GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #977: THE BECOMING

 I think I may be becoming a different person. Ever since I moved into the hotel I've been feeling different. Nearly all of my routines have been destroyed, as a lot of what I did was stuff around the house. Cleaning up. Moving stuff around. Trying to make it look nice. I don't have to do any of those things here, which should give me more time for reading and writing.

I'm having difficulty with writing. I dipped back into something I've been working on for a while, but it felt so strange to me that I couldn't keep up with it. Last night's GF was an actual chore instead of the breeze it usually is. And I can't concentrate on reading for very long because something always pops up in my head, like a task I've completely forgotten to do, which I then have to do immediately.

I'm losing my sense of humor. I feel defeated and demoralized all the time. Since I moved into the hotel, I've been feeling lonely. I've never felt lonely before, and now it's a weight around my neck.

I still have a few moments of the normal me. Like last night, I heard someone moving around in the hallway, and since I was half-asleep I thought it was my brother doing something loud. I thought, what the fuck is he up to at this hour? And then I remembered. And oddly enough my job is the most normal part of my life. Just because I lost my home doesn't mean I don't have to go to work anymore.

I've lost so much I wonder if I'm even me anymore. I think I am, but I wonder at times. And then there's the booze. I know for sure if I drink, I'll be someone else. Hell, maybe I should start drinking again. Maybe this other guy I'm becoming isn't an alcoholic.

I don't know. I *do* know that I'm not happy or even just content, ever. The only moment of peace I find is when I go out to my car and smoke weed. Only then will everything be right with the world.

Last night I finished my 20 year journey of watching every episode of Gunsmoke on the 50th anniversary of its original airdate, and the final episode was pretty shitty. This last season has been bad, but is this just me becoming someone else? Or would I have assessed it the same way if I'd finished it in the comfort of my own bedroom at home?

Earlier this year I read an Alfred Bester story called "The Men Who Murdered Mohammed." It's about a scientist who finds his wife in bed with another man, so he invents a time machine to go back and kill that guy before he can get into his wife's pants. He's very troubled when he returns to his own time to discover that, even though he killed this guy, he is still sleeping with the scientist's wife.

That story made me think about the nature of time and existence. I often feel like I'm in the wrong universe, like I accidentally slipped through to this world. It could be me getting older, but this world makes less and less sense to me the older I get. and getting sucked into a Signal group chat--er, I mean, getting sucked into a parallel universe would explain that. It would also explain my "becoming." The world is trying to assimilate me like a finger that has a splinter deep inside, where you can't get it out. Soon the splinter becomes part of you, as I am becoming part of this new universe.

But Bester's idea makes more sense. Everyone experiences time on an individual basis, that people are surrounded by their own history, so that when you go back in time to do something, you're only changing *your* reality as it applies only to yourself. The rest of the world continues as it has, and this guy will keep fucking your wife no matter who you go back in time to kill.

In addition to that, I'm starting to think that maybe there is no timeline locked in, that we're constantly shifting from timeline to timeline, which would explain the Mandela Effect. In our world, ET does not say, "ET phone home." He says "ET home phone." But what if that wasn't always true because the timelines keep shifting? What if I sat at home watching ET when I was a kid and heard the former, but watching the same VHS (yes, I have a VHS player) as an adult I might hear the latter.

[I picked that one because it's easy, but I know there's a simple explanation for this one. While it is true ET said "home phone," not "phone home," there was this advertisement, which I'm assuming is where the mixup came in:

]

I didn't mean to take a left turn into metaphysics, but I've had a lot on my mind lately. Without GF, I don't have a place to get those thoughts out of my head. So maybe the nature of GF will change, too.

Goodnight, fuckers.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #750: WESTERN THEMES

 You all know I love westerns. Many of you know I also like punk music. It should surprise none of you that the Dead Kennedys version of "Rawhide" is in regular rotation in my life. I was listening to it the other day in my car when I thought, why don't we have more awesome covers of western TV theme songs?

Gunsmoke can't be done. There aren't any words to the theme. But I think a prime candidate would be Have Gun, Will Travel. I feel like there should be a metal version of this one. Maybe Megadeth could do it? I know Mustaine is a fan. They already a song called "Have Cool, Will Travel." I could see them doing a version of that song.

Maverick would be a lot trickier. Punk and metal wouldn't be able to do it justice. It's a bit more lighthearted than the others, so maybe hard rock? Here's an unconventional idea for this one. I think Sammy Hagar could do it. It's got to be someone who likes to party but doesn't like to get dark. Something a bit laid back. He fits the bill, I think.

Anyway, your thoughts? (And before you start thinking about classic SF shows from that time period, look no further than Monster Magnet. They get to do all of them.)

PS: If you're interested in the Dead Kennedys version of "Rawhide," here's a nice behind the scenes look at recording it.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #338: MATT DILLON, US MARSHAL AND PRANKSTER IN CHIEF

 So tonight was the season 16 finale of GUNSMOKE. For those not playing along, I picked my favorite western TV shows years ago, and I decided I would watch each episode on the 50th anniversary of each air date. Since Gunsmoke aired for 20 years, it's the only one I have left. I have expressed my joy over this show many times, and especially over James Arness as Matt Dillon, US Marshal. But let's get kinda weird.

