Hellecchino Becomes A Hero Xi

secor 1 hellecchino becomes a hero
Hellecchino Becomes a Hero
by
James L. Secor
The narrow corridor echoed the short shuffling gait of the stick-like figure, bent
over at the shoulders against the weight of the ceiling, though it was two metres at
least above his head. His scarecrowness proceeded steadily onward, slightly darker
than the hall's walls and not much swifter. The dimness never varied except that the
far end was a black rectangle that painstakingly dilated, sprouting a door. The
distance did not daunt the black clad spectre. He had all the time in the world,
though the world that called upon him, that put him into motion, was always in a
hurry. Everything there was a crisis. Through this door at the end of the tunnel were
other, like corridors, each a little darker than this one, each a little danker and cooler,
though never so cold as to fog the breath--if indeed this man breathed at all. Each
new corridor deadened the sound of the ancient's passing, as if trying to erase his
existence. Finally, he stopped. He knocked on the door out of habit, for there was no
need--on the other side of the door the room's occupant was in no position to answer
the summons.
He walked to the prone form and laid a bony, translucent hand on the black
shadow on its stone bed.
"Mr. Hellecchino, sir. You are wanted." A thin, breathless voice barely above a
whisper, a light breeze through fallen leaves afraid to let their presence be known.
A slow grating noise built up until it became recognizable sound, like the scraping
of stone monolith on stone monolith in an ancient decrepit space, presaging the
awakening of some timeless, mummy-curse.
The old man waited patiently. There was no reason or way to quicken an
awakening.
"I don't wish it," abraded a voice.
"There's nothing for it, sir."
"Why is my peace being disturbed?" the voice growled, sounding almost human.
"A summons has come, sir. They are in need of a hero up there."
"I am done with heroics. Let me be."
"I am sorry, sir, but--"
Hellecchino sprung to a sitting position, eyes flashing in his hollow, sallow face, a
massive block of stone released by some hidden mechanism from being held down.
"I don't want to be a hero! I am nobody's hero!"
"Apparently you are, sir. You've been summoned."
"Who is it has called me up from my sleep?"
"Stan Lee."
"Ah. That is different. Who has he sent to carry me back?"
"A Chinese, sir. Shi KeJian."
"History repeats itself. He's been here before."
"Yes, sir. I believe he has."
"Does he never learn?"

"You have not yet disappointed him, sir."
"What a pity," Hellecchino breathed heavily. His first breath in a long time. Then
he pivoted on his heavy ass and put his legs over the edge of his stone bed. The joints
creaked and groaned. He waited awhile, then held out his hand for the Summoner.
"It's been a long time since my feet have touched the earth. Be careful, Edgar."
"I am ever, Mr. Hellecchino."
There was no show of strain from Edgar as Hellecchino leaned on him and
clunked to the floor. Heavy-limbed as he was, Hellecchino stood still, hand on the old
man's shoulder, until he felt safe and balanced.
"Lead on, Macduff."
The sloping path was not steep but neither Hellecchino nor Shi Kejian could see
its end up ahead. Their beginning place was shrouded in gloom. To one side was a
precipice of great silence that disappeared into the blackness. To the other side was a
rock-infested clay wall. Shi Kejian kept his right hand trailing across its surface. The
pathway itself was smoothed stone carved out of the wall. Their footsteps did not
resound.
"Wish I'd eaten more carrots like my mother said I should."
"If you'd stay for awhile, you wouldn't have a problem."
Their voices did not carry very far.
"You're hand's going to be filthy by the time we get up top. You oughtn't do that."
"I can't see where I'm going, Hellecchino! What the hell am I supposed to do?"
"Trust in me."
"Yeah. Right."
"How many times you come down here?"
"I haven't bothered to count. It's not a journey I enjoy too terribly much."
"Y'oughta know your way by now."
They were silent awhile.
The grade grew steeper.
"Y'know. . .it ain't easy being brought back."
"It isn't easy coming to fetch you, either."
"Then why do you do it?"
"It's my job."
"Got a day job?"
"Hell yes!"
Hellecchino chuckled. "So how come you do this?"
"Penance." As Hellecchino did not reply, Shi Kejian continued, "It's my burden to
bear."
"Ah. Cheated death?"
