Sunny

By J. B. Heaton

In the late nineteenth century, Sunny, Arizona, is a place of redemption, self-discovery, and cross-dressing male prostitutes.

A young man born in New York watches as his life is upturned by the murder of his boss. Lost and talentless, he decides to become a peace officer for the US Government. He is hired and given the assignment of Sunny, Arizona. Hilarity ensues as he heads west in search of himself and his future.

As he embarks upon his odyssey of self-discovery, he encounters John, a somewhat delusional man of questionable origin. John sticks to our narrator, doing his best to pester, annoy, and keep him safe on his journey. Upon arriving in Sunny, he finds that the town is in the middle of a standoff between Wagner, a Canadian-born German, and the prostitutes of the town. The only catch is that these arent the Wests stereotypical prostitutes; they are, in fact, menbut they aim to please.

Set in the Old West, this satirical novel follows the antics of a troupe of gigolos and the US Marshal who has been sent to save them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Oct 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781458220509

J. B. Heaton

J. B. Heaton is a public high school English teacher who enjoys everything about life—that’s right—everything. He holds a Bachelor’s degree in English and naively believes that all the world’s problems can be solved through literature (like that will happen).

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Copyright © 2016 J. B. Heaton.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Abbott Press

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4582-2051-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-2052-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-2050-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016916693

Abbott Press rev. date: 10/25/2016

CONTENTS

Chapter 1 STDS

Chapter 2 Go West Young Man

Chapter 3 My Training

Chapter 4 Heaven Help Me

Chapter 5 Rivers

Chapter 6 Explosions

Chapter 7 Sunny, Arizona

Chapter 8 A Sunny Night

Chapter 9 Willey B and Me

Chapter 10 The Desert

Chapter 11 Healing Powers

Chapter 12 John?

Chapter 13 A Sunny Reunion

Chapter 14 Do We Even Have a Plan?

Chapter 15 The Penetration

Chapter 16 A Good Groping

Chapter 17 The Underground

Chapter 18 Two Whores and a Baron

Chapter 19 Paradise—and Burt

Chapter 20 The Monkey Crawl

Chapter 21 Jailbreak

Chapter 22 Holster That Gun, Boy

Chapter 23 Treaties and Traitors

Chapter 24 It All Comes Down to This

Chapter 25 But Really It Comes Down to This

Chapter 26 Nothing but the Truth

Dedicated to my sister who helped me through the writing process…

If there are any mistakes, blame her.

Reader be warned: this novel contains no shimmering-skinned vampires, nor pre-pubescent magicians…just good old-fashioned cross-dressing cowboys.

You’re welcome.

CHAPTER 1

STDS

T he brick wall slapped and gritted against my face. Stars exploded before my eyes. Instinctively I reached up and felt my shocked-numb, hamburgered skin. I cradled my head for a moment before I realized the two men were already out the door and running down the street. I half ran, half staggered, out of the grocery store into the morning sun that filtered down between the tall buildings of lower Manhattan. Doubled over and fighting dizziness, I willed myself to focus. Rivulets of crimson blood drained down my nose, splashing to the New York City sidewalk. I looked up, squinting blood from my eyes. The numbness of my face was beginning to turn into a heat-edged stinging sensation. I hoped I wouldn’t need stitches—or worse, that my debonair looks wouldn’t be permanently disfigured. I could see the men running a little way up the street, dodging between early morning commuters. Glancing back in the store, I could just see old Sam’s feet peeking out from behind a tumbled tower of Lucky Dan’s Baked Beans, dark blood slowly pooling on the floor. I fought off the urge to check on him, deciding instead to seek vengeance on his assailants.

The robbers were still running into the distance. I groggily yelled after them and began jogging, gradually building in speed to an all-out run—or what I felt was a run. It was probably more of a staggered gallop. The sidewalk was becoming more crowded as people headed to their morning jobs. They robotically moved out of my way, apparently not even curious as to why a bleeding man would be stumbling down the sidewalk at eight in the morning.

