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Just Ducky in Danang

Last call for Danang!

Vice Squad Strikes Gold, Parrot City in Flames

Special from The Gladstone Gladiator (May 1, 1884)

(Parrot City) The dark side of the mining boom came to light tonight as contingents of local deputies, backed by Pinkerton agents and remnants of the Colorado State militia staged a midnight raid on brothels and opium dens here.

Their expenses paid by railroad interests the small but hallowed army was silent moments before the strike. They are one as the new abolitionists joined by a young reporter from this paper, a foul-smelling circuit judge and an anxious undertaker from Silverton. They move on the sweaty gulch under the eye of a band of Utes peering from the painted ponies of their last hurrah.

Not since the Civil War have such perverse conditions existed unchecked by civilized men. Upon entering the muddy hollow that has come to be named Parrot City it becomes apparent that one must keep a firm hold on anything of value.

Swaying residents, drunk from rapid fire fermentation, stand in the doorways of makeshift tar shacks watching for the slightest weakness, a blink, on the part of the regiment. A nickel for a beer. Four cents for a life.

The first order of business is to close down and torch the ramshackle Mule Billiards which doubles as a house of ill repute. Since January this dump has hosted several murders in its debauched halls. Miners, heavy with gold dust and momentarily rich in ore from surrounding claims are systematically fleeced here and then thrown out to the rutted streets to survive the frigid night in their skivvies.

Run by Polly Singleton, The Mule will be the first to go. Hallelujah. Watch it go up in flames. Watch the rats scurry to retrieve their lives as the flames creep higher into the frosty spring night. The sun seems to have stayed up in the sky just a wee bit longer to catch the finale. Ashes to ashes. Purification. On to the next den…

That same night there was gunplay out at the Shamrock Mine, some fourteen miles from the main from Sullivan’s Ditch where my father was last seen packing ore onto his bare-boned burro before the descent to the flats and on to the assay office over at Lake City. Some people here say he never made it down the mountain, that a slide got him and washed away his treasure. Others say he was bushwhacked by bandits that roamed the ragged heights. I believe they did him in and took his precious cargo of life. I’m certain his murderers sleep in Parrot City tonight.

When we reach Shamrock a loud explosion distracts us from our holy mission. Light in the sky. Handguns blaze. We return the fire. We can’t tell who is who. Now they’re all cold on the ground. We lost one of the Pinkertons to foot blisters but otherwise reported no casualties. After a meal of army rations we head back to town to continue sterile purge of the infested gambling halls.

The Chattanooga Saloon. Roulette wheels and keno. The devil’s picture book. Whiskey, soaked chips, courtesan champagne, tiny rooms of sin sag the ceiling above. Stains of the boom. Costumes of deplorable mirth!

One staggering poker face draws on a Pinkerton gun slinger. Dead-eye shot! He drops to the hard wood floor never again to shuffle a deck. Another thinks about it, fingering his leather holster but decides to exit through the back alley into the night.

We disarm the lot and detain wicked in the parlor awaiting further instructions from Rev. Chivington, who should be arriving from Capital City this very night.
But wait…they’re hanging the inmates of the Parrot City calaboose! They’ve had no trial! Shouldn’t we wait further…”The boys are just having a little fun,” says a former Union sergeant. “Let them be. We’ll cut ’em down after we’d scared them a bit,” slurs the judge.

Then it was on to the hash parlor, the China Belle opium den where men fancy the foggy dreams of demons and narcotic fantasy, wasting away until the dehydrated dawn comes looking for another handout. Unfortunately there is no one there. They have been warned of our coming and we set the block of leaning shanties ablaze in their absence. It makes a dandy roast on a cold morning. They called the district Parrot City’s Rec Center. The damned at play in the alpine meadows of the Lord!

The Pinkerton bullies are getting itchy for a fight. We’ve met little resistance in our attempts to muck out this hole. Several of the men are headed back down Corduroy Street in search of holdouts. Someone has set fire to the Chattanooga. I wonder did our prisoners get out or face hell’s own fire right here on earth? No report at mid-morning. Witches burned at the stake? The tools of their misdeeds the kindling of vengeance.

Out in the street it is clear that the victims of the necktie party are still in flight, dangling from the noose. Unclaimed souls stranded in space, scarecrows of the swift sword. Fodder of decorum.

Suddenly there is gunfire coming from the upstairs of the Henson Hotel. Somebody’s got a rifle up there. Three of our men are down bleeding in the dirt street. Another is hit.

“Take cover,” screams the sergeant himself holding his belly. “He’s up there,” points one of the deputies, close to tears at the scene. “I can see the rifle!”

The firing subsides and we began the tedious chore of closing in on the balcony assassin. Creeping slowly on all fours I slide along the cupola and into an empty hotel room. The exchange of fire continues, while in its lapses I can almost hear my target breathing through the thin walls of the 19th Century. I hug the hallway wall making my way through barricades as the shooting subsides. I force the door my revolver hip high. There’s no one there.

Surveying the room one more time. Then I pull my handkerchief as a flag of truce and carefully approach the open window. A flurry of bullets greets me there.

Waking up heavily bandaged in a hospital cart I scribble my story while the ghost of John Brown speaks to the righteous of our next engagement. They’ve got excitement in their eyes. A pretty nurse tells me I will likely survive my wounds.

Three weeks later Parrot City is up and running again, a new cast of characters roaming its seedy streets, the mines giving birth to mounds of the evil ore.

– Kashmir Horseshoe

What is the missionary position on UFOs?