"Not exactly. But I heard a voice."
"From out of your past? One of your previous lives?"
"No previous lives, Hellecchino. Just this one."

"And the one before." Shi Kejian stopped at the definitive contrariness in
Hellecchino's voice. "Don't turn around! You know the rules. You want to spend the
rest of your life down here?"
"I wouldn't have a life if I did." Shi Kejian took a deep breath. "Well. . .I've looked
down this tunnel before. There was a voice at the end."
"When you were on a mission, yes?"
"When I cheated death, as you say."
"What do you call it?"
"They call it near-death up top."
"What do you call it?"
Shi Kejian did not answer. He took a deep breath of the dank, fetid air--and held
it. Then he started moving again, his feet dragging as if his shoes were filled with the
weight of the world.
"I called it a moment of peace. A moment of bliss," he said after awhile.
"That's why you keep coming back? To retaste the burdenless realm?"
"I'm cursed like Sisyphus."
"To say so, you must still be human," Hellecchino said with a caustic edge to his
voice.
"Ironic, isn't it?"
"Be sure to let me know when you make your last journey."
"Christ."
"He's down here, too. Hey! The Pillar of Ildeth. We're half way home. As it were."
Hellecchino drew his first breath as he passed the salt stalagmite. "Where am I
bound?"
"Tonk Crossing."
"Population of 3000 white folk. More or less. And about as many slaves."
"That was quite awhile ago, Hellecchino."
"Has anything changed?"
"Ah! Here are the stairs," swore Shi Kejian as he tripped up the first few steps.
"Has anything changed!" bellowed Hellecchino.
"I heard you the first time."
"Well?"
"Not appreciably, no."
"Nobody listens to you, do they, Mr. Mirror of History?"
"No. Memory's too short."
"Yours or theirs?"
"Stupid question."
And with that, the travelers remained silent for the rest of the climb to the upper
world. Shi Kejian was anxious for the top of the staircase. Hellecchino's steps became
more labored.
Hellecchino sauntered along the old Chisholm Trail heading for Tonk Crossing. As
his appearance was timed appropriately, he knew it wouldn't be long before the
Brownwood Stage would be passing by and he could hitch a ride. Charlie Chaplin-
like-- jumping onto the boot. And then jumping off just before the settlement just
beyond the crossing. Then he could walk into town, materializing out of the stage
dust wake as if magically. The ways of a hero are multifarious. To say the least. Who
was Hellecchino to deviate from the heroic mode? Appearing out of nowhere was so
astoundingly expected and such good theatre. Why spoil a time-honored spectacle?
So it was that Hellecchino breathed in the dry dust of the East Central Texas
plains, the Bravos River Basin anti-flood plain effluvium, and appeared in
Chokepointe Piste as a mirage. And what a mirage he was with his slouch hat,
creased and sweat-stained and billowing dust, drooping over his left eyebrow, below
which there was an unshaven face. Hellecchino could not grow your manly, dark
beard. He had a light northern Italian beard that took three weeks to become
noticeable. The stubble, though, gleamed and glimmered like shards of frost in the
dust, making him look somewhat, perhaps less than desirable in certain company.
He did have a nice cambric shirt with piping at the seams, three-button cuffs and a
loosely drooping bandana of purple, which was, of course, dust- and sweat-stained.
His Levi's were creased and bleached and ragged-like at their distal ends where they
curved over well-worn brown boots, one of which had the toe top leather rising up
and away from its sole revealing a holey red sock, pinkly spick-and-span toe winking
out at the world.

"What a nice town you have here," Hellecchino said to the first men who gathered
around him, the stage incumbents having been judiciously forgotten for the more
mysterious traveler in the dust.
"We like it," said a suspendered man, looking Hellecchino up and down and
curling his lip, twitching his nose.
"That's good. That's good," commented Hellecchino. "Better to like where you're
livin' than not."
"I don't like it so much," said another man.
"Shaddup, McTortle," said a third.
"Why don'tcha leave?" asked Hellecchino, raising an eyebrow.
"All he is is talk," said Mr. Suspenders.
"And who might you be?"
"Mayor."
"Got a name?"
"The."
"I see. Well, The--"
"You can call me Mr. Mayor."