Many years ago I read James Arness's autobiography. This was back when he was still alive, and I even have a signed photo of him. My favorite scenes from the earliest episodes were when he was giving a monologue at Boot Hill, lamenting terrible decisions made by misled people he had to kill. That's the picture I got signed of his.

But reading that autobiography helped me realize that he was a clown at heart. He wanted to make people laugh, and that doesn't line up with his best known character. Matt Dillon laughed at a lot of things, mostly Doc versus Chester or Doc versus Festus. But he never instigated the laughs, which Arness always did.

My favorite story is when they were filming the opening for all the early shows. Matt Dillon was supposed to face up against the fabled Man in Black, and while the Man in Black always fired first, Matt Dillon always fired last . . . and killed his quarry. But while they filmed that scene that would grace at least ten years of the show, James Arness pretended to be shot by that Man in Black and die. Just for the laugh. Seeing the pictures in his autobiography made me laugh myself into a hernia.

Why mention this tonight? Well, at the end of this season of Gunsmoke they showed a thing called Ben and Becky Talk Gunsmoke Season 16. Ben wrote a book about Gunsmoke. Beckey wrote a book about Miss Kitty. They discussed their favorite season 16 episodes. And then they started talking about how the Gunsmoke actors were like family.

After 20 years, they had to be. Granted, only Dillon and Doc were the sole characters throughout the show, but still. Kitty made it to the second to last season. Chester and Festus could break it up in the middle. Quint Asper wasn't as big as people thought, and Thad and Newly couldn't hold a candle to the others, but still. Ben and Beckey talked about the scenes that were my favorites. I loved when Doc got a bug up his ass, and he had to verbally battle either Chester or Festus. Those were the best. When everyone was busting each others' balls.

And it turned out that the Gunsmoke family was actually centered around these scenes, per Ben and Beckey. They were all professionals, but they loved screwing with each other during those scenes. In particular James Arness. He'd mess with Milburn Stone, who would go after either Chester or Festus, and then Kitty would crack up, etc. It all seemed to start with James Arness.

A lot of people, even Hunter S. Thompson, a hero of mine, would say that Arness as Matt Dillon would beat the shit out of anyone to get what he needed, but that wasn't true. Matt Dillon always had a sense of fairness about him. The people he beat the shit out of always had it coming. Kind of like Dirty Harry. Harry kicked the shit out of a lot of people, but none of them were ever innocent. And Dillon was no bigot. He treated all races equally. Can you say the same thing about the generation who wrote the character?

James Arness was a surfer. He played guitar on Venice with a bunch of youths. He was not the John Wayne character most associated him with. He was a laid back guy. Like me. He loved playing pranks on people. Like me. He loved to fuck with people who thought life was a certain way when it actually wasn't. Like me. Sorry.

It's this trickster persona that I would like to think about tonight. I have a lot of months to wait before the seventeenth season of Gunsmoke begins . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #294: GALEN

How well do you know your friends with nicknames? Do you even remember what their real name is anymore?


This thought occurred to me while watching an episode of Gunsmoke earlier this week. An old friend of Doc's shows up in town, and because they're such old friends, this guy calls Doc by his real name, "Galen." Every time this happens, people around them act shocked. Even Matt Dillon is surprised by this. This is surprising, how? I'm fairly certain that this knowledge goes all the way back to season one. I'm pretty sure earlier seasons had his full name on his shingle (although that might be the Mandela Effect, so I'm not entirely sure).


Names are important, and not just for the reasons John Constantine thinks so. It irritates me when someone who has known someone else for years gets that person's name wrong. Like, say, the difference between "Jamie" and "Jaime." Or "Hastings" and "Hasting." Little things like that which probably bothers no one else, including the person in question.


This is probably why I live in constant terror of getting someone's name wrong, especially if it's someone I've known for years. Thankfully I still know the real names of all those who I call by their nicknames.


I think.

THE JOHN BRUNI MUSEUM OF MEDIOCRE (AT BEST) SHIT #38: COCKSMOKE

[If you’ve known me long enough, you know that I practically worship GUNSMOKE, the western TV show that ran from 1955 to 1975. This story is proof that no subject is too sacred for me to write about. This was the final pornographic story that I sold. I tried my hand a few more times at it, considering how I’d made $200 dollars for my smut, but I gave up after a while. My heart just wasn’t into it. This was published in Indulge for Men #85. I must have learned quite a bit from Bobby Yandell, because this time they ran it without any major edits. I was proud of that. Also, in this issue there was a picture of a dude sucking his own dick. It was the first time I’d actually seen anything like that, so naturally I photocopied it and hid them in my friends’ apartments whenever I got the chance. Nothing makes me smile quite like seeing a guy who considers himself very masculine, to the point where they are slightly homophobic, finding this picture in one of his drawers or hidden in a coffee table book.]

I stepped off the boardwalk and started across the muddy street, headed for Miss Pussycat’s saloon. A tumbleweed rolled past, and I stepped up to the batwing doors. On his way out was old Doc Mal, one of the meanest bastards I’ve ever known. We used to have something going. I wouldn’t exactly say we were going out with each other, but we used to do things together.

I’d gone in for a check-up, and he told me to strip down naked so he could examine me. He watched, biting his lower lip, as I removed my trousers and slid them down to my ankles. His eyes settled on my thick, long cock. I could tell he wanted to touch it, and I really wanted him to. I’d never had a relationship with an older man before, and he had been about forty at the time. He’s sixty now, but I still think often about what he said back then.

