Goomba in Montana

By Bret Burquest

At age twenty, Buck Wheeler enjoys a placid existence running a pool hall in Twin Buttes, Montana.

Then his old girlfriend hooks up with the town bully, a formidable stranger begins to romance his mother and he falls in love with the sister of a psychopath, turning his life into a sea of turmoil.

When he discovers the true identity of his mothers suitor, his life becomes a struggle for survival in a dark passage into manhood.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 20, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462814084

Bret Burquest

Bret Burquest is the author of The Dogman of Topanga, Goomba in Montana, A Bad Run of Fate, The Eleventh Sage. He lives in rural Arkansas where he writes novels and keeps a single-minded lid on the Lord of the Wings.

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Copyright © 2000 by Bret Burquest.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

1

THE FACE OF HELL

2

THE ROCK OF TWIN BUTTES

3

WELCOME WAGON

4

CRAWDADS, OKRA AND CAYENNE PEPPER

5

GOOMBA FOR DINNER

6

APRIL FOOL

7

PRIVATE BUSINESS

8

SOUTHERN EXPOSURE

9

FORTY OBSTACLES

10

THE ARRANGEMENT

11

BIG SKY PROPERTY MANAGEMENT

12

THE BLUE DISKETTE

13

TONY THE ENFORCER

14

GRASSHOPPER AND THE MILL CITY FISH

15

TRAP AND SKEET

16

A KNUCKLE SANDWICH SPECIAL

17

BLIND SPOT

18

A BAG OF SPIDERS

19

A KNOCKOUT

20

BUCKAROO

21

BORED IN THE BOONDOCKS

22

TWO CLASS GUYS

23

LAUDANUM ON THE BRAIN

24

TWO DRUNKS AT SUNRISE

25

A WELL-ROUNDED CAT

26

FOR BETTER OR WORSE

27

SOCIAL BLUNDER

28

SKEET MASTER

29

SOUL FOR SALE

30

A LOYAL FRIEND

31

DISTANT THUNDER

32

A DOUBLE DATE

33

FIELD TRIP

34

A PAIR OF DARK GREEN ALLIGATORS

35

THE WINDY CITY

36

THE BOLLO SOCIAL CLUB

37

CRAWLING WITH SUITS

38

A STROKE OF GENIUS

39

EXASPERATION AND EXHILARATION

40

THE SECOND AMMENDMENT

41

THE EVIL DIALOGUE DEMON

42

BLUE MOON

43

AN OBLONG CIRCLE

44

GUN YAHOOS

45

TIMES CHANGE

46

ILLINOIS PLATES

47

RING FINGER

48

GUESTHOUSE BLUES

49

TWO FUNERALS

50

SPECIAL FIREPOWER

51

A GOOD DAY TO DIE

52

WELCOME TO HELL

53

DESPERADO

54

HOME SWEET HOME

55

BASKING IN THE GLORY

TO IRENE AND WESTON.

1  

THE FACE OF HELL

I sat on the stool behind the counter, staring out the window, basking in the glory of my placid existence.

I almost broke into a smile.

Then I spotted trouble heading my way.

A smile was no longer possible.

Pain and suffering and Wild Wanda Mitchell had at least one thing in common; they were great character builders. When Wild Wanda glided into the pool hall, I wondered just how much more character building was in store for me.

Hi, Buck, she said, in her usual seductive manner when she wanted more than a man could possibly give.

Hi, Babe, I said.

How long has it been? she asked.

Although I’d seen her around town a dozen times since high school, I knew she was referring to our six week fling in March and April of our senior year. Almost three years, I figured.

Seems like yesterday, she said.

What happened? I asked, referring to the ugly black eye on the left side of her otherwise attractive face.

Stacy Halsted.

You sure can pick them.

I picked you once.

My point exactly.

She smiled, then whimpered, I don’t know what to do.

As I see it, you have only two choices. You could fly to Brazil, change your name to Chiquita Banana and enter a convent for women who date the criminally insane.

Or?

Or you could fly to Saskatchewan, change your name to Cathy Canuck and enter a convent for women who date the criminally insane.

I’m serious.

So am I.

She paused, subtly pouting, used to always getting her way with men.

You were always the one, Buck, she assured me.

Lucky me.

Whatever happened to us?

I’m not sure exactly, I said, but I knew better.

I first noticed Wanda Marshall in eleventh grade English class. She was overly endowed in all the right places. She had this pronounced way of walking on the heels of her feet first and ending a step on her toes. All hips and thighs, like two pistons attached to the perfect body. When she entered a room, it looked like she was floating on air.

In high school, some of the guys spent most of their time lusting over cars. A few lusted for each other. But the vast majority of the guys, and probably some of the girls, lusted for Wild Wanda. She drove us all wild, hence her nickname.

But she had one major flaw. She dealt with men like a cat dealt with a mouse. She toyed with them until she eventually devoured them.