"Ain't that quaint!" ejaculated Hellecchino, drawing himself up to his full height.
"Don't git smart, stranger. We don't like smart asses 'round these parts."
"Ahh. I see. Well, then."
"What's our business in town?" asked the second man, a sandy-haired, freckled
cowboy.
"I was summoned."
"Was ya, now. . ."
"Yes. Y'all wanted a hero and here I am."
The three men laughed. The stage hands laughed. The remounting passengers
laughed. This was the greatest joke since Santa Anna for these people. Humor out on
the East Coahuila flatlands was greatly appreciated, everything else being so dry and
prosy. This was, after all, Jim Hatfield's Blacklands. Chokepointe Piste wasn't so far
from old Fort Fisher, home of the Texas Rangers. Hellecchino wanted to meet Jim
Hatfield. He'd read a lot about him. Hellecchino knew, too, that later in history there
was another bunch of rangers who weren't such winners. Shi Kejian had told him. Shi
Kejian of the historical encyclopedic knowledge. Damn him. Always confusing the
picture. Why the hell couldn't he leave well-enough alone? That is, ignorance.
So, Hellecchino said, "Is Jim Hatfield around?"
"Shit!" spat the third man, a short stumpy little man with crinkles around his
brown eyes. "He ain't but a pigment of your imagination."
"Just shaddup, will ya, McTortle? If ever there was a killjoy, it's you."
"What joy'm I killin', Mayor?"
"Don't you mind McTortle. Jim's out around Plum Creek checkin' on some
critters."
"You mean armadillos?" asked Hellecchino, wide-eyed like.
The Mayor guffawed. "No. I mean real varmints."

"I see," nodded Hellecchino. "So, critter ain't real armadillos but varmints is.
Right?"
"Where the hell you say you's from?" asked Sandy the Cowboy.
"'Bout that far away."
"Fuckin' Easterner!" And Sandy spat.
The Mayor and Sandy the Cowboy turned on their respective high heels and
walked back to the stage office. The stage took off, leaving Hellecchino and McTortle
in a cloud of dust.
"Welcome to Chokepointe Piste," said McTortle.
"Don't mind if I do," said Hellecchino.
"Half an hour and you'll be a known quantity. Sheriff'll be round to smell you out."
"He's a dog?"
Later, Hellecchino found himself standing at the bar of the Lone Star Inn &
Bordello nursing a mug of pretty sad beer. Being at the inside end of the bar,
Hellecchino had a good view of the batwings and, through the looking glass, the rest
of the inn, raised stage included, though lord knows what kind of hackwork trod the
boards. Averill's Troupe wasn't due into town for another week for a performance of
the melodrama vaudeville "Bushbirds" about a good boy gone bad. So said the sign
on the wall by the window. And the poster outside the batwings, to the right, near the
window, as if it were twin to the in-inn announcement. Mark Twain was supposed to
have commented, after seeing the show in Carson City, that anyone attempting to
discover a plot, a narrative or a moral should be shot.
Hellecchino figured if he wanted accurate information, he could do no worse than
the Lone Star Inn & Bordello. He'd noticed a bordella at the other end of town but he
was fairly certain he didn't want to go there. No reason, really. He just had a queer
feeling about the place. No reason to aid and abet a bad taste in your mouth.
It was still early, so not many people--not many men--were in the Lone Star Inn &
Bordello. Saloons and liquofers were sexist in orientation, which is perhaps why the
liquor was strong, the talk big and the perfromnce4 anemic. Saucy wenches and men
of derring-do, good or evil, fit the bill, esnpirited men being somewhat shy of
discrimination. After all, they were after relaxing, not compound-complex contortion
of intellectual dexterity.
There was a crinkly-bearded, leather-skinned old man--at least, he looked old--
sitting at a table at what would be considered down-front when the show started. A
young gimp stood, albeit a little cockeyed, about midway down the bar putting away
shots of rotgut like they were liquid sugar. He smacked his lips after each toss-back.
Hellecchino smiled wryly to himself. If you can't make it in society, you gotta make
do with society's loose end. Personal welfare is what life was all about and sometimes
personal welfare--sanity--required alternative states of consciousness.