“That’s a mighty fine specimen right there,” he said, voice crackling. “Never seen one so . . . so . . .”

My cock knew when it was being talked about. It started to plump up, and soon it was reaching out for Doc Mal’s touch. I took his hand and wrapped it around my member.

He looked into my eyes and smiled. “Feels so . . . firm.” He squeezed my cock, and I groaned, growing harder against his palm. He moved his hand back and forth, stretching my skin taut, causing my dick to spasm pleasurably every once in a while.

“Faster,” I whispered, and his hand went quicker. I moved closer to him, brushing my glans against his leg, and I reached to his crotch and began to knead his flesh through his pants. I didn’t even need to mold his cock into a hard-on; he was ready to go.

I freed him from his pants and clutched at his dick. It wasn’t as thick as mine, but it was nice and long. It gave me a lot of room to move.

He groaned and said, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Is this your first time?” I asked him.

“With a man, yes. I just, I mean, your cock is just so perfect, and I want it so bad.” His body suddenly stiffened, and my had was warm and sticky with his come. I looked down to see him still spurting away, his satisfaction running down my flesh and onto the floor.

When he caught his breath, he said, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t hold it back anymore. I just had to.”

“It’s all right,” I told him. “It’s your first time.”

Doc Mal went to his knees and said, “I want to make you feel good.” He popped me into his mouth and started moving his lips so hard I could feel the back of his teeth on my glans. His mustache brushed against my flesh, and I groaned. “Don’t stop, Doc,” I whispered. “Good Lord, don’t stop.”

His hand gently squeezed my scrotum, and I drew my breath in sharply. I saw him smile around my shaft, and he fondled my balls with professional expertise. It made me feel like a lightweight.

It wasn’t long before I convulsed in his mouth. He didn’t stop moving his lips as he took every inch and sucked out every drop within me.

From that moment on, Doc Mal and I had a very sexual relationship. We weren’t actually going out with each other—no one would allow a U.S. Marshal to know what cock tastes like, and who would go to a doctor with extensive knowledge of anal probing?—but whenever we had the urge, we got together. That is, until recently. Ol’ Doc Mal’s been getting old, and he quickly became embarrassed. We haven’t been with each other in a long time.

As I stepped up to the batwing doors, Doc Mal greeted me. “If it isn’t Mort Dalton, U.S. Marshal. Goin’ in to see Miss Pussycat?”

“Yeah,” I said, pulling my hat off, arming a sheen of sweat away from my forehead. “It’s pretty hot out there. I’m in the mood for a beer.”

“The Johnsons are expecting, so I’m off to give them a visit. You should talk to Miss Pussycat. She’s very interested in you, you know.”

“Doc, you know I could never. Besides, I’ve known her for twenty years. I think I’d know her feelings toward me.” I leaned in close to him and whispered, “Besides, you’re the one that interests me.”

“Mort, you can’t wait around on me,” Doc Mal said. “I’m an old man now. You’ve still got some good years left in ya. Find some young thing. Or maybe give Miss Pussycat a try. You never know.”

I grinned. “Not a chance. See ya’ later, Doc.”

He grunted. “Damn youngsters.”

I watched his short form hobble away a bit drunkenly, then I turned to walk into the saloon. Miss Pussycat stood by the bar, talking to the bartender. She owned the saloon, and like Doc Mal had said, she’d wanted me for many years. Sure, I’d been tempted a couple of times, just to see what it would be like, but honestly, I’m more into people like Doc Mal. Still, maybe the old buzzard was right. Maybe it was time to move on.

“Hi, Mort,” Miss Pussycat said as she walked toward me, swaying her hips and showing some cleavage.

I maintained eye contact. “Hello, Miss Pussycat.”

“Care for a drink?”

“I’d love one,” I said.

As we walked toward the bar, someone yelled, “Goddam tinhorn!”

I whirled around just in time to see someone at a poker table jump up, pushing his chair back and to the floor. His hand darted down toward his gun, yanking it from his holster.

The tinhorn was quicker. In fact, he seemed rather calm about the whole situation. His hand leisurely reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a derringer, which he then fired into the cowboy’s face, dropping him like a sack of bricks.

I was there as quickly as I could, my hand hovering near my own gun. “Hold it.”

He turned toward me, and in that moment, I felt something stir within me. He was a handsome young man with a pencil-line mustache, thick dark hair, and eyes to kill for. His black jacket and frilly white shirt were the perfect complement to his effeminate appearance. “Marshal,” he said calmly. “You saw it. I killed him in self-defense.”

I nodded. “I know. That’s why I’m not arresting you. I want you out of Dodd City by sunset.”

“I committed no crime,” the tinhorn said.

“No, you didn’t. But tinhorns are trouble. I don’t like trouble in my town.”

He sighed and started collecting his money. “Very well, Marshal. I’ll be gone by sunset.”

I thought that would be the end of it, but I was wrong. That night, I was out making my rounds on my own. Usually my deputy, Chet Grote, would join me, but he was down with a cold, so I was on my own. I was heading back to my office when I noticed the light on inside. I thought maybe Chet was feeling better and wanted to help out; maybe he wanted a little something else, too.

Chet had been my deputy for five years. We met in Miss Pussycat’s bar, and I took an instant liking to him. Maybe he wasn’t the bitter old cuss Doc Mal was, but he had a lot of spark and vigor to him. Of course, in those days, I was with Doc Mal, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t still have my thoughts.

