook on lead guitar and Matt Palmer on the fiddle.

My favorite Angels Can Do No More is backed up by Ridin’ the Rio and Cross the Brazos at Waco, all perfect examples of Americana that may be diminishing by the day. This collection saves a cherished bit of our history and with a little concentration one can conjure up the smell of horseflesh.

Rounding out the selections are two strong performances of the Doc Watson classic South of Round Rock, Texas and Running Gun by Tompall Glaser featuring Carl Johnson on pedal steel guitar, Ben Simpson on drums, Jeff Solon on harmonica and Mark Epstein on banjo.

Vocals and guitar provided primarily by Memphis born Roberts are enhanced by the harmonizing of Richard Lee Cody and Lisa Blue

According to the liner notes “This project grew out of a genuine love of traditional cowboy tunes and western music. The American cowboy is the greatest most recognized folk figure in the world…It’s our hope that we have honored their legacy…The lure and mystique of the Old West is as compelling today as when the historic cattle trails were first blazed…”

The CD was produced at Redcliff Sound Studio in Durango and can be purchased through by emailing DOUG@NEWWESTMARKETING.

A brand new look for Western State Colorado University

LIAR’S POKER

Polly Shell’s peekaboo pump hung for dear life on satin toes tapping to Miles Davis. Senses perched, peering from her loft office onto Market in the old warehouse turned bistro and baseball neighborhood, she sighed. She dangled her two pretty legs, assets often more valuable than four years of college in this hardtack profession. .

Scanning the files strewn across the floor she daydreamed.

“Look at that…the Louise DeHaviland murder from 2001 and the abduction of Sara Inkworme up in Cheyenne. That was a strange one. That cowboy couldn’t have been more than 14. Both incidents remain unsolved. No criminals brought to justice like they’d have you believe on television.

“Wow! There’s a quagmire of major proportion…the Jack Jameson murder. Talk was that he wanted out but there was no getting out. Gangland stuff in the Rockies! No indictments at all. Pretty slick.”

The voice of her secretary buzzed her back to the present.

“You’re eleven o’clock, a Mr. Callow is here,” she said. “He’s wearing too much cologne and he looks a little rough at the edges. Should I send him in?”

Suddenly Polly Shell remembered the rude little man who had continually interrupted her investigation a few nights before.

“Oh nuts” she thought. “I thought when I told him to call the office he would get the brush off. I guess I was too subtle.”

“Yes, send him in,” she snapped, thinking she’d make quick work of the intrusion. She opened her desk drawer and checked her 45. Her secretary opened the door and escorted a yellowish, dwarf-like creature into Polly’s office. He was squat, small-boned and looked like he’d spent the night in a cave. His skin was blue-white like he had never seen the sun. He shook her hand without making eye contact.

“Hello Miss Shell. I’m Leche Callow. You may remember me from Brennan’s. He flashed a seesaw smile, exposing a rung of jagged teeth that resembled the Sneffels Range or a batch of half-broken yellow and green bottles from a carnival shooting gallery.

Wondering what this repulsive little man could want she pretended not to know him.

“I bought you a drink at  Brennan’s last Friday,” he pressed.

“Oh, yes of course and thank you Mr…

“Callow, Leche Callow Miss.”

She looked at him waiting for him to state his business but he was busy eyeballing her from head to toe. His eyes then stuck on her cleavage. Even after all of her encounters with creeps in this shamus racquet this little man made her feel very uncomfortable.

“What can I do for you Mr Callow?” she asked finally.

He continued to gaze, now stuck on her legs.

Oh, sorry Miss Shell. I had hoped to talk to you about some urgent business, some information that might be of great interest to you in your capacity.”

Callow had no idea where to take the dialogue. He had no information or good reason to be in her office unless infatuation served as the key. Yes, he had the hots and hoped that this face to face might help his chances of bedding this beauty. A constant flow of bad whiskey and cigars had clouded his lowlife judgment. He was delusional. His breath smelled bad.

Dropping his eyes to the floor Leche Callow landed on the Jameson file, now resting on top of the others. He latched on to his only course of action.

“It’s about the Jack Jameson case,” he said. “I know who killed him and did away with the body. If my sources prove true I may even be able to pinpoint the whereabouts of dumping.