Worried that the blow to my head might have done some permanent damage to my mind, I began to recite regularities of my life as I ran. Today was August 20, 1872. I lived in New York. I worked at Sam Tillman’s Department Store—commonly referred to by its initials, which wasn’t helped by his slogan, You want it, we’ve got it, and we want you to have it. Truth be told it really wasn’t much of a department store. Sure, old Sam had a little bit of everything, but he didn’t have a department of anything. Sure, he had some clothes in varying sizes and some tools, but mostly Sam had food. The walls of his establishment were peeling gray paint, revealing the rough red brick that my forehead had recently met so intimately. Every morning when I arrived for work it was my job to dust off all the paint chips that had fallen onto the produce during the night. At least I hoped that’s what I was doing—I should probably mention that the place was so infested with rats that I couldn’t help but wonder if some of those paint chips were really of a different nature.

My thoughts were jarred back to reality as I stumbled and sharp pains shot through my face. I wiped away the sweat and blood and scanned the street in front of me. I was gaining on my targets, a testament to their lack of athletic prowess.

I ran on, continuing with my life review. I liked to play sports (which ones? All of them. Especially the ones involving muscles, sweat, heavy breathing, and the like). I liked to read Western dime novels. I enjoyed a quiet evening home knitting and chatting about my day with my mother. That is, of course, after having already cursed a bit and engaged in some manly spitting.

I was now within ten or so yards of my targets. I could see their ugly backs as they ran their cowardly way. Neither man’s physique seemed particularly adept to running. One was spindly and tall, while the other was slightly larger (and when I say ‘slightly’ I mean ‘very’—just trying to be nice). I could see back-hair weeding its way out of the kind-of-fat-one’s sweat-drenched shirt. I was gaining on them quickly. A quick tip to all future robbers: if you want to rob someone and think you might have to run away, make sure you can run and that you’re in shape (although in all fairness to the fat one, technically circular is a shape). My fleetness of foot was a childhood trait I developed thanks to Butch, the neighborhood bully—that girl was mean.

I was within an arm’s length of the men. This close to my prey, I was able to confirm my previous suspicion of the fat man’s back-hair harvest, and could smell the unsavory odor of sweat, dirt, and something that smelled distinctly like old cheese (which unexpectedly brought my grandmother to mind). I was still pretty dizzy, but my goal was within reach. I could hear the labored, heavy breathing of my past attackers and future victims (I’m talking about the robbers of course…I’m not some sort of predator—sexual or otherwise—that is always in search of victims. In fact, why did I say ‘sexual’? Just forget the whole thing). The bag of money was secure in Tubby’s short chubby fingers (I nicknamed the fat one Tubby. It was a toss-up between Tubby and Harry—get it?). Suddenly I realized I was unsure of how to apprehend the criminals now that they were within reach. I knew they had a gun; they had used it on old Sam right before slamming my head into that brick wall. Unfortunately for them, they’d underestimated the thickness of my skull.

They must have heard the hammering of my feet upon the sidewalk or my strange grunting breaths because the small fat man turned around to see if they were being pursued. His eyes grew wide when he saw me only a back-hair’s breadth away (why so much about back-hair you ask? Just bear with me, it matters in the end). He began to run faster, and I slowed a little to keep pace with him and his friend. We jogged together this way for about a block; my new friends running with me leisurely jogging right behind with my bloodied (and now beginning to become swollen) face. I just didn’t know what to do. I guess I should explain that I’m really not all that violent of a person. Oh sure, I like the idea of violence (just like all men…right?), but I’ve never actually been able to carry out a violent action. The fat man glanced back again, probably thinking they had lost me, but instead just saw his new jogging buddy. I sort of shrugged, did a weird half hand wave, and kept jogging. Then I saw his hand reach to his midsection. Now I was already a little panicky not knowing how to apprehend the fugitives—and I had already been injured by these guys—so you can’t judge me for wanting to get out of the way. I figured it wouldn’t take him too long to find his pistol in all that blubber, and in my panic I tripped. As I fell forward I reached out with my hands and grabbed a fistful of shirt and back-hair (See? I told you it mattered). As I hit I became entangled in the churning legs of Lil’ Tubby (according to witnesses I also let out a ‘girly yelp’ at this point, but I have no recollection of such a sound being emitted from my mouth).

