Alyster Black and Chris Peacock
in
“Chrissy, He’s Fucked Up”
We open inside a western style saloon, you know the type. The kind of place that when the saloon doors swing open everyone stops what they’re doing and reaches for their holster. The piano player stops playing, the poker games pauses, and every patron swallows their drink.
Drunken brawls and shootouts would happen on the regular, if this was 1885 and not 2023. These days this type of saloon can be found in tourist traps featuring recreations of what life was like. Back in a simpler time.
Tonight however, this western style saloon is playing host to a costume party for a cowboy, his ilk, and his non-cowboy amigos. A cowboy named Tommy Bedlam, at least that’s the assumption, confirmation won’t be made until tonight’s protagonists arrive at their destination.
Two out of towners, the type to draw attention to themselves. The west is not their home, they stick out like sore thumbs. They’re no strangers to hard work, but ranching isn’t their forte.
Driving that white Cadillac is the invited guest for tonight’s festivities, the disco dancing manic, the king of the discotech, your world champion and mine, Chris Peacock. His plus one for tonight is in a terrible mood and in need of a pick me up. A daunting task that Chris is more than up to tackling. Sitting shotgun is Alyster Black.
The Cadillac pulls to a stop in front of the horse’s hitch which tonight has gone out of use. Two doors open and the sound of footsteps crunching on gravel echoes until the pair steps onto that wooden porch and swings open those saloon doors.
The piano stops playing, the poker game comes to a brief pause, everyone swallows their drinks. All eyes are on them.
This isn’t because they’re mysterious strangers who have come to town, it’s because they’ve come to a western themed costume party wearing the two most ridiculous neon coloured outfits ever seen in these parts.
Chris is dressed to the theme, wearing a neon pink plastic cowboy hat, matching shirt and pants, with leather assless chaps on top and a black leather vest with the phrase “Midnight Cowboy” embroidered on the back in gold.
Alyster meanwhile missed the part where the party was western themed and was dressed as his partner, complete with fake moustache and white disco dancing jumpsuit. For some unknown reason most of the partygoers thought he was Elvis, which Alyster found weird considering he was wearing a fake moustache over his signature mask.
As the silence lasts just long enough to become awkward, Alyster edges close to Chris and whispers quietly to him. “Chris, what the fuck is going on?”
“I told you not to wear that costume. I told you cowboys.” Chris replied from the corner of his mouth.
“I ain’t gonna dress like no cowboy, I’m a cow-man damn it. Besides, you stand out more than I do.”
He wasn’t wrong, everyone in the saloon was dressed in traditional cowboy wear, at least what you’d expect to see a traditional cowboy wear if you’d seen Back to the Future Part 3. Chris’ neon pink outfit was just not correct for the time period.
The awkward silence soon died as the pianist continued to play and Alyster and Chris were left dumbfounded. A patron slapped Chris on the back and chuckled brightly. “You two look like deer in headlights. It’s a thing we’ve been doing all night when someone new arrives. Now you two city-slickers go grab yourselves a shot of whiskey and join the festivities.”
“You heard the man.” Alyster says as he makes way immediately to the bar with Chris in tow.
“Lookin’ good Elvis.” The bartender greets the pair as they both sit down on a pair of stools.
Alyster raises a finger in protest, about to correct the bartender but thinks better of it and instead orders two shots of whiskey.
The bartender pours them out and Alyster grabs both before Chris has a chance to take one. “Get your own.” He growls at his partner.
“Rude.” Chris retorts before he goes ahead and orders two shots for himself.
Both men down their whiskey then bang their shot glasses down on the bar and turn around in their seats to take in the festivities.
“This sucks.”
“Come on Aly, you haven’t even given this party a chance.”
“We’re down south and it sucks down here.”
“Spoken like a true Californian.”
“Says the Yank!”
“I dunno man, I feel like I really could have survived out here. Living on the land, ranching cattle.”
“Oh yeah, I can picture you riding a horse right now, your nuts slapping against the saddle as the stupidest fucking animal in the world trots across the fields.”
“Horses are majestic, mate.”
“They’re idiots. Have you heard of cribbing?”
Chris rolls his eyes and shrugs his shoulders.
“Cribbing is this thing horses do when they chew on wooden fences and suck in air, creating a vacuum that prevents them from letting go of the fence. Their handlers have to pry them off or they’ll starve to death because they’re the dumbest fucking animal in the world.”