Near the end of my senior year in high school, she broke up with Matt Bradshaw, big-time jock, and latched onto me. She was my first and only steady girl in school.

We had a couple of weeks of mutual affection, followed by a couple of weeks of mutual apathy, followed by a couple of weeks of mutual resentment. Two weeks of passion, two weeks of commonsense, two weeks of escape maneuvers. For six weeks, she was a manipulative ball-buster. It only took two weeks to figure it out.

We could give it another try, she pleaded.

For a moment, I was stunned. Dating her was like being the object of affection of a highland gorilla during mating season. The best you could hope for was finding a way to make a graceful exit.

I’d rather have a hemorrhoid implant, I told her. No sense beating around the bush.

You sleeze, were her parting words.

I was grateful she didn’t break anything on the way out the door.

Wayne Mansfield had been cowering behind one of the building support columns trying to listen in on our conversation.

What did the Spider Woman want? Wayne asked.

She wanted to get back together with me, I said.

What did she really want?

She wanted to get away from Stacy Halsted.

Good luck there, Spider Woman.

After high school, Wild Wanda had gravitated toward older, more dangerous men. Before long, she had attached herself to the Demons of Darkness, Twin Buttes’ version of the Hell’s Angels.

Then one fateful afternoon Wild Wanda spotted Stacy Halsted and fell for his chiseled features and formidable reputation.

Soon Stacy wandered into Wild Wanda’s web of doom.

Stacy Halsted was the end of the line. The town thug. When he learned Wild Wanda had been with a couple of the Demons of Darkness, he stalked them one by one and beat them so badly the hospital considered naming the emergency wing in his honor.

I don’t know what I ever saw in her in the first place, I told Wayne.

Oh yes ya do.

You’re right, I chuckled. Wild Wanda was the prize at the end of the rainbow of lust and my youthful prurient desires led me directly into her web.

Now that she’s got Stacy Halsted by the balls, she’s got what she deserves, Wayne said.

Sticky hands?

Run for cover or die, Spider Woman, Wayne howled at the ceiling.

Wash your hands first, I added.

Maybe ya should rescue her, Wayne suggested. Be the first stud in town to have her twice.

Maybe you should start flapping your arms and be the first albino to fly to the moon.

Maybe it’s Stacy Halsted who needs to be rescued, Wayne quipped as he went off to clean the restrooms.

Then the nightmare began.

The front door opened and in walked trouble with a capital T. Motorcycle boots, tattered jeans, black leather jacket and his greasy hair combed back into a slick ducktail. He looked downright nasty, like he had been raised in the wild by crazed bobcats.

Everyone in the place stopped shooting pool and stared at him.

You Buck? Stacy Halsted asked.

Yup, I answered.

You stay away from Wanda, he said quietly, yet firmly, with a most sinister smile on his face like he was daring me to provoke him into ripping the skin off my body and using it to upholster some furniture.

Nothing would please me more, I said.

I don’t want no cutesy-pie answer.

Then go somewhere else.

His mean face became meaner. I expected him to leap over the counter and use my head for fist practice.

He was five-ten, one-ninety. I was two inches taller and about the same weight. For a brief moment of total insanity, I wondered if I could take him.

But I quickly realized what made him such an awesome force.

Behind the pronounced cheekbones was a skull of granite. The rest was all muscle and adrenaline. As soon as I looked into his menacing eyes I could tell he was so demented he probably didn’t care if he lived or died as long as he killed me first.

During the entire episode he never once blinked.

I remained calm and made sure to look him straight in the eye. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction that he had any effect on me.

Do you have any idea who you’re talking to, you miserable piece of pool-hall slime? Stacy asked.

Do you have any idea how little I care? I answered, like I was on the same level of nasty.

The final verbal blow to his fragile ego. He pulled a .357 Magnum from his jacket pocket and pointed it at the middle of my forehead.

Got any more cutesy-pie comments? he growled.

I kept my mouth shut, just staring into his angry eyes with my angry eyes. It was like looking into the face of hell.

Well? he insisted.

I don’t like guns in my pool hall.

Suddenly his eyes got even meaner. He swung the revolver a little to my left and put five rounds in extraordinarily quick succession into the building support column behind me. He had fired all five rounds so rapidly it almost sounded like one long blast, probably his clever way of making the gesture that much more menacing.

At first, I wondered if I would ever get my hearing back.

Wayne came running from the restrooms down the hall into the main room. He froze and joined the stunned crowd.

Stacy gave the cylinder a spin and pointed the revolver at my forehead again.

One bullet left, he announced.

I’m surprised you can count that high, I said, macho to the end, certain he wouldn’t actually pull the trigger.

He pulled the trigger. It clicked.

I didn’t flinch but my heart skipped a beat and whatever I had for breakfast was seriously considering seeking an escape route.

He gave the cylinder another spin and pointed the gun at my forehead once again.

Want to try again, jerk? he egged me on.