Polly looked right through Leche Callow not knowing where all of this goose and gandering might take her.

“Interesting?” she flinched, trying not to display her growing disdain for Callow.

Do you? you loathsome little rodent, she thought to herself.

“That case has been closed for almost a year,” she frowned, brushing him off again. “I doubt whether your information would bring it back to life.”

“But I knew Jack Jameson and I know…

“You knew Jack Jameson?” interrupted Polly now slightly more interested.

“Well, not as a friend per say. None of us really knew each other. It was better that way in the business at hand. Nobody knew anymore than was necessary to conclude business. It was clear enough that they wanted to be rid of him because he wanted to quit the business and he knew every contact, every drop point, every route, every face…”

“And what was that business? Mr Callow, if I might ask,” said Polly now growing anxious to get the little creep out of her office.

“I’d rather not say although i have paid my debt to society for those transgressions and am no longer on parole,” said Callow, his swampy, minikin eyes drifting back to her topography, making her quite uncomfortable again.

“Creep,” she thought as his gaze once again fell to the Jameson file in the pile on the floor.

“We would, of course, have to go to the police with your story, if it can be verified. Can it be verified, Mr Callow?

“With a few days I can put all the pieces of the puzzle together for you,” he said buying time. “Right now some of the details are sketchy. As you yourself said the case has been dormant for almost a year.”

“I see. Let me consider al of this and call you.”

“OK, said Callow a bit disappointed that she hadn’t taken more of his bait. “You can leave me a message at Brennan’s.”

* * *

The email was unnerving on the heels of yesterday’s visit. It said simply that the authorities were reopening the Jack Jameson case. Apparently the epic rantings of an elderly convict were not those of a madman after all. His relentless chatter had led to the recovery of a bound body, deep at the bottom of Buffalo Bill reservoir in the foothills.

She called a friend that she had worked with in homicide. He verified that new evidence had emerged and that the cops had already dredged the lake and netted a male body. From early indications the victim had been executed and thrown weighted into the lake about six months ago. He would let her know more.

“Too much,” she said to herself as she got off the phone. “Could that little creep really be legitimate?” After pondering her options she realized she had but one and called Callow at Brennan’s. They agreed to meet that afternoon.

Two hours later she picked her way out of the bright sun into a dark tavern, trying to make out the shiftless figures humping the bar. It was 98 degrees out in the high desert day and the air conditioner was humming right along with Callow’s mouth. She then focused on her target sitting at the mahogany trough. He had seen her first, his catty peepers having adapted to the stale, dim light.

“Hi ya sweetie,” he blasted in a loud voice that drown out the jukebox momentarily. “What are you drinking?”

“Just coffee,” she whispered trying to tone him down and avoid further attention.

One coffee!” he solicited. “You’re looking good,” he said shooting a shot of brown liquid and making a face. “Glad you could come,” he piped so the other boozers could hear him. “It’s about time this place exhibited some class.”

“Is this a good place to talk?” she asked. “Is it private?”

He stole a furtive glance and motioned for her to sit on the next stool watching her do so with great interest.

“You want to get private, heh?” he asked loudly. “Intimate?”

She quickly changed gears and sat down at the bar, the idea of sharing a booth suddenly making her sick.

“With legs like yours you should never have to buy a drink…”

She almost puked. Leche Callow was bad enough but some of the other mutants that bellied up at Brennan’s were even worse. One round-headed chubby chucklehead sang to himself, another worn woman fondled her rocks glass, wrapped in a frazzled bar napkin. Leaned against the wall was a stooped figure in a cheap checkered sports coat who hid his face in his Denver Bears’ cap, smiling and listening intently to a host of mindless confabulation, painfully short on repartee.

“Bartender get everybody one!” screamed Callow drawing attention to his congenial juxtaposition with this lovely female. “Even Leper down there,” he squawked gesturing toward the checkered hump in earshot at the end of the bar.

“You got any money, Callow?” was the response.

Leche Callow pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, snapped it fondly and told the bartender to keep the change. He then turned to Shell with the amps of alcohol engaged.

“Jack Jameson,” he smiled, “was killed by the local drug cartel. He had been in bed with the gangsters for decades and had decided he had had enough. He also had overdue gambling debts. I heard him talking to one of the bosses a few days before he disappeared. It wasn’t friendly.”