Tubby toppled to his side and let out a wheezing squeak of dismay as he pummeled into his partner. The spindly man with his longer legs attempted to hurdle Tubby, but was not able to avoid the avalanche of lard and went down hard, hitting his head on the sidewalk with a sickening crunch.

It didn’t end there; Tubsters just kept rolling. Although it was still early, the street was already filled with horse and buggy traffic. I watched in half amusement and half horror as he rumbled into oncoming traffic—right in front of a Public Sanitation wagon. The wagon and man collided in an array of wood, bodies, and feces. The horses bolted and when the ‘dust’ cleared, all I could see of him were five fat fingers poking up through a pile of unpleasantry. And then—

I lost the last of the blood that was keeping me conscious.

*****

I woke up lying on the sidewalk. A blurry, hefty policeman stood over me.

Y’a’right there laddie? the man asked, his words masked in a thick Irish accent.

I reached up and touched my face. Someone had attempted to bandage a large gash that ran horizontally from the middle of my head to the outside of my right eyebrow. What kind of question was that? Of course I wasn’t okay. I probably had internal brain bleeding—if that was a thing. I sat up. The movement brought sharp pain shooting through my temples.

Ouch—er, I mean—Holy damn.

Whoa there. I wouldn’t be messing with that bandage there, lad. You’re liable to start bleeding again. I gotta hand it to ya—that was some job ya did at catching these two.

He offered me his hand. I accepted and he yanked me to my feet, almost popping my arm out of its socket in the process. My head swam, my vision darkened, my legs jellied, and I collapsed onto the officer. He caught my limp body under the arms with my face pressed against his stomach.

Thanks for helping me, I slurred.

I felt the policeman go rigid in my beleaguered embrace. My vision slowly cleared and I saw a crowd of onlookers forming as I hugged the local law enforcement. I straightened up, one hand on my head and the other on the middle of his chest for support.

Er, that is… I mean, thanks a lot, bud.

I went to give the policeman a playful punch on the arm, missed, and just about fell over again if it weren’t for the quick reflexes of the officer, who caught me around my midsection as I fell forward. He was now positioned behind me with both arms wrapped around my stomach—a position that I had only seen used by mating street dogs. A few kids in the crowd chuckled, and embarrassed, the officer immediately let me go and I face-planted onto the concrete. I sat up again, and glanced around to get my bearings. I saw the tall skinny man lying on the sidewalk not too far from me. He twitched and muttered something as I looked over to the street for his accomplice. The fat guy had not fared as well as his friend; a couple of men with shovels had already begun the excavation. Through the shoveling and thick putridity, I noticed the man’s leg was bent over his shoulder, placing his knee next to his ear—a position that would impress even the most skillful of contortionists.

Are… are they okay? I stammered.

Nope, the policeman said almost happily. The larger one is dead. As for this one, he pointed to the tall man still moaning on the sidewalk, judging from the gash on his head, I bet he’ll have some serious problems in the future, if you know what I mean. The officer then proceeded to wave his finger in circles around his ear and let out a loud guffaw.

I slowly rose to my feet, not knowing what to say. I had just killed one man and seriously injured another. I looked up to the heavens and mumbled a quiet, I’m sorry.

Not a problem, the policeman said as he brushed himself off (apparently he thought I was referring to the hug/positioning). The name is Sergeant O’Conner, lad. Now then, how about ya tell me what exactly happened here?

I proceeded to explain to the officer what had happened since I’d arrived to work that morning at Sam’s. I had been doing my daily dusting when those two men entered the store. Sam came out from around the counter to help them when, without warning, the fat one whipped out a gun and forced Sam to the cash box. When the shooting started, I was hidden behind the produce display by the door. I tried my hardest to stay quiet, but in my nervousness I bumped a few of the apples, starting an apple avalanche that, despite my best attempt, I was powerless to stop. The tall one dragged me out from behind the display and held the gun to my head. I pled, cried, and sniveled desperately, but he pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Perplexed, the thieves stood still for a moment while we all exchanged glances, unsure of what to do next. Just as I was about to suggest that we all sit down and talk it over, the fat one grabbed me and slammed my head into the wall.