And though it pains me to admit it, I did cheat on Doc Mal. I didn’t mean to, it was just one of those things that happened. Chet and I had been drinking quite a bit. We were off duty at the time (I had a third deputy back then), and we decided to enjoy ourselves for a change. We both sat in Chet’s room at the Dodd House, passing a bottle of Miss Pussycat’s best whisky between us. The night had grown late, and the bottle was empty.

“Well,” I said, “I’d best get back to my bunk at the jail. If I can make it, that is.”

I stood, and for a moment I felt fine, but when I took my first step, the world seemed to tilt sideways. It took me a second to realize I was falling, but Chet was there, and he caught me like a pro.

“You’d better stay here the night,” Chet told me as he helped me to his bed. I flopped down on the mattress and watched as Chet wrestled my boots from my feet. Next, he helped me out of my shirt and pulled the covers out from under me. He unbuckled my belt, and that was when I couldn’t help it any more. I gave in to the stirrings in my pants and let my hard-on take shape.

“Mister Dalton!” Chet gasped. “Why you’ve got yourself a mighty fine tent there.”

I grinned. “All the better to fuck you with, my dear.” I caressed the bulge at the front of my pants and felt it leap against my palm. I knew I shouldn’t have done that, but I couldn’t help it. I was drunk and Doc Mal was the farthest thing from my mind.

“Can I give it a touch, Mister Dalton?” Chet asked, and he said it with such a touch of innocence that I had to laugh.

“Sure thing, Chet.”

Tentatively, he eased his hand against the throbbing bulge and rubbed a couple of times, smiling at each pulse my cock gave.

“You can take it out, if you want to,” I said.

Chet nodded as he unbuttoned my pants and brought the zipper down slowly. Pushing the flaps of cloth aside, he gasped when he saw my cock extend until it was pushing at my navel. He wrapped his hands around my shaft and gave it a couple of strokes before gently kissing the tip. I drew my breath in.

“Lick it, Chet. Lick it.”

He ran his tongue up and down the length of my dick, as if he were a child with a lollypop. Finally, he took my glans into his mouth and took at least half of me into himself. He moved his head up and down slowly, and I watched as saliva glistened on my flesh, dripping like honey down into the nest of my pubic hair.

Chet began rubbing himself between the legs, and through my drunken haze, I could see he already had his cock out. Like Doc Mal’s, it was very long and skinny. He held it in his fist and rapidly masturbated, making his dick look like a strange jack in the box when he pulled back, come glistening on the tip of his cock.

I lifted my ass up and pushed my trousers down, giving my member more room to move. “Take off your pants,” I whispered, and he complied without missing a stroke. “Now I want you to sit on my chest.”

Carefully, dropping my cock from his mouth, he situated himself so his ass was pressed against my chin. He shifted himself and lifted up, dragging his cock up my chest to my face. Chet went back to sucking my cock, and I took his into my own mouth, feeling his spongy glans slip down my tongue to the back of my throat. I ran my hands across his smooth buttocks and gently eased my middle finger into his tight asshole up to the second joint. I felt him stiffen against my body and moan around my shaft. His cock pulsed against the inside of my cheek, and I pushed my finger in as far as it would go.

Chet yelped, and I felt his hot come fill my mouth. As he orgasmed, I felt his lips constrict around my shaft, and he shivered. When I could feel he was done convulsing, I swallowed with his dick still in my mouth. He moaned, and as he softened, I pulled away from him.

“Get off of me,” I said, “and bend over.”

“What are you gonna do, Mister Dalton?”

“I’m going to fuck you in that tight ass of yours,” I said, “and then I’m going to come all over your back.”

Without giving him time to reply, I pressed my cock against his asshole. He groaned, and I slowly pushed myself into Chet. His ring piece was tight around my shaft, which was a nice change from Doc Mal’s, which in his old age had become rather stretched. I moved in and out of Chet’s asshole, and each time, it tightened around me with youthful vigor.

“Faster, Mister Dalton! Faster!”

I really gave it to him. I felt the friction start to burn, so I took time out to spit in my hand  and rub it around on my cock before pushing into him once more. With the aid of my natural lubrication, it wasn’t long before I felt my balls start to tingle. I yanked myself out of Chet and jerked off as furiously as I could, blowing my wade all over Chet’s ass and back.

We then passed out in each other’s arms. When we woke up the next morning, I realized what I’d done. I explained to Chet about Doc Mal and me, and though Chet wasn’t happy, he understood that we could never have sex again.

I was thinking about that night as I walked up to the jail, hoping it was Chet in there, waiting for me. We could do all those things again, now that Doc Mal wanted me to move on. I was hard just thinking about it.

When I opened the door, I saw the tinhorn sitting at my desk, the chair back and his feet up.

“Tinhorn, what did I tell you?” I roared. “I told you to get the fuck out of Dodd!”

“Or you’ll do what, Marshal?” he asked, smiling. “I saw the way you were looking at me in that saloon.” I saw his hand was massaging his crotch.

“You’re really asking for it,” I told him.

He stood and walked to me, pressing his crotch to mine. “Then give it to me, Marshal,” he whispered. Through our pants, I could feel his cock pulsing, begging to be released from the prison of his clothing.

I whipped him around and bent him over my desk. He moaned. “That’s it, Marshal. You teach me a lesson.”