Hellecchino saluted the cripple and choked down a swallow of Middle Bosque
River beer that had lost its frigid edge about 200 metres from the edge of the river,
about 2800 metres before reaching the saloon. But Hellecchino didn't have much
choice. Lone Star Inn & Bordello was the only imbibification platform in town to four
churches, the most populous and prestigious being the Cary Nation Fourth Southern
Baptist Altar of the Lord Come to Gitcha Church just down the street, on the city side
of the Brownwood Stage office. The Lone Star Inn & Bordello being just a hair
outside the 1826 city limits, which was just fine with the Bible thumpers who,
nonetheless, drank their fill of wine Sunday mornings, though of course it was for a
good cause, was exempt from the dry ordinance city. That is, commemorating the
bloody and senseless death of a prior culture hero, Davey Crocket, King of the Wild
Frontier, required that the tribute area be in a place of wetness, an irony the Brazos
River Basin inhabitants never tired of wryly smiling over. Everyone was awaiting his
second coming. But you know how people like delusion. It was amazing to
Hellecchino that other culture heroes like John Wilkes Booth, John Brown or John
Q. Public were not so honored. Not everyone could come again. Not everyone could
rise from the dead and command a following, no matter how virtuous or honorable
their motives. Some people were just no more than human sacrifices. Here today,
gone tomorrow. Jesus, Darwin and husbands, hand in hand down through the ages.
And so, here was Hellecchino, waiting to establish his calling. Waiting to garner
the interest on his investment, however unwanted. Though, perhaps, investiture
would be the more appropriate word. An ordination he didn't particular want, mind
you, but Hellecchino was not the man to shirk his duty. Even if he didn't quite know
what it was. Better to do something than nothing. You can't be a hero without a task,
though. Shi Kejian hadn't told him, Hellecchino, just what the task was, so, for all
intents and purposes, Hellecchino was a hero waiting to happen. A character waiting
for a story. Where were Pirandello and Ellen Datlow when you needed them?
Life, Hellecchino was discovering once again, was not an easy proposition.
Pressure on all sides. People all around you with expe3ctations, telling you what you
ought to be doing--showing you a l dumb show what you ought to be doing. So many
voices inside your head. Thank goodness he was only a visitor. Otherwise he'd go
nuts. There were, after all, in the light of the world, good things to be said about
death.
It was just about this time that the crip hobbled over to Hellecchino, pushing his
pirated Jack Daniels along the bar before him. When he drew nigh of Hellecchino, he
stopped and stared up into Hellecchino's face. He didn't speak. Not at first.
"Yer somebody special," said the slightly tilted fellow. "Ya remind me of Coyote."
"How entrancing," remarked Hellecchino over the little man's head.
"Ya don't know Coyote, do ya?"
"As a matter of fact, I do."
The invalid took a shot of unprotected whiskey. "Ya don't say?"
"No," protested Hellecchino in his most arrogant voice, "I most certainly do. He's
a trickster god of the Indians. Akin to Shakespeare's fools, Foucicault's madmen and
the Chinese monk Ji Gong. He has a doctrine of discovery and a thousand ways to
trick Badger out of his wife."

"Well, I'll be damned!" And the little man slapped his higher knee. "Yer an
intellectial." He poured himself another shot. "Welcome to Chokepointe Piste. Who's
Shakespeare?"
"Is that stuff better than this beer?"
"Oh. . .I don't know. But after a couple shots, ya won't care."
"Barkeep!" Hellecchino raised his hand. "Another shot glass, if you please." The
bartender delivered, Hellecchino poured himself some of the lamester's whiskey and
raised his glass. "Thank you."
They both killed the rotgut. The freak poured another for both of them.
"I toast you again," and the halt held up his glass.
Hellecchino drank but he did not.
"You didn't drink," said Hellecchino.
"How observant you are! It is customary in these parts to drink three toasts. I join
you on the fourth."
"You drank of the first."
"Anxiety. To you." He poured a third for Hellecchino, who dutifully drank it down.
It wouldn't do to thwart local custom just yet. "And now. . .to us." And together they
slugged the obligatory fourth welcome to Crawford Settlement--or Rut depending on
which side of the river you came from--drink. Hellecchino was just warming to this
custom when it came to a halt.
"I wish there was something to sit on," remarked the deformed little man, looking
round behind himself.