“So the mob had a motive for killing him. He owed them money and he knew too much,” she ventured. “So many wrinkles on the boom-boom trail.”

She could hardly believe she was in this ratty bar talking to this pathetic little twit as he wormed his way closer to her. She feigned interest not sure what to believe but unwilling to ignore this possible lead. Was it all coincidental that the case popped open right after Leche Callow’s claims? He could actually know something, she winced. He’s such a wretched little pigeon but I am not in the business of cavorting with choirboys.

“Exactly,” he nodded. “And I know who pulled the trigger and where the deed went down,” lied Callow. “The shooter was from right here in town which seemed odd since they usually brought someone in from Phoenix or Kansas City to do the dirty work.”

“Are you willing to talk to the police?” she pressed him.

“I don’t like police. You can do my talking for me. I have names. People like Sam Moonsie and Peg-leg O’Sullivan,” he name-dropped loudly, claiming he had met the two in jail.

The conversations at the bar had already returned to the weather, the Broncos and the government with everyone talking at once in slurred monotone…all except for the lump under the Bear’s cap who just listened as Callow’s afternoon lies got bigger and bigger.

* * *

“This Callow is talking to the cops. Says he knows who killed that Jameson fellow,” said the checkered jacket hump named Raffini, running to the mob which had already gotten wind of the recovered body and the new status of the investigation. He had hoped to earn a few dollars for his information.

The cartel had wondered what loose ends might be dragging and had already flexed some muscle on the street.

“He mentioned Sam Moonsie and Peg-leg O’Sullivan and said he knew who ordered the killing. ‘Said he knew Jameson from the I-70 operation. He was talking to some knockout babe in the bar who didn’t look like she belonged with him.”

“We should done him years ago but nobody thought he was worth a bullet,” said one bow-tied boss in red suspenders . “Tell me, Raffini, where can I find the little stoolie? Where does he hang out these days? Maybe it’s time we shut the door on Callow and his big mouth.”

* * *

The phone rang heavy on Sunday morning Polly Shell’s apartment. It was her friend in homicide who told her about Callow. He had been run over in the alley behind Brennan’s. Patrons said he had been in the company of two large men who bought him drinks, then sat in a booth with him while he drank them. All seemed cordial enough but something just wasn’t kosher.

The barflies told the police they then saw another man follow Callow out the back door of the tavern into the pitch black night. Then they heard a tires squealing and a loud thump. It had been Peg-leg O’Sullivan behind the wheel. One of the patrons identified him from a police photo. Another claims he saw the hit and run and watched Callow’s listless body fly up in the air and come crashing down. He said he then saw O’Sullivan jump into a car with Callow’s two booze benefactors and speed away.

O’Sullivan was arrested the next day and after hours of interrogation he fingered the boss in the red suspenders and several other hoodlums associated with the murder of Leche Callow and Jack Jameson. He confessed that he had been the killer, had helped dump Jameson’s body and led the cops to the original murder weapon that he had chucked down a mineshaft at Idaho Springs.

“It looks like we nailed the bad guys,” said the voice on the other end of the phone. Your conversation with Callow was the catalyst. We found your name and address scrawled on a pad in Peg-leg’s pocket. I’m afraid you were next. These scumbags were dialed in all right.”

“Too bad about that little fella though,” said the detective “He may have been a lying punk but he turned out to be Jack Jameson’s best friend in the end. – Kevin Haley

 

 

Television Networks Seek Vampires

(New Jork) Global television networks are seeking vampires to cover violent stories that occur throughout the world it was disclosed today. The television bosses reportedly are convinced that serious blood suckers would do the best job bringing the reality of violence into the homes of millions.

The announcement has already generated a mass response on the part of the general vampire population, a group that has historically been plagued by job discrimination and underemployment due in part to alleged skin conditions and preferred hours of circulation.

“All one has to do is observe the behavior of these pathetic TV scribes, these mental pygmies determined to get to the source of the news with no concern for the human feelings of the victims to see why vampires are now ascending the ladder of success in mega media,” said a Manhattan head hunter, herself a recovering vampire.

Rest assured that employment opportunities herein will be based on merit however I suggest

showing up for the interview early with portfolio in order…and wear something black.”

