Rags to Riches

Starring . . . . . Jimmy Haystack as the most dangerous man in the West . . . Dr. House as the High Roller . . .  Laura as the lady in the million dollar dress . . . Barb as the damsel in distress . . . Mike as the nifty sidekick . . . and Ron as the titular protagonist . . . . . . . . . . . .

 

"Are you the writer?" a Military Police officer asked Ron, opening the door of the writer's golden 1966 Cadillac DeVille. He was practically a walking billboard for recruitment with the blue uniform and armor, armbands, and white helmet, all stamped with a blue "MP." 

 

Ron noted the officer's nameplate, attached hastily to his tactical chestplate: "Benny Benson." Amused, the writer smiled, "Your parents weren't the most creative bunch, I take it," as he stepped out of the car and into the holy city of Las Vegas. He looked around in awe at the desert oasis: fountains, palm trees, and blooming agave plants lined the thoroughfare, spotlights perused the night sky, and the various casinos towered over him. 

 

Right Turn, Clyde!

(Dance Floor Blues!)

 

"I should have sold my 'Olds and bought me a jeep!" Jimmy Haystack chuckled, batting an eye at Ron, Mike, and Laura through the rearview mirror. Steering with his knees, he loaded rounds into the ammunition belt of his M249 SAW machine gun. 

 

"Has anyone checked in on Paul?" Mike asked, still covered in blood from earlier.

 

Dragged out of the lodge by the janitor and Laura, Paul was strapped to the roof of the car with bright orange lashing straps, much akin to a Christmas tree. The occasional thumping of his head on the ceiling, usually whenever Jimmy gunned the throttle, broke the silence. 

 

Life is a Dream

(The Fourth Installment of the Trilogy...)

 

"Give me your paper," Mike demanded, reaching over the pool table. The game room was lit by two dim lamps, hanging from the ceiling. A few red leather armchairs lined the log-cabin-esque walls, along with deer antlers and landscape paintings. 

 

"What? Why?" Ron asked from across the table.

 

"I don't know. What were you doing?"

 

Laura, the writing instructor, interjected, "Why don't we all just calm down." 

 

The self-proclaimed writer looked at him, thinking of an easy excuse, and replied, "I was writing." 

 

"Were you drawing pictures of my wheelbarrow?"