Chris shoots his partner an unamused scowl, “That sounds made up.”
“Look it up!”
“Nah, I don’t care enough to. I just don’t believe you.”
Alyster’s hands closed into tight fists, instead of acting on his rage he turned around and ordered another round of shots.
“There isn’t even a dance floor. I was sorta expecting a barn dance or something.” Chris mutters in a dejected tone before perking up as the host of tonight’s festivities approaches him. “Tommy Bedlam you ol’ son of a gun. How’re you doin’?”
Chris rises to his feet to greet FWA’s resident cowboy, offering him a firm yet friendly handshake which Tommy accepts.
“Chris, glad to see you here bud. And you brought Alyster Black too, that’s surprising.”
Alyster doesn’t respond, instead focusing on the entire bottle of whiskey he has ordered.
“He’s a rude bastard, don’t mind him.”
“I’m not rude, I just hate the south. Present company possibly excluded.” Alyster shouts in reply without even turning his head to face the duo.
Chris offers Tommy a nervous chuckle and grin as Tommy gives Alyster a bemused look.
“Charming as always.” Tommy muses, “Regardless, I’m glad to have you here and I hope you enjoy the show tomorrow.”
“I’m looking forward to it, so’s Alyster, even if he won’t admit it. Dude loves southern style rasslin’.”
“Your pa and grandpa were all right!” Alyster shouts from the corners of his mouth in spite of the whiskey bottle being in the way of him speaking.
“There will be plenty of that tomorrow I can assure you. There’s some real tough cowboys going at it, plus yours truly will be mounting the Handsome Stanger’s head on my wall as a trophy. What more could you ask for?”
“I could ask you to run the show in California and not this backwater hick state.”
Tommy’s fists ball up but Chris Peacock is quick to make the peace.
“Don’t listen to him Tommy boy, he’s not even American, just a dumb convict from Down Under that’s had a few too many shots.”
Tommy grunts and shakes his head.
“You better keep him in line, there’s a few folk around here who won’t take too kindly to that attitude.”
Chris sighs, “I think that’s what he’s counting on.”
Tommy leaves the duo to go and mingle with the rest of the guests as Chris drops back down onto his stool. He reels back and gives Alyster a hard punch in the arm.
“Ah, the fuck was that for?”
“Why are you being so rude to Tommy man, he’s cool.”
“Oh fuck Tommy Bedlam, him and the horse he rode in on.”
“The guy helped me beat Devin Golden, I don’t understand why you have such a hard on for him.”
“I don’t have a hard on for Tommy Bedlam, I treat him just like I would most every other jerk on the roster.”
“You’re so bitter.”
“You would be bitter too if you got dragged out into the middle of bumfucknowhere Texas whilst swallowing the most heartbreaking defeat of your career.”
“Jeez, well sorry for trying to cheer you up. I thought going out drinking then going to a wrestling show might at least make you crack a smile but you just don’t appreciate any effort made to be your friend do you.”
Alyster swings in the stool to face Chris, he picks up the bottle of whiskey and pours out another shot then hands it to his partner.
“I appreciate you mate, I just feel like crap and will for a while now. That X Championship was my life and losing it feels like I’ve had my heart ripped out.”
Chris reaches out and takes the shot, and offers Alyster a kind nod in understanding.
“I just hope you never feel the bitter sting of losing that big gold belt of yours.”
“Aye. Bottoms up then.”
Chris raises the shot glass and Alyster raises the rest of the bottle before the duo down their drinks.
Their bittersweet moment is interrupted by the sound of the bartender coughing. Both men glance over to him as he motions toward a tip jar with a note scribbled on it reading, ‘Save the cows, tip us instead!”
“Cute.” Chris mutters.
“Get fucked.” is Alyster’s brasen response. “It’s an open bar cunt.”
Alyster tosses the whiskey bottle to the bartender who fumbles and drops it onto the floor. Thankfully it doesn’t shatter but the bartender is still nonetheless upset.
Alyster gets up from his stool and stumbles around the room, taking in the festivities as the bartender turns to Chris for an explanation or compensation.
“I haven’t got shit for you pal.” Chris says before sauntering off behind Alyster.
“Lookin’ good Elvis!”
Alyster grumbles as the fourth person in a row to see him mistakes his Chris Peacock outfit for Elvis.