“Hub” Early Qualifier for Robot Cops

(Montrose) By virtue of its new status as an All-American City this Western Colorado locale may qualify for millions of dollars in federal funding to establish an elite robot police force here. The money, which is designated for urban planning, traffic arteries and asphalt, as well as high-tech law enforcement, should start pouring in before the end of the year.

There will be no immediate changes in the police force according to a city council spokesman who has hired over 200 police recruits over the past three years. It is estimated that it may take up to five years to transform the police department from human to robot.

“We have the highest ratio of police to citizens in North America already,” said the councilperson, admitting he is sometimes afraid of several of the more outspoken officers. “Even though our crime rate is rising we think they are performing a great service to the community. We haven’t made any headway with the creeping meth problem but we have certainly arrested a slew of citizens and visitors for DUI and our adherence to the Say No To Drugs campaign has netted the city a fleet of fancy new four-wheel-drives. We appear to be on the right track.”

Montrose plans to retrain the existing police force in alternative occupations such as prison guards and private security positions. Some police will remain in their positions as supervisory personnel.

“We don’t feel the robots will work well in environs where a human factor is prevalent,” said the councilman. “Besides, the software needed to run these robots is not compatible with anything more than strict law enforcement and control of the population by whatever means is deemed necessary.”

Robot police can easily walk a beat for 24 hours if necessary without using fossil fuel or needing lunch or even a coffee break, which could save the city a bundle in operating expenses. Rather than a salary these metal gumshoes exist on minimum maintenance and follow orders to the ultimate without emotional attachment or detachment. Sophisticated sensors built in to every robot often put these space-age constables at the scene of the crime before the crime happens.

“We’ve lost some good people over the years and now they won’t have to risk their lives in the line of fire,” continued the source. “Nobody needs a bullet-proof vest or radios to call for backup.”

Robot cops operating secretly in other US cities have been found to be an effective deterrent to crime for the above stated reasons and because no upstanding criminal wants to be hauled in by a machine, especially one that cannot be distracted, bribed or intimidated. In experimental enforcement scenarios crooks have learned not to push the envelope since these robots are no nonsense crime fighters programmed to show little restraint and quite prepared to take control if the situation demands more intensity.

Uncooperative perpetrators risk a backhand or a head butt, which carries more clout than a billy club.

“Rather than dwell on the violent side of this measure, we feel it is important to understand that innocent citizens have nothing to fear from the robots, unless of course programming systems fail or software issues emerge in the heat of battle,” said the councilman.

Rumors that the new police battalion would be crafted from local resources at Recla Metals have been deemed false and vehemently denied by all concerned with the final phase of the procedure.

“The robot cops will arrive in large crates with extensive instructions. Some assembly may be required,” said a strong proponent of the plan who requested anonymity. “The manufacturer uses only the finest US steel and the robots are fabricated for longevity and multiple use. Just a little car wax and they look as good as new.”

Citizens can expect to see the new police force on the streets sometime in 2014. – Kashmir Horseshoe

 

COCKROACHES REINTRODUCED TO STATE

(Colona) Cockroaches, some the size of small humans have been dropped right out of the sky this summer as part of an attempt to bring Western Colorado in line with the rest of the country. These hard-shelled flat-bodied insects of the family Blattidae develpmentus speculatum hide in dark places (like under septic systems and even historic mining structures) then run for their lives if somebody has the good sense to turn the light on.

Focal points of the drops have been pastoral Colona, the still wild Slate River Valley Floor and pristine Red Mountain Pass where there’s lots to gobble up while the townspeople are tending their flocks or asleep.

The roaches have accumulated more than enough fodder to make it through the winter but are motivated to get even more. Their appetites are incredible, causing many of us to ask: How much is enough? Often they align themselves with other more powerful species/agents, even elected officials, to get what they want.

In addition to the initial infestation, residents should be sure to keep an eye out for the frightening multiplication of this specie mentality in the light of public apathy. The roaches are going to do their thing and there’s nothing we can do about it so we might as well benefit from it…Remember: If you spray, keep a clean house and keep the lights on these pests cannot proliferate. Unfortunately these cockroaches have no conscience and should be squashed at every opportunity. So wear them big old shoes!

(Editor’s note: We respect the rights of private property owners and everyone deserves to make a living here in the good ol’ grab all you can USA, but nobody has the right to create such a negative impact on our countryside.)