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Story of a Pickle By: Richard Davidson on 10/22/2001; 8:20 PM It was a town within a dream, a legend of the old West. Jeb was sitting at the bar, casually drinking back a whiskey and brine juice, when he noticed the bartender's face go ash white. "What's the matter, Old Tom?" Jeb tried to sound concerned. "It's the P-p-p-pickles gang!" Old Tom slunk behind the bar, as the piano player stopped playing. Jeb turned around, just in time to see Paul Pickles, the Pickles Patriarch, storm through the doors, followed by his sons, Peter, Patrick and Pablo, who was part Mexican, and the Gherkins: Gaylord, Gilbert, and Gretchen, who was beautiful, but dangerous. Jeb felt his blood run as cold as the brine juice in the big jar in front of him. "Let's have some music, you dirty prairie dog!" Paul Pickles hollered in the general direction of the piano player, "we're celebratin' tonight!" And then Jeb knew it was true. So they HAD killed the Mayo brothers. Jeb didn't have time to cry, since he knew full well he was next. Before long, Peter, Patrick, or Pablo would be calling him out, or even worse, Gaylord or Gilbert Gherkin. "Me and you gotta talk," the soft voice came from his right. He'd been watching Paul Pickles, and hadn't noticed Gretchen Gherkin circling around him. What luck! He was going to be murdered in cold blood by one of the hottest babes in the Old West. "Maybe we can talk out in the alley," her voice had no semblance of humanity in it whatsoever. "Ah, sure," Jeb was trying to think as fast as he could. How had he let himself get into this salty situation? His right hand was resting lightly on his Colt .45 revolver, and in his left, he'd palmed a 5 1/3 inch Dill Pickle as big around as a baby's wrist. It was a particularly sour pickle, from a batch canned by Sour Sally McWorster, who could spit nails at least forty feet, with the wind at her back. "Lead the way, handsome," Gretchen purred, her voice thick with the taste of fresh blood. Jeb marched solemnly out into the street, towards the alley. He was feeling desperation, knowing she would draw soon, and there was no out-drawing Gretchen Gherkin, one of the deadliest guns West of Sausalito. He stopped in his tracks, and plunged his pickle into Gretchen's mouth. At first she looked surprised, and then a dull glaze went into her eyes, and she began to chew. First one cheek puckered in, and then the other. Soon her entire face was puckered, and briney tears flowed from her eyes. He knew this was his chance, and just as he was about to draw his Colt, she yelled, "Wait!" Time stood still, and in the county canning works, they stopped the conveyer belt, and several cucumbers fell harmlessly to the ground. Was there a hint of love in Gretchen's voice, or was it merely indigestion? She kissed him, with the unchewed portion of the pickle still in her mouth, and they finished it together, each of their faces more puckered than the next. It was the sourest dill pickle either had ever tasted, and Jeb wasn't sure if they were falling in love with each other, or the taste of that divine pickle. "Gretchen, what 'chou doin' back there?" came a salty voice. It was Gaylord Gherkin, and Jeb was quite certain that Gilbert was with him. "Don't take another step," Gretchen's puckered voice warned them, "if you do, it'll be your last." The Gherkin brothers ran back into the saloon, and Jeb knew they'd be back with the Pickles any second. He kissed Gretchen one more time, and said, "trust me," and ran out the other side of the alley. She considered shooting him in the back, but decided no one who had a pickle like the one they had just savoured could be all bad, so she waited patiently. She could see the Pickles/Gherkin gang assembling in the dusty street. "Gretchen, what the hell's going on over there?" came Paul Pickles manly voice. If you don't step out into the light, we're comin' in! "I wouldn't do that if I were you," came Jeb's voice from high above the street. He was on the roof of the Bank, and he had a Gatling Gun! "My God, what's he got loaded in that thing?" Paul Pickles voice sounded frightened, for the first time since Easter. "Looks like..." Pablo started to say, and then there were dill pickles flying through the air, with the accuracy of a hot dog vendor at a baseball game. Three years later, a reporter from the East was visiting Jeb's ranch, interviewing him and Gretchen for his paper, and they showed him some large jars in the basement. Perfectly preserved in briney water were Paul, Peter, Patrick and Pablo Pickle. "Whatever happened to the Gherkins?" the reporter asked, his mouth dropping to the floor. "You didn't think Gretchen would kill her own family, did you?" Jeb smiled, munching happily on a Kosher Sweet. They walked out to the back 40, where Gaylord and Gilbert were harvesting cucumbers. They looked happier than they'd ever been in their lives, a strange smile pasted on each of their faces. "How did you get two of the most feared gunfighters North of Escandido to work as farm laborers?" asked the reporter, as he was losing his last grip on reality. "It was easy," answered Jeb. "A little love, a little bit of pickle juice, and of course, a frontal lobotomy, and those boys are two of the friendliest fellars you would ever want to meet." Gretchen kissed him, a 12 inch Norweigan Dill protruding from her mouth like a salty green tongue. The reporter walked away shaking his head, as the sound of crunching faded into the distance.
RE: Story of a Pickle By: Dorothy Marie on 3/4/2001; 8:22 PM creative. that's all i have to say. :)
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