Call Me Randy

Prologue They come to me in my dreams, night after night…

A cloud of red canyon dust grows on the horizon, like the first warning wisps of a tornado. It hurtles towards me from the distant West, swelling like an angry swarm.

The sound at first is faint, but grows - a rising crescendo of drumming. The thunderous hooves of heavy beasts kick dirt high into the sky, enveloping five riders.

A cruel sun beats fiercely down, baking skin that glistens with sweat and grime from countless days spent pounding desert trails. Blistering heat and wind driven sands have cracked open lips and hardened spirits.

In the centre of the small posse, a sole woman rides with the same driven purpose as the rough men that surround her. A voice whispers Annie James in my head. Strangely, instinctively, I know that she is the great, great, great-granddaughter of the notorious train robber and killer, Jesse James. She is a bounty hunter. Her breasts jiggle crazily as the white mare gallops beneath her.

There are two men flanking Annie - Frank and Jesse. They glance sideways at the arousing bounce of female flesh and grin across at each other, faces flecked with stubble and streaked with dirt.

The front rider turns his head at intervals, also noting the tempting display. He is a little older than his companions, and is happy in the knowledge that it is he who will rest his head on the pillow of Annie’s breasts at the end of their arduous journey, so long as they are not too bruised and sensitive. But he will try to lay his head there regardless.

At the rear of the posse is Jed, the youngest rider by a few years. His blue eyes show softness as they stare past Annie to admire the leading man’s butt, which is gently smacked by the torn and time worn leather of saddle with every stride of the black stallion beneath. Jed would like to smack it too, only a bit harder. He hopes to lay his head on its reassuring pertness as he sleeps after the toils of a punishing day. It’s pretty unlikely but, knowing Jed, he will try his luck anyway.

The driving force of a sandstorm kicks up around the riders, stinging ears and cheeks as they chase balls of tumbleweed that roll across the plains in their path. But so singled minded are the cowboys that all obstacles serve to increase their resolve and spur them on.

They are five. They are magnificent.

I shall call them The Splendid Five.

As if in protest at my pronouncement, reins are tugged, while dust in the air blurs my vision. Five horses draw to a halt in front of me, fully emerging from the orange red haze that drops fine sand on the lapels of my nightshirt. I brush it off, irritated, but too afraid to let it show.

I only had the nightshirt laundered yesterday.

The riders tower above me on horseback. I feel myself tensing. They glance around, and then turn to face me as one. I release a small amount of nervous wind. And something else slips through.

“What… what do you want from me…?” I squeak hesitantly, apprehension mounting. “Whatever it is, you can have it… my Dolly Parton CD’s… my Clint Eastwood Blu rays… just take them…”

The leading man dismounts while the others slowly begin to circle me, their horses’ hooves clicking. I am about to plead… no, to beg for my life, but the approaching cowboy’s intensity silences me. His features are craggy, creases deep around the eyes. His hands rest on holstered weapons. I am petrified. He draws up close and I smell whiskey on his breath.

Three words tumble from his lips, gruff, hard. But his eyes sparkle with mischief. I can tell he has lived long, and fought and played hard. A womaniser, for sure. Notorious. He repeats the three words in a slow drawl. The three words all women long to hear…

“Call me Randy.”

He reaches into his back pocket as if to retrieve something, and then stretches a gnarled hand towards me, proffering a fistful of dollars. His other hand eases and lifts a gun in its holster, as if daring me to decline. I take the crumpled bundle as if making a pact with the devil, and squeeze my eyes tightly shut in trepidation. When I open them, the strange posse has disappeared.

I awaken in the swivel chair in front of my computer screen and keyboard. I sigh with relief… it was just a bad dream…

But there is a stack of worn dollar bills by the mouse mat. A draught must have caught the untidy pile as, on my lap, there are a few dollars more.

The notes are ancient and bigger than modern currency. I look down at the bald eagle perched on an American flag. I’m certain the bills are no longer in circulation. Who knows, they may be worth more than their face value on eBay? Besides, it is a fee of sorts. And I know what is expected…

I glance at the clock on the wall as a cuckoo flies out of the hatch, announcing four o’clock in the morning. I decide to head up to bed but, like every other night this month, I hear Randy’s voice, which continues its incessant drawl inside my brain. I can’t ignore it if I ever hope to break free from this madness. I must complete the task.

I hear Randy chuckle as my fingers begin their frenzied dance, obediently stabbing out the words whispered in my ear…. He has stories to tell…

…someone shouts… a scream echoes off deep canyon walls… frightened horses squeal… bullets ricochet… and something evil cackles… something spawned in hell. There is death on the horizon.

I shudder.

The forces of good and evil are about to collide in a desert furnace.

Men will fall.

Legends will rise…

…An epic Western adventure begins…