Tim and I took a peek at the stampede one day. We were just in time for the chuck wagon races. Horse driven wagons full of cast iron kettles and skillets and bowls and ladles and hundred pound bags of beans, of flour, of corn and wheat and chunks of beef fresh cut from cattle, prepared themselves for the race. These wagons were driven by speedy chefs who whipped and yelled and smacked their tongues against the roofs of their mouth in secret horse sounds to make the horses go faster.
The chuck wagons were the kitchen. They were in charge of the breakfast and the dinner. Cowboys don't eat lunch. They smoke or chew tobacco and barely bother with afternoon water, unless the day is so hot you sweat instead of pee. No time for pissing, got to watch the animals; the herd, the sheep or the cattle, look out for predators; the coyote, the mountain lion and the bear; got to stay on the horse and trot slowly along with rifle on lap; not to mention the rustlers who might shoot you in your sleep and swipe your entire herd. Beware the human; for he is the most cruel and cunning of predators.
I was getting into it totally. I wanted to race one of those big chuck wagons around the giant dusty track. The dirt track was as big as a NASCAR track it seemed or a pretty decent stockcar-track nonetheless. I wanted to whip those mean looking stallions with rawhide – Crack! Clack! – against their shiny muscle back, moving in motion with the sacred currency of our galaxy, sweating galloping, all four hooves off the ground at once, flying, twenty miles an hour on a dust particle racing 600 kilometers per second towards the hydra constellation, closer and closer to the great attractor…
“YAW! HAW! GIDDY-UP!” I wanted to scream cowboy jargon to horsepower and take those large cocked colts around every corner however many times was the race. I wanted to win! I wanted an enormous belt buckle prize. I wanted rodeo groupies and a bad reputation.
I would have shot every one of those useless beasts at the end of that race if they would have really put their backs into it for me; right between the eyes, loving and honest with the highest power rifle; if they would have given me the last three or four years of their life in that one final hour. I wanted to be the Dale Earnhardt of chuck wagon racing. I would have fed their hearts to the dogs I beat around the Alaskan Iditarod if they were strong hearts and they burst them across the finish line in first place.
I would have brought a whole new pizzazz to the world of chuck wagon racing.
Tim and I walked around the place in utter awe. We were both like prepubescent redneck children going to the monster truck races for the first time. It was better than wrestling, better than the circus; I always wanted to see those elephants race, those tigers and lions really tear up one of those clowns. I wanted to go chuck wagon racing. Tim and I spent a few hours at the Stampede, watching the trotting and parading horses show off their luster and strut, some fine young teenage guide in full booted uniform complete with riding crop and proper hat, keeping her well bred face composed.
There were solo horse races, horse jumping events, horse trick events and every legally creative thing a man can think to do with a horse, that doesn't involve its butcher. O How I would have loved to demonstrate the art of butchering a horse to any paying crowd and brother would I charge! I would have used no anesthesia and there would be great kicking and screaming and certain arteries I would let spew into the crowd - pretty crimson ribbons of hemoglobin squirting on the front row spectators like the log ride at a water park. I would have bathed in the liquid warmth myself, demonstrating bravely by rubbing the plasma into the pores on my face, forever young - and - tasting some of the substance, the iron rich pulp so good for your skin, like Christ Semen, fish oil and sebum.
I would have cooked great meals with its flesh, the muscle and tissue in stews with autumn vegetables, red wine, chocolate, chanterelles, truffles, I might even use a bit of the blood, not so much for pudding but rich and thick. I don't know why these great beasts turned me on so much. Maybe it was their enormous cock and cool strut, their long luxurious hair and swishing tail. I could think of nothing but slaughtering them for some sort of fantastic purpose of my benefit, but yes bathing in the warm blood, a savage magic practice; eternal life, youth, vitamins and sins.
I was coming into my own. I was exploring the universe with my mind, finding out who I was, and right then and there at that time I wanted to explore the Wild West with gold lust and six shooters. I wanted to be a murderous thief and a liar, a good-looking young playboy with gold coin pockets for brothel rooms and twofers. I wanted to gallop towards the sunset with a wild, wild west search for the infinite land, to try my hand at poker and never sit with my back to the door, guns under the table and cocaine in my whiskey, because no one catches me sleeping. I wanted an all night life full of rockNroll music and fast girls who were going my way. I didn't want to play my guitar under the stars with a bunch of other men in the sweaty boot air of a desert. I wanted to drive through
Maybe I didn't want to be a cowboy. Hell what would I be doing exactly anyway? Herding sheep? Herding cattle? Isn't that how we introduce sexually transmitted diseases into our population? Who would I fuck? Who would I talk to? What would I do besides play a rusty harmonica and eat baked beans? I fart too much as it is. No thank you. So I no longer wanted to be a cowboy. Which meant it was time for me to go. Luckily I think Tim was having the same daydreams as me and he was done with wanting to be a cowboy as well.
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