"Barstools haven't been invented yet."
"The hell! Toilet's out back. Just squat over the ravine and let fly. Everyone does
it."
"No, no. No thank you. Would you like to sit at a table?"
"How 'bout that one there? Smack dab in the middle."
"Oh. No, no, no. That one there," said Hellecchino, pointing to the far corner. "We
can see everything from there."
"Hmmm. . .backs to the wall. Nowhere to go."
"Steps to the stage."
"Well, bless my soul if you ain't thought of everything."
"Call it second sight," said Hellecchino, grabbing the half empty bottle and moving
off in the agreed-upon direction.
When they'd seated themselves comfortably in the cane-back chairs facing the
batwings, the infirm leaned in.
"You play poker?" he asked.
"No."
"Blackjack?"
"No."
"Go fish?"
"Yes. I do that."
"Good. I got a marked deck here. Let's play."
"Marked deck?"
"Sure. Only way a spaz can win."
"I have second sight."
"Do you?"
"Yes. I'm a hero."
"You don't say. . ."
"As a matter of fact, I do say."
"Ain't that nice." The twisted man began dealing out the cards, whispering to
himself 1-2-3, etc. "Need a sidekick?"
"Wouldn't hurt."
"Name's Buck."
"Hi, Buck. I'm Hellecchino."
"Yer shittin' me! Got any threes?"
"No, I'm not. Go fish."
"Yer lyin'! That card right there's a three."
"My goodness! You're right. I overlooked it, it seems."
"Bullshit."
Hellecchino smiled. He finally had a friend. Although this fact might seem trite
and not worth mentioning, the contrary is true. For, in this world, it was who you
knew that was important. Connections. Networking. Making the right acquaintance,
smiling to the right people. Get you everywhere. Regardless of how fake and forced
the glinting white teeth. No need to bother with demur.

But Hellecchino also knew how to upset the balance. Like a good hero. For most
times it wasn't the hero who needed to do anything.
But before he could do that, he needed to establish his legitimacy. However
illegitimately. This is the part he hated the most. But what do sentiments, what do
feelings have to do with anything when you've got a job to do?
Answer: nothing. Nothing at all. Get over it. Chokepointe Piste was no different
than anywhere else, after all. Even though it thought it was better than anywhere
else. Like just about anywhere else.
This was especially true of the land baron to the south-southwest, one Gyorgy
Yabu. Yabu had lots of land and lots of money and lots of cattle, many head not
actually his. But that was of no consequence. Gyorgy Yabu had lots of friends, some
in high places, some not but all appropriately placed. And Gyorgy Yabu was into
business. He owned the sole transportation company outside of the newly created
city of Waco. That was okay, though. Traders coming into the county from Waco or
elsewhere had to buy options from Development Industries Yabu, including using the
company inns and checkpoint transfer stations. DIY owned controlling interest in the
Brownwood Stage, the telegraph office, the newspaper (The Yabu Yeoman) and the
Lone Star Inn & Bordello. He didn't bother to sit on the Chamber of Commerce. He
didn't have to. DIY was a by-ward in Chokepointe Piste.
Hellecchino had a sneaking suspicion Gyorgy Yabu's behavior was the reason he'd
been called up. For one man to own so much was hubris and hubris was a sure sign
of tragedy. I.e., trouble.

"You got any aces?"
"No. Go fish."
"Hello!?" said Hellecchino. "That's an ace right there," he flicked the top of a card
in the afflicted's hand.
"No it ain't."
"Yes it is."
"How do you know?"
"You're holding marked cards."
"Well, I'll be damned!"
"Pretty fast learner, eh?"
"I'll say. Gyorgy Yabu's gonna have his hands full with you."
"Gyorgy Yabu. Not a name that rolls off the tongue."
"Does 'round here."
"Do tell."
"Better to show ya 'round."
"I was kinda hoping to see the show."
"Ain't no show tonight."
"So what's he waitin' to see?"
"He ain't waitin'. He's seein' right now."
"Must be exciting, judging from his reaction."
"Timothy O'Keryak. He's learned how to sublimate."
"What a terrible skill. I didn't know it existed before television."

"Television?" asked Buck as he pushed past the batwings.
"It's a kind of in-house entertainment system. Schizophrenia at your fingertips."