“Elvis didn’t have a moustache!” Alyster shouts back.
Chris catches up to him and shouts in solidarity, “Or wear a mask!”
They settle near the piano player, listening to him play some ragtime tunes. Chris tries to get into it, shuffling back and forth before spinning and trying out some dance moves but stops with a dejected look on his face. “I can’t dance to this.”
“You can’t fight to it either.”
“Not that you would fight at this party, right? Because you promised your best buddy Chris Peacock that you wouldn’t.”
“I mean yeah, but my point still stands.”
“Atta boy.”
They stand in silence for a few more moments before Alyster reaches into the breast pocket of his jumpsuit and produces a pack of camels. He takes one and pops it in his mouth before offering one to Chris who gladly accepts. The two make their way to the back door, walking out into an alleyway behind the saloon and light up.
They enjoy the relative peace outside, looking up at the night sky, watching the stars as they listen to the crickets chirp and the low hum of the party going on inside.
“You know something bud, I wouldn’t actually mind a saloon fight right about now.”
“But you made me promise not to start one.”
“Yeah but like, fighting cowboys sounds like a good time. Especially wearing that jumpsuit. Swap costumes with me.”
“Nah mate, you choose to dress like a dickhead, you can live with that decision.”
“Mate I look god damn hilarious with this tiny cowboy hat on.”
“I did notice a few of those rednecks glaring at it. I don’t think they appreciate New Yorkers much.”
“Meh. I don’t appreciate them eith-”
Chris is interrupted by the sound of a garbage bag being roughly tossed inside a trash can. He and Alyster look over to the end of the alley where the bartender is throwing out some trash.
“What?” The bartender shouts, “I should throw the two of you in here. It’s where you belong, you ungrateful sumbitches.”
“OOOOH!” Chris and Alyster shout in unison.
“They don’t teach you how to tip up North? Rude bastards.”
“Like you did anything to deserve one pal!”
The bartender, clearly not a fan of the FWA else he would have avoided this duo altogether, marches right down the alley and gets in Chris and Alyster’s faces.
“I make my living on tips, I’ve got a family to feed. You wouldn’t understand that would ya? Working. It’s a foreign concept for a yank and whatever the hell you’re supposed to be.”
“Australian, and we don’t tip mate.”
“Listen pal, I’ve worked in the restaurant business and I’ve been stiffed before, so don’t bitch to me. You’re raking it in tonight, so what if we didn’t slip you five bucks for pouring a few fucking shots.”
The bartender throws his hands up and turns around. He marches back toward the saloon but not before raising both middle fingers and shouting, “I hope both of you get shot…” And follows up with a not so nice word that incenses the duo.
“Oooooh!” They yell again at the same time before both men reach down and pick up a pair of rocks and throw them at their aggressor.
The bartender hits the ground and begins to shake just as Chris and Alyster are about to start putting the boots to him, they pause and watch on in horror as the man is in the midst of an unsettling seizure.
“Chrissy, he’s fucked up.”
“I thought they were supposed to take medicine for this thing, shit I don’t even think I hit him.”
“I couldn’t tell in the darkness. But you must have, look at this poor cunt.”
“What? No way, you must have hit him!”
“I wasn’t even aiming for him, how the fuck could I hit him?”
The bartender stops seizing but isn’t moving at all.
“Oh shit…”
“Is he dead?”
“He’s not moving.”
“Check to see if he’s breathing.”
“What? No, you check!”
“I’m not touching a dead body!”
“So you do think he’s dead!”
“Yeah but I didn’t kill him.”
“Neither did I!”
“So we’re in agreement then, no one killed this guy.”
“Yeah…yeah, no one did. So…let’s just slip out of here quietly?”
“We can’t just leave immediately. We need to be seen in the party, we need everyone to think we were inside the entire time.”
“Good idea. Let's mingle for like an hour then bail.”
Alyster and Chris both nod then tiptoe their way back into the saloon. They try to remain as inconspicuous as possible, try to blend back in but they have blood on their hands and the guilt is overwhelming.
A man recognises Chris Peacock and approaches him, slapping him on the shoulder and offering their congratulations to him over his recent World Championship defence. Chris, on edge, screams in their face “I didn’t kill anyone!”
Tommy Bedlam raises his head from across the room, his face turned white, scanning like a terrified meerkat as he overhears someone mutter that.
