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monsters on the seventeen-inch
screen are the least bit threatening, but lately he finds Chucky to be so. Or rather, his thoughts
about Chucky. He turns back to the television and decides the movie would be a lot cooler if the
handsome cowboy who has the silly name of Tuck, which must have been just awful when the
guy went to school wouldn't bother so much with the girl. Yeah, Steve thinks, grabbing a
handful of Fritos from the bowl by Chucky's knees, T. J. ought to have been a guy. Then the
kissing part wouldn't be so bad. Not that Steve has ever kissed another boy, but he does wonder a
lot about it, especially when he's around Chucky.
On the curved glass screen the cowboys begin to lasso the clay allosaurus. Chucky starts to laugh.
His breath reeks of corn chips. "That's so gay."
Steve winces, and then, with a steadiness that surprises him, lifts a hand up in a pistol gesture. He
takes aim at Chucky's handsome features and clicks his thumb. Bang.
On the makeshift studio lot the dust settled to the earth minutes after the jeep stopped. Esteban
looked over his shoulder and saw the loco American leap from where he had sat in the back, still
clutching some sort of pole. Esteban didn't understand why he had to drive around in circles while
men tried to rope the pole's end. But the movie business paid well.
In the passenger seat, Carlos laughed as the movie folk scrambled like busy ants. Esteban loved
the sound of Carlos's deep laughter as it so often came before an embrace. Making sure no one
watched, he reached over and firmly squeezed the crotch of his friend's denim jeans.
Carlos favored him with a smile.
"Tonight," Esteban said, leaning in close, "let's steal away to the jungle set and pretend we are
lost in their valley."
"What of the monsters?" The crazy American who had
wielded the pole played with toy lizards, posing them for hours.
Esteban squeezed more and felt the reassuring firmness and heat beneath his palm. "I like some
monsters." He kissed Carlos, tasting a bit of the road dirt in the man's mouth, but the grit did not
last long. "Besides, we can play cowboy." He made sure to say the word in English, feeling it
strange and wondrous on his lips.
THE NEW SHERIFF
Dale Chase
In April 1864, when I last rode to Springfield, Edgar Rawlings had been sheriff. I knew him to be
an honest man possessed of a quick gun hand, but his skill did him little good as he was
ambushed soon after arresting Bob Brown. It was believed Bob's brother Ben pulled the trigger,
but nobody was saying and the deputy had made himself scarce. Now, six months later, I was
back in town.
"New man coming," a bartender said after I remarked on the absence of a sheriff.
"And we still got laws," insisted a drunken cowboy, but then another laughed. "Who's to enforce
them?" the man said. "You wanna put on a badge and go after Ben Brown?"
No reply came, and I turned to watch cowhands doing their drinking and gambling; whatever coin
remained after these pursuits was destined for the whores upstairs. I stayed by the bar, hoping to
see the blacksmith's assistant, a man I fucked whenever I got to town.
"Clay Carver? You ain't heard? Gunned down two weeks ago," I was told when I asked after him.
I swear I felt the bullet myself, tearing through me and leaving a deep wound. Clay was a good
man, honest, straightforward, never giving anyone a lick of trouble. But he fucked men, and
without so much being said, I knew that might be the reason his life had been taken.
"Had him some trouble down at the livery," a grizzled man said with a whiskey leer. I knew he
wanted me to ask more so his cock could grow hard as he told. He knew about Clay and was
guessing about me, so I offered nothing more and changed the subject.
"Who's the new sheriff?" I asked him.
"Man named Alden Reed, due to arrive next week. He's known to be hard, much experienced,
with little tolerance for lawlessness. Word is Ben Brown has moved on."
"Alden Reed?"
"Out of Wichita."
I'd never heard of him, but I missed a lot of what went on as I worked on a ranch some distance
away and only came to town when I got my monthly pay. It was then I'd see Clay at the livery or
the saloon and we'd meet after dark and fuck. My cock stirred at the thought of him even though
he was dead, so I forced my mind toward the new sheriff. Maybe he was man enough to bring in
Clay's killer.
In the days before his arrival, talk of Reed grew. The idea of him aroused me much the way Clay
had, and I envisioned a big thick man with a good-sized cock. Of course I took the idea beyond
what others did, wondering if he might like men instead of women. I reminded myself this wasn't
likely his persuasion but decided there was no reason not to enjoy the pleasures of speculation. So
as I lay in my hotel room
working my swollen prick, I let my mind consider.
I saw him push an unruly drifter to his knees, saw the sheriff unbutton his pants and take out his
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