"Will I live to see it?"
"Most prob'ly. Society needs its blank cartridges to feel good about itself."
"What the hell're yew talkin' about?"
"Don't you think we oughta pay?"
"No need. Yabu Welfare. He gits a tax break. Y'see that sign yonder?"
"Brownwood Stage."
"Read the small print."
"DIY Depot. Wow! A handyman's store."
"Nope. DIY in this part of the world means Development Industries Yabu. Gyorgy
Yabu owns it."
"Oh, looky here. Here comes the sheriff," said Hellecchino gaily, pointing dead
ahead.
Hellecchino watched the sheriff as he approached them and they approached him
down the middle of the street. He was a short man with a short, quick, bowlegged
stride that said, more or less, and rather mincingly, "I ain't afraid o' nothin' and you
ain't important 'nough." Polished silver-spangled double holsters with ivory-handled
colts rode low on his hips, strapped to his brushed cotton denims neatly tucked
inside his snakeskin high-heeled boots with dreadlock rat tail tassels. Blond. The
boots were, of course, narrow and perhaps affected his gait. Their narrowness also
allowed his easy manoeuvring through the horse droppings that dotted the street like
brown mushrooms. The sheriff's well-manicured hands protruded whitely from his
immaculate scalloped double-breast-pocketed off-white shirt. Pearl buttons. Polished
and shining big star pinned to the left pocket. Epaulettes. He had rings on his fingers.
A black 10-gallon hat bent and tilted at the appropriately rough and facetious angle
shaded Ben Franklin spectacles. Bifocals. So his eyes constantly shifted up and down.
"Has he got a bone in his nose?" inquired Hellecchino, narrowing his eyes.
"'S how it got so high."
"Oh. I thought that was a line of wispy wind-driven clouds up there in the blue,
blue sky."
"Nope."
Buck stumbled to a stop to one side and behind Hellecchino. The sheriff stopped
directly in front of Hellecchino, about 3.1 metres back. His circle of personal space
was quite large and he was quick on the trigger.
"New in town, aren'tcha?"
"Yep."
"I guessed so. I'm Sheriff in these here parts."
"Yep."
"Name's Medusi Minkowski IV. You got a name?"
"Yep."
The ensuing silence on Main Street grew until the shopkeepers stood in their
doorways fearing the worst of it yet again and nothing they could do about it. The
townies out and about stood stock still, afraid to move lest they be mistaken for
someone who cared. This was a cowed town.
Medusi Minkowski IV, Sheriff of Chokepointe Piste, shifted position, his hands
raising themselves out away from and over his holsters as if buoyed up by air.
"I ain't usedta askin' twicet."
"Yep."
In the blink of an eye, faster than greased lightning, like a scared jackrabbit two
bright and shiny nickel-plated Colt .44's sprung up into Hellecchino's face, each
gripped by a pink-with-emotion hand.
"What th' hell's yore name?"
"Since you ask. Hellecchino."
"What kind names' that?"
"Mine. What kind of names' Medusi Minkowski IV?"
"What?!"
"What kind of names' Medusi Minkowski IV?"
"Why, you danged smart ass varmint!" And Medusi Minkowski IV's guns flared to
life.
But not before Hellecchino waved his hand in front of him. Such a simple gesture
with such amazing and difficult to explain consequences: the Colts blazed but there
was no sound and all the bullets fell onto the sheriff's snakeskin boot toes. Medusi
Minkowski IV jumped up and down, his guns silently blazing away in all directions,
though mostly toward the sky. Eventually the guns emitted only trails of smoke,
proving once again that behind every forest fire there's a smoking gun. Medusi
Minkowski IV holstered his guns, cleaned his glasses and looked disbelievingly at
Hellecchino.
"What th' hell's goin' on here?"
"Prestidigitation."
"You can't talk to me that way!" And Medusi Minkowski IV twirled around on his
left high heel and retreated to from whence he came.
"Don't forget to load your guns, sheriff!" shouted Hellecchino after the retreating
lawman.
"I don't think you oughtn'ta done that," squeaked Buck.
"Why not?"
"'Cause the sheriff's Yabu's man and he'll tell on you."
"Smoking out the enemy, Buck. No better way to discover him than by insulting
his ego."