Alyster meanwhile attempts to join the poker game, he sits down and is asked for money to participate. Alyster’s heart thumps as he instinctively looks over to the bar, at the tip jar the bartender pointed out earlier. He slips out of his chair and goes looking for Chris.
After only three minutes of being inside the pair rushed to the bathroom to regroup and come up with a plan.
They both enter the same empty stall and stand in silence for a few moments before Chris breaks that silence.
“I can’t do this.”
“Neither can I.”
“Fuck, what are we gonna do?”
“I don’t know. But we can’t stay here, do you know what they do to people like us down here?”
Chris thinks for a moment then his eyes widen, “They give them the chair.”
“Barbarians. We need to leave and we need to do so quietly.”
The bathroom door swings open and Alyster and Chris immediately hush up as they listen to the sound of two sets of legs entering the bathroom. There’s a little bit of a commotion going on so they peek at what’s happening from over the stall.
At the unirnal is two men in a horse outfit, trying to navigate their way to a piss.
“Come on dude! I really have to go!” The backend of the horse mutters.
“Hold on son, it’s nearly off.” The front-end replies.
Alyster and Chris look at each other and smile, logic has no bearing on their decision making anymore. They’ve grown desperate.
The two men in the horse outfit manage to remove their costume, just as Alyster and Chris sneak out from the stall. They approach the two men from behind, grab them by the back of the head and smash their faces against the tiled wall. Shatting the tiles, and knocking them both out cold.
“Potty kiss works every time.” Alyster mumbles as Chris immediately starts to put on the front end of the horse outfit. “Hey! I get the front end!”
“You snooze you lose bud, besides, I’m the World Champion so you get the caboose.”
Alyster grumbles but doesn’t have time to argue. He begins putting on the back half of the outfit and connects it to the front half with Chris.
Completely incognito, their identities hidden the pair in the horse costume trot through the party and out the saloon doors. Out to the white Cadallac which peels off awkwardly into the night.
No one inside is wise to what Alyster and Chris have gotten away with. Not even the bartender who has recovered from his seizure, but with some short term memory loss, and is manning his station again.
At the poker table a party goer asks another, “Where’d the guy who was dressed as Chris Peacock go?” His question is met with utter confusion.
in
“Chrissy, He’s Fucked Up”
We open inside a western style saloon, you know the type. The kind of place that when the saloon doors swing open everyone stops what they’re doing and reaches for their holster. The piano player stops playing, the poker games pauses, and every patron swallows their drink.
Drunken brawls and shootouts would happen on the regular, if this was 1885 and not 2023. These days this type of saloon can be found in tourist traps featuring recreations of what life was like. Back in a simpler time.
Tonight however, this western style saloon is playing host to a costume party for a cowboy, his ilk, and his non-cowboy amigos. A cowboy named Tommy Bedlam, at least that’s the assumption, confirmation won’t be made until tonight’s protagonists arrive at their destination.
Two out of towners, the type to draw attention to themselves. The west is not their home, they stick out like sore thumbs. They’re no strangers to hard work, but ranching isn’t their forte.
Driving that white Cadillac is the invited guest for tonight’s festivities, the disco dancing manic, the king of the discotech, your world champion and mine, Chris Peacock. His plus one for tonight is in a terrible mood and in need of a pick me up. A daunting task that Chris is more than up to tackling. Sitting shotgun is Alyster Black.
The Cadillac pulls to a stop in front of the horse’s hitch which tonight has gone out of use. Two doors open and the sound of footsteps crunching on gravel echoes until the pair steps onto that wooden porch and swings open those saloon doors.
The piano stops playing, the poker game comes to a brief pause, everyone swallows their drinks. All eyes are on them.
This isn’t because they’re mysterious strangers who have come to town, it’s because they’ve come to a western themed costume party wearing the two most ridiculous neon coloured outfits ever seen in these parts.
Chris is dressed to the theme, wearing a neon pink plastic cowboy hat, matching shirt and pants, with leather assless chaps on top and a black leather vest with the phrase “Midnight Cowboy” embroidered on the back in gold.
Alyster meanwhile missed the part where the party was western themed and was dressed as his partner, complete with fake moustache and white disco dancing jumpsuit. For some unknown reason most of the partygoers thought he was Elvis, which Alyster found weird considering he was wearing a fake moustache over his signature mask.