I continued on with the story of my eventful morning, sparing no detail. Done with my retelling of the morning’s events, I looked at Sergeant O’Conner. He just stared at me for a moment, his fair complexion shining in the late-morning sunlight.

Well that clears it up a bit. The man that reported the crime said there were three men who’d robbed the store. He saw them all come out running, the last one yelling ‘hey guys wait for me.’ He said one was tall, the other was fat, and the third was retar… uh… you. O’Conner shifted uncomfortably before going on. Well, ya better get home lad, and take care of that gash. It’s a doozy. Don’t worry about this mess here; we’ll scrape up the remains of these two miscreants.

What about Sam? Is he all right?

Sam? Oh, you mean the shop keeper? Sgt. O’Conner asked.

Yeah.

Dead. Got ‘is head blown clean off.

Oh.

Yup, blood and brains everywhere.

Oh, uh, okay.

Not even sure how they managed it with only a pistol.

Yeah, well I…

I mean, to blow off half a man’s head? Well, I guess it was really more of three-quarters of his head. Sergeant O’Conner made a cutting gesture across his face in an attempt to show exactly how much head was left. It’s hard to measure this sort of thing exactly—

I got it!

Way to let someone down easy. But what could I expect? I suppose there’s no real way to let someone down easy when a person’s head has been blown off. I should have expected Sam’s death anyway. I was there after all. I simply must have been distracted when I was fumbling with the apples.

As I turned to leave, Sergeant O’Conner spoke after me. You did quite a job here lad. You should look into a job in law enforcement.

I just kept on walking. What did Sergeant O’Conner know? I hadn’t meant to kill the thieves. I had never killed anything before in my life and now I was being praised for it? Two men dead and another seriously injured for what? A few measly dollars? Not only that, but I, an innocent man, was now out of a job. Why me? Why is it always the innocent that suffer? I mean, sure, Sam died, and the robbers were either dead or mentally injured, but I couldn’t help but feel as though I was the real victim here. With the fresh stain of human blood on my soul, I wandered aimlessly through the city. Blood continued to ooze from the wound on my head. I’m talking copius amounts of blood here. As in ‘why doesn’t someone help the guy walking around bleeding?’ amounts of blood. The more blood I lost, the more my senses seemed to sharpen—or dull, it was hard to tell, I’d lost a lot of blood (just in case you didn’t get that already). I remember the slightly moist spring air, green buds on the trees, the promise of rain on the cool breeze, a homeless man defecating in an alleyway—overall, it was a day full of horrors.

I must have wandered for hours. It was twilight when I finally remembered where our apartment was located, a small two-bedroom tenement in Brooklyn (yes, ‘our’ apartment—I still lived with my parents, or as I prefer to look at it, my parents still lived with me). My father emigrated from Europe and worked in the textile industry. My mother emigrated from New Jersey and worked in the, uh, ‘dancing’ industry. They met in a local bar where my mom ‘danced’ and my father got drunk on a nightly basis. To make a long story short, they hooked up one night and I happened (although to hear my mom tell it the ‘long story’ happened fairly quickly and the content wasn’t all that ‘long’). When their families found out about me, my parents were forced to get married to salvage what was left of the good family name—much to my mother’s dismay. Ah, the American Dream.

Unfortunately, their perfect lives had been somewhat disrupted as of late. My father had been laid off at the textile mill five months ago and spent all his free time drinking. My mother was also having difficulty finding a job, but she claimed it was because she simply hadn’t found a good match for her unique skill set—a 46 year-old, 5’5", 182-pound ‘dancer’ (the years had not exactly been kind to the woman). At the moment I was the sole source of income for my parents—which meant that the duty of