“I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget,” I muttered as I reached around him and unbuttoned his pants. His dick leaped out into my hand, and I squeezed.

He groaned. “Punish me.”

I yanked down his pants and spread his buttocks apart. I probed his asshole with my middle finger. I could feel it tighten around me. “That’s right, Marshal. Put it in right there.”

I pushed my finger in farther, and he squealed. “You like that, don’t you?” I asked.

“More, Marshal. More!”

I pulled myself from my pants and ran my throbbing glans across his tight buttocks. With my cockhead gently touching his asshole, I began to masturbate slowly, rubbing my glans around on his flesh.

“Don’t tease me,” he begged. “Please, put it inside me.”

“You want it?” I asked.

“Yes, please.”

“You got it.” I spit in my hand, slicked down my member, and jammed my cock home, and he yelped. At first, I thought I’d hurt him, but he turned his head and looked at me.

“Harder,” he said. “Harder, big guy.”

I pulled back and thrust deeply into him again. His body tensed against mine, and he begged for more. I gave him more and more and more until he stiffened suddenly. I peered around him and saw he’d come on my desk, his gleaming satisfaction running down the worn wood like molasses.

He turned around, come shining on his dickhead and legs, and he looked down at my cock. “My Lord, I actually had that glorious thing inside me?” I nodded as he took it into his hands. “It’s so big.,” he whispered as my flesh glided against his.

I sat down in my chair, as he got down on his knees. He ran his tongue along my shaft, spending a long time at my glans while he kept my skin taut with one hand. He squeezed my balls gently with the other.

“Kiss it,” I said.

He pressed his lips to the tip of my cock, and I pulsed in his hand. He smiled and kissed it again and again, moving down lower until he was kissing my balls. He wrapped his lips around my sack and ran his tongue around it while it was in his mouth. A groan escaped me.

He moved his mouth back up to my glans and took me between his lips down to my pubic hair. It was almost as if he had no gag reflex, he took so much of me into his mouth.

His supple lips moved up and down my shaft, shining it with his spit, bringing me closer and closer to orgasm. While he sucked on my dick, he fit his hand around the base of it and started matching his mouth with strokes. I felt myself puff up even larger.

He took me out of his mouth. “You’re gonna come. I can feel it.”

“More,” I whispered.

He smiled and pressed his lips against my glans. He furiously masturbated me, quicker and harder than ever before until I came like a cannon being fired. I watched as ropey strands of my come decorated his cheeks and ran down his chin.

And his hand still moved up and down my shaft, not letting my orgasm end. Pleasure flooded my body and made me shake with lunacy. His hands were so good they almost drove me insane. Literally. I squirmed with pleasure and I couldn’t stop coming.

At least not until his hand stopped moving. “Was that good?” he asked.

“It was great.”

He smiled. “That’s what I wanted to hear.” He pulled up his pants and buttoned them.

“You’re leaving Dodd City?” I asked.

“I have to,” he said. “I’d like to stay. Hell, I’d like to keep you around a damn long time. A cock like that is too beautiful to waste on a shitty little town like Dodd, but I’ve got to go.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” I said.

“I know.” He pressed his lips, still gleaming with my come, to mine, and our tongues wrestled for a while.

And then, he was gone. I haven’t seen the tinhorn since—hell, I never even caught his name—but I have great memories of him. Memories that could last me a lifetime.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #111: HOW DID THEY GET THERE?

Judging by the numbers, almost none of you read my Sunday posts. OK, that's not fair. A bit less than a quarter of you read the Sunday posts. Tonight's topic will probably not interest anyone, so I figured I'd throw it up on a Sunday. If you don't give a shit about GUNSMOKE, now's the time to bail.

(I'm only talking about the TV show here. The radio show was a different beast, an alternate reality. In that one, Chester's last name was Proudfoot. Doc was a drunk who fell from grace because he possibly performed back alley abortions. Marshal Dillon and Miss Kitty were definitely fucking, although it was uncertain if she was being paid for it. Never mind that. My thoughts regard the TV show, where Chester's last name was Goode, Doc only drinks every once in a while and probably doesn't know how to stir a fetus out of a woman and Matt Dillon and Kitty, while very good friends, were clearly not in a romantic/sexual relationship no matter how much people wished for it.)

There was never an origin story for GUNSMOKE. One day, America started tuning in to the adventures of Matt Dillon, US Marshal, and his friends in Dodge City around the 1870's. We know very little about the characters before they arrived in Dodge City. We know that Matt was an orphan who fell into criminal activity before he became a lawman. We know that Chester came from the Appalachians, like his replacement, Festus. We know that Miss Kitty was previously in Louisiana, probably New Orleans, before coming to Kansas. But we don't know anything beyond that. We don't even know how they met.

I had an odd moment on Friday as I was watching that night's episode. (I watch them on the 50th anniversary of the day they originally aired, so that night's episode had debuted on November 7, 1964.) There's just a way that the characters interact with each other that led me to think about how they came together in the first place.

I think Doc was the first to come to town, probably before the Civil War began. People trust him a lot, as if they've known him for a long time. He's got a solid reputation. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that he'd set out his shingle before the Longbranch opened its doors.