As the silence lasts just long enough to become awkward, Alyster edges close to Chris and whispers quietly to him. “Chris, what the fuck is going on?”
“I told you not to wear that costume. I told you cowboys.” Chris replied from the corner of his mouth.
“I ain’t gonna dress like no cowboy, I’m a cow-man damn it. Besides, you stand out more than I do.”
He wasn’t wrong, everyone in the saloon was dressed in traditional cowboy wear, at least what you’d expect to see a traditional cowboy wear if you’d seen Back to the Future Part 3. Chris’ neon pink outfit was just not correct for the time period.
The awkward silence soon died as the pianist continued to play and Alyster and Chris were left dumbfounded. A patron slapped Chris on the back and chuckled brightly. “You two look like deer in headlights. It’s a thing we’ve been doing all night when someone new arrives. Now you two city-slickers go grab yourselves a shot of whiskey and join the festivities.”
“You heard the man.” Alyster says as he makes way immediately to the bar with Chris in tow.
“Lookin’ good Elvis.” The bartender greets the pair as they both sit down on a pair of stools.
Alyster raises a finger in protest, about to correct the bartender but thinks better of it and instead orders two shots of whiskey.
The bartender pours them out and Alyster grabs both before Chris has a chance to take one. “Get your own.” He growls at his partner.
“Rude.” Chris retorts before he goes ahead and orders two shots for himself.
Both men down their whiskey then bang their shot glasses down on the bar and turn around in their seats to take in the festivities.
“This sucks.”
“Come on Aly, you haven’t even given this party a chance.”
“We’re down south and it sucks down here.”
“Spoken like a true Californian.”
“Says the Yank!”
“I dunno man, I feel like I really could have survived out here. Living on the land, ranching cattle.”
“Oh yeah, I can picture you riding a horse right now, your nuts slapping against the saddle as the stupidest fucking animal in the world trots across the fields.”
“Horses are majestic, mate.”
“They’re idiots. Have you heard of cribbing?”
Chris rolls his eyes and shrugs his shoulders.
“Cribbing is this thing horses do when they chew on wooden fences and suck in air, creating a vacuum that prevents them from letting go of the fence. Their handlers have to pry them off or they’ll starve to death because they’re the dumbest fucking animal in the world.”
Chris shoots his partner an unamused scowl, “That sounds made up.”
“Look it up!”
“Nah, I don’t care enough to. I just don’t believe you.”
Alyster’s hands closed into tight fists, instead of acting on his rage he turned around and ordered another round of shots.
“There isn’t even a dance floor. I was sorta expecting a barn dance or something.” Chris mutters in a dejected tone before perking up as the host of tonight’s festivities approaches him. “Tommy Bedlam you ol’ son of a gun. How’re you doin’?”
Chris rises to his feet to greet FWA’s resident cowboy, offering him a firm yet friendly handshake which Tommy accepts.
“Chris, glad to see you here bud. And you brought Alyster Black too, that’s surprising.”
Alyster doesn’t respond, instead focusing on the entire bottle of whiskey he has ordered.
“He’s a rude bastard, don’t mind him.”
“I’m not rude, I just hate the south. Present company possibly excluded.” Alyster shouts in reply without even turning his head to face the duo.
Chris offers Tommy a nervous chuckle and grin as Tommy gives Alyster a bemused look.
“Charming as always.” Tommy muses, “Regardless, I’m glad to have you here and I hope you enjoy the show tomorrow.”
“I’m looking forward to it, so’s Alyster, even if he won’t admit it. Dude loves southern style rasslin’.”
“Your pa and grandpa were all right!” Alyster shouts from the corners of his mouth in spite of the whiskey bottle being in the way of him speaking.
“There will be plenty of that tomorrow I can assure you. There’s some real tough cowboys going at it, plus yours truly will be mounting the Handsome Stanger’s head on my wall as a trophy. What more could you ask for?”
“I could ask you to run the show in California and not this backwater hick state.”
Tommy’s fists ball up but Chris Peacock is quick to make the peace.
“Don’t listen to him Tommy boy, he’s not even American, just a dumb convict from Down Under that’s had a few too many shots.”
Tommy grunts and shakes his head.
“You better keep him in line, there’s a few folk around here who won’t take too kindly to that attitude.”
Chris sighs, “I think that’s what he’s counting on.”
Tommy leaves the duo to go and mingle with the rest of the guests as Chris drops back down onto his stool. He reels back and gives Alyster a hard punch in the arm.
