Psycho Rodeo
Psycho Rodeo
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The hyper competence, slapstick humor and deep emotion of MASH, trapped in a gunfighting brawl on the high desert highways in a whiskey-fueled resistance of spec ops veterans who fight dressed as rodeo clowns.
It's 2039, twelve years into an international occupation. Rick Bowman, a cowboy known as Longshot ever since a locally famous hunting shot at an elk in high school, has been grieving in isolation on his remote homestead since his wife Erin was brutally murdered by an occupation soldier five years ago.
Understanding revenge solves nothing, he meditates upon a solution. Finally realizing there are tens of thousands of women across the country who've died over the course of the occupation, he knows the only justice is in ending the war. He devises a plan to shatter the Alliance of 37 and force a withdrawal.
He returns to the resistance, only to find they've spent the millions he sent home to Erin while military contracting to build and equip a hidden firebase. Now he has to whip a whiskey-fueled bunch of brawling veterans into a spec-ops team that fights as rodeo clowns.
The Man Cave was alive with the hum of computers, radios and big screens.
Longshot looked around the space, eyes roaming over racks of rifles and a half dismantled Ford Raptor pickup in the garage. Its engine was on the workbench, axle parts strewn all over.
Mountable weapons systems and machine guns were displayed everywhere.
“Benegan,” he said, turning a slow circle. “This is… hell, this is freakin' amazing. Where’d you guys land this kinda cash?”
Things got quiet. Laughter bouncing around the room died. Chairs creaked, nobody making eye contact. Nervous looks all around.
Colonel Benegan cleared his throat. “Now, don’t get concerned, Rick. But we kinda— used Erin’s money for a lot of it.”
Rick's eyes snapped back to Benegan, glaring.
Benegan shrunk, then brightened, snapping his fingers and pointing.
“INVESTING! Seed capital, son! You own a lotta land now! And, all these computers,” arms out, sweeping the room.
Sixkiller leaned forward, eager to defuse the tension. “I made a new rifle for you, Longshot. A real fuckin' humdinger!”
“These Raptors ain’t nothin’ to sneeze at, Rick,” stated Edgar. Then he zipped up, remembering Longshot hadn't seen the other two yet.
Rick wasn’t hearin ‘em. His stare was locked on Wilford Benegan’s icy grey eyes.
“Wil, I sent Erin just shy of twenty-seven. Million.” Rick said quietly. “How much?”
Benegan looked away, mumbling. “Makin’ whiskey ain’t cheap, Rick.”
He swallowed a huge shot of whiskey, looking back up. Rick feinted, making Benegan flinch.
“How much, Wilford?” He paced deliberately around the table, flexing a big fist.
Benegan finally blurted, “Maybe three, four Big,” almost proudly.
Rick blinked. Took Colonel Benegan’s highball, slammed it all, sighed in relief and examined the room again.
“That ain’t so bad,” Rick commented, nodding strangely. He poured more whiskey and chugged it all.
He asked the other guys, “Right?”
He was met with nervous glances, their heads turning to catch each other’s eyes. But not Rick’s eyes. He noticed those looks. Like kids caught lying about the dog.
Looking at Benegan, Rick zeroed in eye to eye and crooked his finger, twice. He examined the room again. Every dadgum face. All this damn machinery.
“Uh, Rick. It's more like— three mil LEFT, son.”
Longshot’s eyes cut back to Benegan. “What.”
Colonel Benegan hesitated, swallowing. “More like. Three million. Uh… left, son.”
The bottle hit the table, rattling the ashtray. Rick rose slow, snatching his battered Shady Brady. Putting his hat on, he headed for the door.
“We’re done, old man.” Then he paused, turning back. “No.”
The room froze. Jimmy Sixkiller maintained his pose rigidly, reaching for a glossy magazine.
Longshot pointed a finger around the long table. “You. You. You. ALL of you. Except Lawn Dart,” holding his hand towards his best friend, palm facing out.
Lawn Dart leaned back and relaxed with a gloating look, absorbing more whiskey.
Rick’s voice dropped to a dangerous calm. “We’re all at fuckin’ WAR now. You bastards. You stole my money? Is that what you thought? You idiots. You stole Erin’s money.”
He pushed through the door, boots echoing on concrete. Outside, the old Ford thundered, roaring off with Big Dog barking like doom. They listened, truck fading as it headed away from the building.
Colonel Benegan looked around the table at these tense men. Waited a long second, catching each one in the eye as everyone slowly relaxed.
He leaned forward, arms around his whiskey glass and took a slug. “Well, that didn’t go too bad, at least.”
They all started giggling hysterically.