I think Chester came next, maybe in 1870, but he never really hung out with Doc. They knew each other, but I don't think they were friends. And then Miss Kitty bought the saloon (or at least the majority interest she had when we first met her; years later, she would become the sole proprietor) that she would turn into the Longbranch. I think Doc drank there and performed services for Kitty's girls, and they formed a friendship because of this. When you see the two of them interact on the show, even in the early years, it's like they've known each other forever, even before Matt Dillon came to town.

Which is why I think Matt showed up last. I don't think he'd been marshal for very long before we first met him in the series premiere. I think his path crossed with Chester's, and the two of them fell in together. As a marshal, he had to rely on Doc, the only doctor in town. Through Doc, he met Kitty. Through Matt, Chester became close friends with the others. And so the original quartet was formed.

We know how Quint came to town. We know how Festus came to town. And, while I'm getting ahead of myself (seeing as how it's 1964 in the GUNSMOKE lobe of my brain), we know how Thad and Newly came to town. But not even the books from the past 20 years, which are considered canon, have explained how the original group met each other. (Although one of them tried to explain what happened to Chester after Festus showed up. It's thought that he became a farmer, although anyone who knows Chester knows that he has an aversion to physical labor, not to mention the fact that the one time he tried that on the show, he was a resounding failure at it. In my opinion, he met a girl and started a family elsewhere. He always was a ladies man.)

The one man who would know for sure, John Meston, who created first the radio show and then the TV show, has been dead for almost as long as I've been alive, so we'll never know.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #74: ERIC FLEMING

Those of you who have followed me a long time know that GUNSMOKE and MAVERICK have had a major influence on not just my writing but also my life. There are a few others, namely HAVE GUN-WILL TRAVEL and WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE, but there is yet another . . .


RAWHIDE is one of the best written western TV shows in history. It's not my favorite, but I have to admit that a lot more writing went into these episodes than any other show, at least in the first five seasons. After that, things went downhill, even though there were still great episodes.


That's not what I'm here to talk about, though. I want to discuss the unsung hero of RAWHIDE: Eric Fleming.


Most of you know me from my horror writing, so I'm pretty sure you'll mostly recognize Fleming from his work in a movie called CURSE OF THE UNDEAD. It was one of the very first Weird Western movies EVER. It was shit. I'm sorry, but it was. Yet it was the first outing of one of my favorite sub-genres.


To those of you with longer memories, you'll remember Fleming as the star of RAWHIDE. He played Gil Favor, trail boss. Clint Eastwood was equally billed, but let's face it. He was second fiddle to Fleming, the real star of the show for seven seasons.


Again, that's not what I want to talk about. I want to talk about Fleming, not Favor.


I knew he'd had a shitty life, but I didn't realize how shitty it was until I read the recent history of RAWHIDE by David R. Greenland. But before I get into that, let me give you my impression of Fleming as Favor.


When I was a kid, I hated him. I always sided with other drovers because I thought he was being unfair. He's the boss, and fuck him. But . . . watching the series as an adult, I understand him a lot more. Yes, he was stern, but he had very good reason to be. If he couldn't get these crazy drovers into line, he would never succeed at getting these steers to market. As an adult who wants to succeed at things, I totally get that. Fleming had the right stuff when it came to portraying a firm leader. He had a human side, but he didn't tolerate disobedience. He was fair, but he didn't let shit go. You had to do what he commanded, or you were out. Fair enough.


Fleming was an unlucky son of a bitch. Seriously. You'd think a TV star was in a good position, but he wasn't. Let me explain.


I was an abused child. You know that. I've also surrounded myself with people who were abused children. You probably also know that. However, Fleming was so abused that there's only one person I know who had it worse: Robert Tannahill, my partner on THE COCAINE! BROS. Rob had it rough, worse than anyone I know which is why I give him a lot more latitude than I'd give anyone else. I love him as I've loved no other male human being in my life. We've had our rough patches, but, well, you get it.


I don't know what Rob would be OK with me talking about, so I'll skip it. Instead, I'll talk about what Fleming had to go through. Fleming, who was born as Edward Heddy Jr., was once beaten by his father so bad it kept him in bed for a few days. Young Fleming got stuck with a bone disease when he was a kid, and his father didn't visit him in all the six months he was in the hospital. However, when Fleming came home, his old man had no problem beating the shit out of him, even though he needed crutches to get around. Could you imagine beating the daylights out of a kid who got around on crutches? Me, neither.


Fleming's dad was such a cunt that Fleming tried to shoot him once when he was nine. According to Greenland, the gun jammed. He doesn't explain the momentous beating Fleming must have gotten due to this attempt. I know my stepfather would have at least cut my balls off for something like that. Regardless, Fleming hopped a train to get away from his family and wound up in Chicago, working for gangsters during Prohibition. The poor kid wound up getting shot for his troubles, and the authorities decided to return him to his father. This happened AT THE AGE OF 11.


Luckily for him, the cops saw how afraid he was of his old man and left him with his mother instead.


Six years later, he ran away from his life of poverty to join the Navy. It was during this time that he wound up getting terribly injured in an accident. Two hundred pounds of steel fell on Fleming's face, completely destroying it. I'm surprised he survived such an accident. It took four plastic surgeries to reconstruct his face, including an eye he thought he was going to lose. From all accounts, he was ugly before, but this actually made him look better. Hollywood better.


Did I mention that he had a club foot that he had to wear a brace for? That would probably explain his life of going barefoot, since shoes tended to fuck with him pretty badly.


