Cousin Fred nearly gets us killed!

Good Thursday morning to everyone. Hope you’re well. I hear we missed some great weather in NWOK. Hopefully some of that will remain until we can return from what is quickly becoming the trip from hell.

I’ve had about all I can stand. The RV is really starting to reek of chili-powder laced Doritos, stale beer, and cold pizza with anchovies.

Add to that the biologicals with whom I’m traveling – Cousin Fred desperately needs a shower; Lassie the barking goat smells like a…well, goat; and, Friend Lamont seems to douse himself in cologne at rest stops.

I swear, when we head to Colorado as production on “Naked and Untamed” begins, I’m getting a motel room. I don’t care what it costs me. Let this malodorous stew continue to simmer inside this petri dish of a RV.

Six days into this trip and I’m really beginning to realize that I’m not cut out for RV-living. We limped into Coyote Springs late last night. We soon realized I had made a mistake. The old west town that had been Coyote Springs is now an unfinished golf course and resort. A ghost town of sorts, I suppose, but not the right kind.

Cousin Fred insisted on using the crystal skull bottles as lanterns as we rolled down the road. He once again adorned Lassie with a pair of sunglasses, but this time he found a pair at a truck stop that had some sort of lens application that turned the round lenses into pentagrams.

I have to admit it was kind of fun to see the aghast looks of people we passed on the road. Most were using their phones to get photos or shoot video. So far, no one has put the law onto us. I’m actually surprised that Lassie is going along with the program, but I guess if you feed a goat enough chocolate donuts they’ll do anything.

With Coyote Wells a bust, we continued rolling southeast until we hit Glendale, NV. Very small, but we managed to find Stinky Pete’s RV Park so we pulled in for the night.

Once the RV was in its space, Cousin Fred asked about night life in Glendale. Stinky Pete pointed down the street and muttered something about the Lost Spur Bar & Grill. He looked us over and muttered, “Take care in thar.”

Cousin Fred shrugged his shoulders and began walking in the direction Stinky Pete had pointed us. “Follow me, men.”

We debated leaving Lassie behind at the RV, but Cousin Fred wouldn’t hear of it. So, off we go.

Outside the Lost Spur there isn’t a sound. There were several pickups parked in front, along with a couple of saddled horses tied to a hitching post outside. But not one decibel of sound was issuing from inside.

I cautiously opened the door and Cousin Fred squeezed past me with Lassie in tow.

The bartender looked at Cousin Fred and then down at the goat. He was a huge man probably in his late 50’s, but with a full head of very long dark hair that was pulled back and tied in a braid that went down his back.

“We don’t allow his kind in here.”

Cousin Fred offered that it was his service dog, at which point Lassie began barking.

The bartender moved one hand down below the bar and then said, “Mister, I don’t know what kind of a jackass you take me for, but you get that goat out of here or I’ll drop it in the pit out back for barbecue.”

Cousin Fred moved Lassie out front and tied him to the hitching post near the two horses. Fortunately, he had brought along a chocolate donut and gave it to Lassie.

As he was doing that, Friend Lamont and I took seats at a high-top table on one side of the door.

In dim light of the bar, I could see several customers at tables and along the bar. All had the look of working cowboys. All seemed very sullen, most picking at the plate of food in front of them. Others staring off into space while turning drink in front of them with their fingers. The mood in the place hung like a heavy dark cloud.

Cousin Fred stepped back in and called to the bartender, “Barkeep, three menus please!”

“Ain’t got menus. Daily special is two boiled hot dogs with mac and cheese. Have two-week old pickled quail eggs if you princes want an appetizer.”

Cousin Fred, never missed a beat, “Three specials please. Oh, and three of whatever you have on tap.”

The bartender reached down behind the bar and came up with three cans of PBR Beer that he set heavily on the bar.

I was nearest so I stepped over and grabbed the cans. I noticed they were warm.

Cousin Fred noticed too and looked as though he were about to say something. I kicked him under the table.

At that moment, the door burst open, hitting Cousin Fred in the back causing him to spew warm beer across the table.

In rides another huge man on the back of a horse.

The bartender reached beneath the bar and comes up with a sawed-off double barrel which he pointed in guy’s direction.

“Damn you, Cletus! There are people trying to dine here…”

The three of us are looking around the inside.

“…I wouldn’t let these greenhorns bring a goat in here. I’ll be damned if you’ll bring your mongrel horse inside.”

Cletus kind of growled and muttered something before backing the horse out the door. He soon came back inside and took a seat at the bar. The bartender returned the shotgun to its hiding place.

Without a word between them, the bartender put a glass in front of Cletus and poured whiskey out of a bottle. Cletus leaned on one arm against the bar and stared at the glass.

Our food arrived. As promised, each plate held two pale, boiled (hopefully) hot dogs with two spoonfuls of something resembling mac and cheese, though it was a weird color.

I sampled the mac and cheese, it was salty to the point of toxicity. I tried the hot dog. It too was salty beyond belief. I figured the cook must have lost his sense of taste or something. I couldn’t eat it.

Friend Lamont was of a similar mind. Cousin Fred was slurping it down as though it were his last meal on earth. I slid my plate over to him and soon he was working on finishing my meal as well. Friend Lamont seemed reluctant to follow suit. I’m sure he was thinking we have a lot of miles to cover and he didn’t want Cousin Fred stinking up the RV as we rolled through the desert.

When Cousin Fred was done lapping up his “sumptuous” evening repast, I noticed he kept looking at the big cowboy sitting at the bar. The guy hadn’t moved except to down the glass of whiskey and indicate he wanted a refill.

Cousin Fred seemed to be in buoyant mood. He looked at Friend Lamont and me saying, “Another round, chaps?”

With that, he got up from the table and walked over to sit next to the cowboy.

“Three more beers, barkeep!”

He looked over at the hulk of a cowboy next to him and said, “Howdy, pardner!” As he said this, he kind of slapped the guy on the shoulder.

In a move that was so fast that I barely saw it, from beneath the long duster coat he was wearing, the cowboy produced a big-ass knife and drove it into the top of the bar.

He looked over at Cousin Fred and said, “I work for a living.”

At that, Friend Lamont and I were out of our chairs. I moved over to the bar and told Cousin Fred it was time to go. I threw a $50 bill on the bar and we left.

I didn’t get any photos, but I did get a story I guess. Not sure that moth-eaten daily periodical that is close to banishing me forever will print it, but oh I have a story!

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