The Urban Cowboy / The Psychopath

Wait! Now it’s a plague mask … a ghoul mask … a cheap fake plastic Halloween devil mask … and Now it’s your daddy’s face … Your daddy’s face!

The Urban Cowboy

The Urban Cowboy…
The Urban Cowboy came out of the subway. He didn’t know which station he had stopped at. He knew it didn’t matter. He knew they were all the same.

He smiled. A city is like an open plain – full of wandering spirits.

The sky was painted dark purple above him.
Night was coming on.

He went through a bead curtain.
He went through a column of steam.
He bought an animal leg from a street butcher. He let his coins pour through his hands.

He wore dark shoes. His jacket was painted with the world of steel and pavement, in tones of silver and glittering gold. It was the world he had dreamed. It was the world he had lived in, ever since the first smokestack had jutted up into his horizon. If you turned around, it would be right there…

The Urban Cowboy met a ghoulish nightmare. It greeted him like a brother; asked him if he had drugs; asked him if he had Skittles. He didn’t. The nightmare thanked him anyway, and disappeared into a traffic light. He walked on.

He walked past a park. He saw two ghosts on the playground, making the merry-go-round spin in lazy circles, rusted metal squeaking like an invitation. He passed a bar. He saw a man half-fallen on the sidewalk, pulling loose teeth from his gums. He raised his hat, nodded. The man nodded back.

The Urban Cowboy walked into a party. His old friend was giving it. He hadn’t seen him since before the great war. His rooms were lit by flickering candles. All the guests were tumbleweeds. They clustered around the kitchen bar, the pool table, the air vents, climbing up the walls and floating back down, serenely agitated.

His old friend found him at the party. He gave him an Irish coffee.

“How long has it been?” his friend asked.

“15,000,000 years, I reckon,” said The Urban Cowboy. There was a country song playing in his head, and everyone could hear it…