He gave acting a shot and got reasonably good success at that. However, I think he would have been happier being a writer. Whenever he wasn't in front of the camera, he was reading a book, which understandably put off other actors on RAWHIDE. Clint Eastwood was wrestling with the other actors--literally--and pulling pranks and generally having a good time, but Fleming was too busy reading. He wrote a couple of episodes of the show.


Fleming clashed with the supposedly creative forces of RAWHIDE often, but it wasn't for his own betterment. It was for all actors. At one point, he made some labor deals which benefited everyone on the cast.


He hated working in front of the camera. He wanted to write novels, and he was planning on doing just that. He had a few contracts to work through, and then he could retire to the home he'd built on RAWHIDE money. All he had to do was get through one last movie role, which he'd scored after being fired from the show that had made him a big name.


(Wrongly, by the way. Even Clint Eastwood, who had publicly feuded with Fleming many times, said that the network was making the wrong choice by firing Fleming and promoting Eastwood to the star of the show. It should be noted that Fleming was approached by Sergio Leone, who wanted an American actor for FISTFUL OF DOLLARS, the first great spaghetti western to ever be made. Fleming, along with other American actors, turned Leone down. However, unlike others, Fleming suggested that Leone might want Eastwood for the role. As all of you know, even my non-horror fans reading this now, Eastwood accepted the deal and became an international star because of his involvement with Leone. (For $15,000, no less!) Because of this moment, we have Academy Award-winning director Clint Eastwood. Instead of getting Eric Fleming as the Man With No Name--who really did have a name, by the way--we got Clint Eastwood, who really was the best choice. However, Eastwood wanted to get out of his CBS contract for RAWHIDE in order to make movies, which is why he suggested that CBS should fire him instead of Fleming. It didn't work out that way.)


Which brings us to the final moment in Eric Fleming's life. You'd think that a guy who suffered as badly as he did would get some sort of reward, right?


According to Charles Marquis Warren, the creator of RAWHIDE, Fleming was "a miserable human being." Greenland goes so far as to say that Fleming agreed with this assessment, calling himself "bitter" and "twisted."


Shortly after being fired from RAWHIDE, Fleming got a job for a movie being filmed in South America. He was filming a scene that should have probably been performed by a stunt man when his boat capsized, and he was dragged down by the undertow.


It is irrefutable that Eric Fleming was devoured by piranha. However, no one knows if he drowned first or was eaten alive.


I desperately hope that he drowned first, but from all accounts, he was very athletic. He was an able swimmer.


I personally think the piranha killed him.


I hope for his sake that I'm not right. I can't stand the idea of someone like him, abused from his earliest moments on this planet, dying in such a hard way.


He was forty-one and the first RAWHIDE actor to die.


I feel a great deal of kinship toward him. I hope his passage from this world wasn't as hard as I think it was.


But I know his luck was shit. From what I could tell . . . I can't say it.


If there's an afterlife--and I highly doubt there is--I hope Eric Fleming has found some kind of reward there.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #31: ROGER AND ME

Of all the characters on MAD MEN, I identify most with Roger Sterling. While he takes his work seriously, he also knows that it's not so important that it's the end of the world if something gets fucked up. He's got an odd anarchistic streak in him that probably didn't exist in many WWII vets. He's even got an open mind when it comes to a lot of things, like trying LSD with his wife and hanging out with his hippy daughter.


However, there is one thing about his character that I get so much more than the rest of it. In one episode, his mother dies, and he takes it pretty well. His family falls apart around him, but he plays it off with very few ruffled feathers, almost to the point where everyone else thinks he might be kind of crazy since he doesn't show his emotions like a normal person.


Yet later in the same episode, the shoeshine guy he's used for decades dies, and Roger breaks down and cries. No one expects it, but . . . well, I get it.


Don't get me wrong. When my mom died, I broke down. I knew she was on the way out, and when my grandparents got the call, they told me right away, and I lost it. I knew it was coming. I'd prepared for it most of my life. Also, it should be noted that Mom and I had a lot of anger issues with each other. We spent most of her latter years arguing with each other. But the moment I heard about her death, I cried. The second thing I did? I told my brother Bob, and we cried together.


It's the second part I understand more. For example, I've been going to my barber for as long as I can remember. He knows how I like my hair. He's not a hairstylist. He tells off-color jokes. He likes to drink (although I think he quit smoking a while ago). If he ever died, I don't know what I would do. I don't think I could bring myself to go to a salon.


Or how about the comic book store I go to? I've known the proprietor for many, many years, from way back when I was first buying comics in the 'Eighties. What am I going to do when he's gone? I can't get into the chain stores, like Graham Crackers.


With these old school guys, it's about environment. It's about experience. These are things that can't be replicated on a mass scale. Seriously, when I get my hair cut, I might as well be in the barber shop in Dodge City on GUNSMOKE, and whenever I visit the comic book store, it feels like I'm in an old smoke shop of old, searching for pulps (and let's face it, I've actually bought pulps in this place).


Roger Sterling's co-workers looked at him like he was weeping over something superficial, but they're wrong. He was weeping over the end of a way of life, and that's something I really don't want to think about.