“Ah, the fuck was that for?”
“Why are you being so rude to Tommy man, he’s cool.”
“Oh fuck Tommy Bedlam, him and the horse he rode in on.”
“The guy helped me beat Devin Golden, I don’t understand why you have such a hard on for him.”
“I don’t have a hard on for Tommy Bedlam, I treat him just like I would most every other jerk on the roster.”
“You’re so bitter.”
“You would be bitter too if you got dragged out into the middle of bumfucknowhere Texas whilst swallowing the most heartbreaking defeat of your career.”
“Jeez, well sorry for trying to cheer you up. I thought going out drinking then going to a wrestling show might at least make you crack a smile but you just don’t appreciate any effort made to be your friend do you.”
Alyster swings in the stool to face Chris, he picks up the bottle of whiskey and pours out another shot then hands it to his partner.
“I appreciate you mate, I just feel like crap and will for a while now. That X Championship was my life and losing it feels like I’ve had my heart ripped out.”
Chris reaches out and takes the shot, and offers Alyster a kind nod in understanding.
“I just hope you never feel the bitter sting of losing that big gold belt of yours.”
“Aye. Bottoms up then.”
Chris raises the shot glass and Alyster raises the rest of the bottle before the duo down their drinks.
Their bittersweet moment is interrupted by the sound of the bartender coughing. Both men glance over to him as he motions toward a tip jar with a note scribbled on it reading, ‘Save the cows, tip us instead!”
“Cute.” Chris mutters.
“Get fucked.” is Alyster’s brasen response. “It’s an open bar cunt.”
Alyster tosses the whiskey bottle to the bartender who fumbles and drops it onto the floor. Thankfully it doesn’t shatter but the bartender is still nonetheless upset.
Alyster gets up from his stool and stumbles around the room, taking in the festivities as the bartender turns to Chris for an explanation or compensation.
“I haven’t got shit for you pal.” Chris says before sauntering off behind Alyster.
“Lookin’ good Elvis!”
Alyster grumbles as the fourth person in a row to see him mistakes his Chris Peacock outfit for Elvis.
“Elvis didn’t have a moustache!” Alyster shouts back.
Chris catches up to him and shouts in solidarity, “Or wear a mask!”
They settle near the piano player, listening to him play some ragtime tunes. Chris tries to get into it, shuffling back and forth before spinning and trying out some dance moves but stops with a dejected look on his face. “I can’t dance to this.”
“You can’t fight to it either.”
“Not that you would fight at this party, right? Because you promised your best buddy Chris Peacock that you wouldn’t.”
“I mean yeah, but my point still stands.”
“Atta boy.”
They stand in silence for a few more moments before Alyster reaches into the breast pocket of his jumpsuit and produces a pack of camels. He takes one and pops it in his mouth before offering one to Chris who gladly accepts. The two make their way to the back door, walking out into an alleyway behind the saloon and light up.
They enjoy the relative peace outside, looking up at the night sky, watching the stars as they listen to the crickets chirp and the low hum of the party going on inside.
“You know something bud, I wouldn’t actually mind a saloon fight right about now.”
“But you made me promise not to start one.”
“Yeah but like, fighting cowboys sounds like a good time. Especially wearing that jumpsuit. Swap costumes with me.”
“Nah mate, you choose to dress like a dickhead, you can live with that decision.”
“Mate I look god damn hilarious with this tiny cowboy hat on.”
“I did notice a few of those rednecks glaring at it. I don’t think they appreciate New Yorkers much.”
“Meh. I don’t appreciate them eith-”
Chris is interrupted by the sound of a garbage bag being roughly tossed inside a trash can. He and Alyster look over to the end of the alley where the bartender is throwing out some trash.
“What?” The bartender shouts, “I should throw the two of you in here. It’s where you belong, you ungrateful sumbitches.”
“OOOOH!” Chris and Alyster shout in unison.
“They don’t teach you how to tip up North? Rude bastards.”
“Like you did anything to deserve one pal!”
The bartender, clearly not a fan of the FWA else he would have avoided this duo altogether, marches right down the alley and gets in Chris and Alyster’s faces.
“I make my living on tips, I’ve got a family to feed. You wouldn’t understand that would ya? Working. It’s a foreign concept for a yank and whatever the hell you’re supposed to be.”
