Code Habanero

Code Habanero

Mark Allen Davis

227

Dust drifted across the streets of a small western town.  The sun was high and the day was hot.  Grandpa Anarchy, world's oldest hero, crouched behind a stack of boxes in an alley, gun drawn.  He stood up suddenly, firing off two shots, then dropped down again.

"Bingo!" he yelled.  "I got Clayton Moore!  Right in the head with two .45 slugs!  If that don't  stop him, nothing will!"

Grandpa's sidekick said, "Who's Clayton Moore?"  The young boy was dressed all in red, with a western shirt, jeans, leather chaps, cowboy boots and a cowboy hat.  He had a Winchester rifle, and called himself the Capsaicin Kid.

"Who is Clayton Moore?" Grandpa exclaimed.  "Who is Clayton Moore?  How do kids not know who Clayton Moore is?  Son, he's the Lone Ranger!"

The sidekick made a face.  "I hated that movie," he said.  "Johnny Depp looked ridiculous.  And wasn't that Armie Hammer?"  He jumped up and fired his rifle.

Grandpa Anarchy sighed.  "Son, any Lone Ranger after 1957 ain't worth a hill of beans."  He popped up again and fired two more shots.  "Think I got Tom Mix," he said, ducking back down.  He turned to glare at his sidekick.  "You don't know who Tom Mix is either, do you?"

"Should I?" the boy asked.  "I'm fifteen years old."

The kid stood and fired his rifle.  There was a loud, unintelligible moan.  "That one sounded like:  Wing wong for the keeper," said the kid.

"Win one for the Gipper," Grandpa translated.  "That's Ronald Reagan."

The Capsaicin Kid frowned.  "Wasn't there a famous politician with a similar name?"  Grandpa just sighed.

"Well, we've got about half of them down," said the kid.  I'm downgrading the situation to code:  Chipotle."

"Code what?" Grandpa asked.

"It's a threat level on my Scoville Danger Scale," said the kid.  "Code Chipotle is more dangerous than a code:  Jalapeno, but not as bad as code:  Habanero."

Grandpa fired another shot, then reloaded his pistol.  "Well, you may just want to hold off on that danger code change," he said.  "We've still got the big boys to deal with:  Gary Cooper, Clint Eastwood, and the Duke himself -- John Wayne."  He jumped up and fired  three more shots.  "But I think I just got Fes Parker, so there's that."

"I know all of them," said the kid, "except Fes Parker...."

They heard loud moaning.  "I think he said... he's not going to shoot us?" the kid interpreted.  There was another moan.  "Like hell I will?"

"I keep tellin' them," Grandpa muttered.  "I keep tellin' them, but does anybody listen to me?  No!  The world runs on stories, I tell 'em, and stories affect how things work.  If you aren't affecting this world, then you're affecting some other universe somewhere.  Imagining up stuff like this is just tempting fate!  Eventually I'm going to be involved in it up to my eyeballs!"  He turned to glare at his sidekick.  "What I'm saying is this:  this situation didn't have to happen!"

"Aw, come on, Grandpa," said the Capsaicin Kid.  "Seven of the greatest cowboy actors ever seen, risen from the dead to save a Mexican village?  Even I thought Magnificent Seven Zombies was a brilliant concept, and a pretty good movie!"

"It was terrible," said Grandpa.  "How you don't include Steve McQueen, I'll never know!"

A bullet hit Grandpa in the shoulder.  His gun spun away.  An undead cowboy stumbled into view.  Rotting flesh hung from a face that was partially exposed bone, but the eyes were piercing  and alive.  The creature wore a wide-brimmed black hat and a dirty Mexican pancho.

"Doo yoo fee ruckee puuung?" the zombie moaned, gun trained on Grandpa.

"Code:  Smokin' Ed's Carolina Reaper!" the Capsaicin Kid screamed.

"I always feel lucky," Grandpa growled.  He dived for the gun, and came up firing.

FINI