EVERYONE'S GOT ONE #3: THE END OF AN ERA: GOODBYE, JAMES ARNESS

“I was told when I grew up I could be anything I wanted: a fireman, a policeman, a doctor—even President, it seemed. And for the first time in the history of mankind, something new, called an astronaut. But like so many kids brought up on a steady diet of Westerns, I wanted to be the avenging cowboy hero—that lone voice in the wilderness, fighting corruption and evil wherever I found it, and standing for freedom, truth and justice. And in my heart of hearts, I still track the remnants of that dream wherever I go, in my endless ride into the setting sun.”



Bill Hicks said that, and these immortal words are on my wall at home, just over my bed, reminding me of my own mission in life every day when I wake up, every night when I go to bed. These words bring me comfort in times like this, when one of my heroes has died.


You may have known him from any number of movies, like HONDO, THE THING FROM ANOTHER WORLD, THEM!, GUN THE MAN DOWN, BIG JIM MCLAIN, and a few others, but you definitely knew him as Matt Dillon, US Marshal, on the long-running television series, GUNSMOKE. And two weekends ago, he passed away at the age of 88.


I don’t have many heroes, but Matt Dillon was one of them, and Arness played him for more than 20 years. In fact, last decade was the first since the show started to be completely without new GUNSMOKE. It started as a radio show in the ‘Fifties, and in 1955, it made the transition to TV. It went on until 1975, and then in the ‘Eighties, it came back as a television movie. Several more movies followed through to the ‘Nineties.


LAW AND ORDER almost beat it out at 19 years before it got canceled. No other show has even touched this record.


As the story goes, John Wayne, the man who first noticed Arness, had to talk his protégé into taking the job as Matt Dillon because Arness wanted to be a movie actor. He felt that a television role would limit his career. So the Duke got him drunk and got him to sign the contract, and it was a good thing, too. GUNSMOKE made his career rather than limited it, and he didn’t regret a single day. Up until his death two weekends ago, he talked about his love of GUNSMOKE on his website, and in his last missive, he mentioned his favorite episode, the one starring Ricardo Montalban as Chato.


Arness was the last of the original stars of GUNSMOKE to leave us. Milburn Stone, as Doc, was the first, followed by Miss Kitty herself, Amanda Blake. Dennis Weaver, Chester, passed on not too long ago. And now James Arness. A while ago, he held a contest. What does Matt Dillon mean to you? The prize was a phone call from him to discuss GUNSMOKE. I entered (and lost), but I thought now would be an appropriate time to bring it up. Here is my essay, and I hope you enjoy it. This is what it means, to me, to be Matt Dillon:


As we stood in a rough circle under the hot summer sun, we debated who would get to play what character.


“I want to be Dirty Harry,” a friend said.


“Okay, but I get to be Rambo,” said my cousin.


“You can have those guys. I want to be the Terminator.”


It came around to me, and I informed them I wanted to be Matt Dillon, U.S. Marshal. It remains true to this very day.


We spent the afternoon playing war games with leaking water pistols, and as far as most were concerned, anything went. It was okay to shoot someone in the back, but I didn’t do that because Marshal Dillon wouldn’t. It was fine to call an opponent’s mother obscene names, but I didn’t because Marshal Dillon wouldn’t. Racial and homophobic epithets were considered fair game, but I didn’t partake because Marshal Dillon wouldn’t. Wild, epic shootouts were started at the drop of a hat, but I always tried to settle it peaceably and take prisoners instead, because Marshal Dillon never liked sending men to Boot Hill.


As all kids do, I grew up, and at the age of twenty-seven, I still try to be Marshal Dillon, because he is the quintessential good guy. Yes, be tough, but a part of being tough is also being fair. Never kick a guy when he’s down, and never stab him in the back. Women are to be treated with respect, even if they are owners of saloons. Never judge a book by its cover. Everyone gets a fair trial, no matter what the popular opinion is.


My childhood friends grew up and lost their fantasies, but the kid who wanted to be Matt Dillon still lives and follows the ideal down the dusty trail towards the setting sun.


Back to the present.  I’m thirty-two now. Take a look at the top of this article, where I quote Bill Hicks. For those who don’t know, Hicks was one of the foulest, most-profane stand-up comedians in history, and I loved him for it. But do those words sound like they come from someone dedicated to offending the world just for the sake of making it a more miserable place? I’m not the first to quote these lines from REVELATIONS, though. Garth Ennis borrowed these words for the final issue of PREACHER, and for all of that book’s sheer insanity, it is a very moral tale. As Jesse Custer’s father says, “You gotta’ be one of the good guys, son, because there’s way too many of the bad.”


And for all of my bad craziness, degenerate behavior, abrasive attitude, and general obscenity, I am a very moral man. Without Matt Dillon, I don’t think I would be.


Jesus Christ, as I’m writing this, I’m blubbering like a baby. I didn’t even know Mr. Arness. But I knew Matt Dillon, and I knew that the two shared a lot in common. After he retired, he dedicated his life to helping those with cerebral palsy. Anyone who wanted an autograph could have one, provided they donated to this cause. In fact, everything on sale at his website goes toward this charity.


We’re not going to see the likes of James Arness again. Though a handful of other stars from the Golden Era of television still live today, none could hold a candle to Arness. This is truly the end of an era.


Goodbye, James Arness.

UPDATE:  One of my routines was to check out James Arness' website every week to check out his regular feature, "Greeting from Jim."  I figured that since he was gone, I'd read his final message to us.  Lo! and behold!  He wrote one last letter to his fans in the event of his death.  Check it out.  He was a class act, up until the very end.