What if space travelers land on earth? Does this contrast with existing religious beliefs practiced since the Dark Ages? How will the good folk respond if long-held beliefs collide with stark reality that there may be other heavens and earth out there in the Universe.

Leading missionaries say it all comes out in the wash which sounds like creative culture, the pretense to start creating new ancient folk tales and rules for the kneel-bent tribe.

Proof of other living creatures wandering around, might put the final nail in the coffin of earth-centered religions or propagate new directions for the spiritually assimilated.

Beings from other balls of rock have either been watching us or not, and we don’t know for how long either. Would we have behaved as humans if we knew there were cameras in the cosmic parking garage or strung over the satellite rainbow curtains that grace my house.
The authorities suggest stocking up on food and water in case of a Hollywood-infused alien invasion. I just figure on staying around home hoping they don’t land in the pasture near my bunker. A lot of starmen in my yard is more than I need right now.

– Finn McCool

“The Americans saw the Vietnamese peasantry as potential victims of a global Communist ideology. These poor Vietnamese saw the Americans as creators of garbage and debris from which they could build houses.”
– Fire in the Lake by Francis Fitzgerald

Haliburton Sells North Dakota To Russian Energy Company

Western slope employer, oil field giant and fairly well-off defense contractor Haliburton recently sold North Dakota to the Russian state-owned energy company Gazprom. The move has left Canadian negotiators stunned, as they felt they had been close to a deal to acquire additional rolling prairies, not to mention future pipeline right of way. In a surprise move, Haliburton shut Canada out of the deal, choosing to work with Gazprom instead.
Sources say that Canadian negotiators are steaming mad, as the whole thing was their idea in the first place.

‘Ya, sure. We figured that since nobody over there in Washington was paying much attention to anything, why, Canada might just be able to pick up some of that great Canadian top soil that we’ve been losing down south for years,” remarked Gordie Flambeau, chief Canadian negotiator.

“So, we struck up some talks with those guys over there at Haliburton, cause, gee, we’ve known ’em for years over there and they’re really smart fellas, and anyway, we told ’em what we were thinking. And so then those Haliburton guys, they said, ‘Heck, we pretty much own North Dakota but we really don’t need it anymore. Why don’t you crazy Canucks take North Dakota off our hands?’ So we said sure! Then next thing we know, our old friends over there at Haliburton sold North Dakota right out from under us, to the Ruskies no less. You can imagine that we are pretty darn disappointed.”

Sources from the U.S. State Department expressed some surprise that Haliburton had sold North Dakota and immediately questioned the appropriateness of the transaction. Following our explanation that corporate giant Haliburton had in fact recently sold the state of North Dakota to Russian energy company Gazprom for a twelve figure sum, a spokesman for the State Department indicated off-the-record that they would likely be filing an strong objection to the sale in coming weeks.

Gazprom has refused comment but has initiated armored truck and supply convoys through Oklahoma, Kansas and Nebraska to North Dakota, aka West St. Petersburg, from Galveston, Texas.  There is reason to believe that Vladimir Putin has scheduled a visit to the newly renamed West St. Petersburg in coming months. Putin has reputedly remarked, “I like to be owning North Dakota. I will ride horse and shoot giant grizzly bear like Teddy Roosevelt and wrestle Buffalo with bare hands.”

It is unclear whether North Dakota will retain its U.S. Congressional delegation, and sources tell us that Congressional officials are scrambling to recall the phone numbers of the North Dakota congressmen so that discussions can begin.

Secret Service Loses Trump in bunker

“Red tie, small hands and round in the middle” is how the millions of leaflets and posters describe the now missing President of the United States as a dwindling crew of supporters pray for his safe return.

Two days ago a man fitting the description of Trump was reportedly attacked by elderly mob due to budget cuts near Union Square in Lower Manhattan. During the melee Donald Trump was irretrievably separated from the hordes of secret service personnel ordered to protect him.

“One minute he was behind us in the bunker and the next he was gone,” said one of Trump’s body guards.

Right now, according to the shocked security contingent the police don’t know anything either.

“We think he he escaped from the angry grandmothers, many armed with knitting needles and attack cats, but maybe not a mob of former supporters eager to get their hands on him.

One unreliable source allegedly watched him on foot toward the Trump Tower, where with last breath supporters managed to pull up the draw bridge and close the impenetrable gates. His close aids, having fled at the sight of blood, have been mute as to the developments.

Many secretly believe he fell down an unattended manhole but will resurface to take the reins of the gov’ment once more. They say they wuld look for him tomorrow since the White House budget slashed such benefits as sick days and overtime pay.

He’s just out playing golf,” said one Trump diehard. “He’ll be back.”

Meanwhile a massive Black Hole, feared to be the same one that engulfed House Speaker Paul Ryan and Mitch McConnell, sucked in Vice President Mike Pence, leaving a power void not seen since the last days of Richard M Nixon.

Phone calls made to an 800 number attributed to the Secret Service have not generated a response.

Baby Boomers Often Infantile, Noisy Lot

True to their name, most baby boomers (people born from 1945 – 1960) are loud crybabies. According to unconfirmed sources in the National Nursery, more than 65% of this group can be obnoxious and disruptive as well.

As for the other 35%, they are quiet and happy enough. Most just want to be left alone to do what they do.

A micro-study, completed last night, compiled after more than 6 baby boomers were captured and coerced into answering such questions as: Where do you store your teeth at night? When was the last time you swam across a Great Lake? When angels cry do their tears join the rain?

The stunned control group failed to utter so much as one response during the interrogations.

Researchers quickly determined to scrap the project when denied a government grant to further exploit the issue.

– Roothie Roosterson