“Australian, and we don’t tip mate.”
“Listen pal, I’ve worked in the restaurant business and I’ve been stiffed before, so don’t bitch to me. You’re raking it in tonight, so what if we didn’t slip you five bucks for pouring a few fucking shots.”
The bartender throws his hands up and turns around. He marches back toward the saloon but not before raising both middle fingers and shouting, “I hope both of you get shot…” And follows up with a not so nice word that incenses the duo.
“Oooooh!” They yell again at the same time before both men reach down and pick up a pair of rocks and throw them at their aggressor.
The bartender hits the ground and begins to shake just as Chris and Alyster are about to start putting the boots to him, they pause and watch on in horror as the man is in the midst of an unsettling seizure.
“Chrissy, he’s fucked up.”
“I thought they were supposed to take medicine for this thing, shit I don’t even think I hit him.”
“I couldn’t tell in the darkness. But you must have, look at this poor cunt.”
“What? No way, you must have hit him!”
“I wasn’t even aiming for him, how the fuck could I hit him?”
The bartender stops seizing but isn’t moving at all.
“Oh shit…”
“Is he dead?”
“He’s not moving.”
“Check to see if he’s breathing.”
“What? No, you check!”
“I’m not touching a dead body!”
“So you do think he’s dead!”
“Yeah but I didn’t kill him.”
“Neither did I!”
“So we’re in agreement then, no one killed this guy.”
“Yeah…yeah, no one did. So…let’s just slip out of here quietly?”
“We can’t just leave immediately. We need to be seen in the party, we need everyone to think we were inside the entire time.”
“Good idea. Let's mingle for like an hour then bail.”
Alyster and Chris both nod then tiptoe their way back into the saloon. They try to remain as inconspicuous as possible, try to blend back in but they have blood on their hands and the guilt is overwhelming.
A man recognises Chris Peacock and approaches him, slapping him on the shoulder and offering their congratulations to him over his recent World Championship defence. Chris, on edge, screams in their face “I didn’t kill anyone!”
Tommy Bedlam raises his head from across the room, his face turned white, scanning like a terrified meerkat as he overhears someone mutter that.
Alyster meanwhile attempts to join the poker game, he sits down and is asked for money to participate. Alyster’s heart thumps as he instinctively looks over to the bar, at the tip jar the bartender pointed out earlier. He slips out of his chair and goes looking for Chris.
After only three minutes of being inside the pair rushed to the bathroom to regroup and come up with a plan.
They both enter the same empty stall and stand in silence for a few moments before Chris breaks that silence.
“I can’t do this.”
“Neither can I.”
“Fuck, what are we gonna do?”
“I don’t know. But we can’t stay here, do you know what they do to people like us down here?”
Chris thinks for a moment then his eyes widen, “They give them the chair.”
“Barbarians. We need to leave and we need to do so quietly.”
The bathroom door swings open and Alyster and Chris immediately hush up as they listen to the sound of two sets of legs entering the bathroom. There’s a little bit of a commotion going on so they peek at what’s happening from over the stall.
At the unirnal is two men in a horse outfit, trying to navigate their way to a piss.
“Come on dude! I really have to go!” The backend of the horse mutters.
“Hold on son, it’s nearly off.” The front-end replies.
Alyster and Chris look at each other and smile, logic has no bearing on their decision making anymore. They’ve grown desperate.
The two men in the horse outfit manage to remove their costume, just as Alyster and Chris sneak out from the stall. They approach the two men from behind, grab them by the back of the head and smash their faces against the tiled wall. Shatting the tiles, and knocking them both out cold.
“Potty kiss works every time.” Alyster mumbles as Chris immediately starts to put on the front end of the horse outfit. “Hey! I get the front end!”
“You snooze you lose bud, besides, I’m the World Champion so you get the caboose.”
Alyster grumbles but doesn’t have time to argue. He begins putting on the back half of the outfit and connects it to the front half with Chris.
Completely incognito, their identities hidden the pair in the horse costume trot through the party and out the saloon doors. Out to the white Cadallac which peels off awkwardly into the night.
No one inside is wise to what Alyster and Chris have gotten away with. Not even the bartender who has recovered from his seizure, but with some short term memory loss, and is manning his station again.
At the poker table a party goer asks another, “Where’d the guy who was dressed as Chris Peacock go?” His question is met with utter confusion.