I most certainly didn’t yet I had this inexplicable urge to be a jerk even if it cost me my life. He was in my pool hall and I was not about to grovel in front of the crowd just because some crazed imbecile had a gun on me and the will to use it.

Better to die with honor than be a coward for life, I heard myself say loudly and confidently, almost daring him to blow my brains out.

He didn’t seem to appreciate my bold comment.

I stared into his enraged eyes with as much resolve as I could muster, determined not to blink. I felt my nostrils flare.

We remained in that position for what seemed forever.

Then he swung the gun to my left once again and gave me the kind of sadistic smile only psychopaths and dentists fully comprehend.

He pulled the trigger. It clicked.

He pulled the trigger again. It clicked.

He pulled the trigger a third time. Blam!!

Again I didn’t flinch.

All six rounds were now imbedded in the building support column as a lasting reminder of my brief fling with the Spider Woman.

You stay away from Wanda, jerk, he said, or I’ll cut your nuts off with a church key and make you eat them.

He waited a few seconds for a response. Even though he was out of bullets, it seemed like a good idea to keep my wisecracks to myself and remain calm.

Then he casually walked out of the building. Probably off to eat a box of nails.

2  

THE ROCK OF TWIN BUTTES

My mother was like the rock of Gibraltar. Strong, solid and impervious to the weather.

Born and raised on a ranch outside of Cut Bank, she had three older brothers and was expected to handle ranch chores on an equal basis with them. She broke horses, punched cattle and spent Saturday nights brawling in the local taverns with the rest of the hands.

According to Uncle Yancy, she was as tough as rawhide and as stubborn as a mule. Once she cold cocked one of the hired hands who had made a pass at her during roundup. Hit him on the head with a branding iron, knocked him out cold.

One Saturday night, she was in a poker game with a bunch of cowboys when some dude named Arthur Wheeler joined in. The Dude won most of the money on the table, as well as my mother’s heart.

My three uncles, Yancy, Earl and Cody, took exception to the gambling rogue who obviously wasn’t a rancher or a cowboy or even gainfully employed. They tried to keep mother from seeing him but she had a mind of her own.

When that didn’t work, they tried one by one to dissuade the Dude from courting mother but soon found out he was equally hardheaded. Finally Uncle Yancy, oldest and wisest of the three brothers, welcomed the Dude with open arms and the four of them got so drunk mother had to haul them back to the ranch in a buckboard.

After a rocky courtship, the Dude and mother married and headed for the big city, Denver. They got as far as Twin Buttes, about halfway between Great Falls and Billings, where the groom got into a poker game and lost the traveling money.

By the time the Dude hustled up enough money to continue the journey mother was five months pregnant and firmly entrenched in Twin Buttes. She was never keen on big cities anyway.

Four months later, I came into the world. Reluctantly, or so I was told. The lone offspring of Arthur and Helen Wheeler.

I heard Stacy Halsted shot up the pool hall, mother said when I entered her house for Wednesday night dinner.

I heard that too, I said.

What did you do about it?

I put it behind me and got on with my life.

Don’t be a smart aleck with me, she scolded, like I was still in grade school.

Would you rather have given birth to a dumb aleck?

I would rather have given birth to someone who had some manners.

Better luck next time.

Maybe I should call Miss Lee and invite her over for dinner too.

Tell her to bring plenty of chalk.

Sit down. Dinner’ll be a little late tonight, she uttered with exasperation, then disappeared into the kitchen.

When I was in the fifth grade, I was the class clown. My teacher, Miss Lee, found my behavior disgusting and brought me in front of the class one afternoon after I had gotten off a couple of great zingers at her expense. She handed me a piece of chalk and a dictionary. She announced to the class that I was a smart aleck, which brought about scattered laughter, and made me look up the term in the dictionary. Then she told me to write the definition on the blackboard. After I was done, she made me read it out loud to the whole class: SMART ALECK——AN OBNOXIOUSLY CONCEITED AND SELF-ASSERTIVE

PERSON WITH PRETENSIONS TO SMARTNESS OR CLEVERNESS. A phrase indelibly etched in my mind.

Needless to say, I was thoroughly embarrassed. My whole life had changed instantly. I went from class clown to class mute. I never raised my hand again. Outward humor was replaced by outward apathy. My future teachers were forever grateful to Miss Lee.

Then my father died when I was fifteen. Mother took it hard. She became embittered and seemed to take it out on me by being overly critical. I figured she was merely trying to make up for the loss of her husband but her willfulness was overbearing much of the time. The repressed smart aleck in me once again bubbled to the surface, especially around her.

My wisecracks annoyed mother to no end but it seemed like a much more humane way of rebelling than with anger, repressed or otherwise. I wasn’t going to let her grind me down and she wasn’t going to allow me to be disrespectful of her. A typical child-parent struggle. But I respected her for being tough and consistent. And I suspected she respected me for the same.

The doorbell rang.

Get that will you, Honey, mother yelled from the kitchen.

I opened the front door and was