"Insultin' his ego?"
"Yep. Disrespecting his authority."
"Oh, my. That's worse'n I thought. We better do something."
"You were showing me the town."
"You think we oughta continue?"
"Yep."
"They's spies out here. Lookin' just like ever'body else walkin' along the
boardwalk."
"Yep."
"Damn if you ain't crazy."
Hellecchino laid his hand on the hamstrung little man. "Let me tell you a story,
Buck, while we're moseying on down the road."
"Well. . .I guess it might take my mind off'n what's comin' up."
"Long ago and far away, this did not happen. Weasel and Fox were walking along.
In their way stood a rock. This was no ordinary rock. It only looked inert but it was
special. It had a name. Katrinka. It had spidery lines of green moss all over it. The
kind that tell a story. But we've not got time for that story here. Katrinka had power.
Weasel stopped before the rock, admiring it. 'Wow! Cool rock, eh? It's got power, I
bet. Wonder what it's doing here. . .' So, Weasel took off his blanket he was wearing
and put it over the rock. 'Here, Katrinka, take this as a present. Take my blanket,
friend rock, to keep you from freezing. You must feel cold upon occasion and the
weather's a-changing.'
'What a giveaway!' said Fox impressively. 'You sure are in a good mood today.'
'Aw, shucks. That's nothing. I'm always giving things away, you know. Katrinka
looks real nice in my blanket, don't you think?'
'Sure does. But. . .it's his blanket now.'
'Yes. I guess you're right.'
So, Weasel and Fox went on their way and pretty soon it began to get cold. And it
started to rain. The rain turned to hail. The hail turned to slush. Weasel and Fox ran
for cover in a cave, which was wet and cold, as you might expect, what with the wind
blowing and all. Fox was alright. His fur coat was intact and he could wrap his tail
around his curled up body. But Weasel was suffering. He'd given his blanket away, so
he sat on the damp floor shivering in his shirt sleeves. Pretty soon, Weasel's teeth
were chattering. He was freezing.
'Aiya, friend,' said Weasel, 'go back and get me my fine blanket. I need it. That
rock has no use for it. He's been getting along without a blanket for ages. Hurry! I'm
freezing!'
Fox went and was soon confronting the rock. 'Say, can we have that blanket back?'
'No,' said Katrinka rock. 'I like it. Looks good on me, don't you think? Anyway,
what's given is given.'
Fox scratched his head and returned to the cave where Weasel was exhibiting blue
lips. 'He won't give it back,' Fox said.
'That no-good, ungrateful rock!' shouted Weasel, teeth clicking at every syllable.
'Has he paid for the blanket? Has he worked for it? I'll go get it myself.'
'Friend,' said Fox, 'Katrinka, Breccia the Rock--he's got a lot of power. Maybe you
should let him keep it.'
'Are you crazy? That is an expensive blanket of many colors and great thickness.
I'm freezing. I need it. I'll go talk him out of it.' And off Weasel went.
When he got to Katrinka the Rock, he said, "Hey, rock! What's the meaning of
this? What do you need a blanket for? Let me have it back right now!'
'No," said Katrinka, 'what's given is given.'

'You. . .you. . .you bad rock! Don't you care that I'm freezing to death? Look at my
finger nails. Look at my lips. My nose is running. Don't you care that I could catch a
cold and die?' Weasel jerked the blanket from off Katrinka the Rock and slung it over
his shoulder and dripping wet head. 'So there! That's the end of it.'
'By no means the end of it,' rumbled the rock.
Weasel went back to the cave. Just then the rain and hail stopped and the sun
came out, hot and bright. Weasel and Fox lay down outside the cave to warm
themselves up. They took out some of their supplies, like bread and butter, and
began munching happily away. After finishing this up, they took out their pipes and
lit up, letting the smoke lazily climb into the air, creating circles and whorls.
All of a sudden, Fox sat upright. 'What's that noise?'
'What noise? I don't hear anything.'
'There's a crashing and a rumbling far off.'
Weasel sat up and pricked up his ears, drawing deeply on his fine pipe. 'Yes. Now I
hear something.'
'It's getting louder and louder, like thunder or an earthquake.'
'It is rather strong and loud. I wonder what it could be.'
They listened for awhile.
'I have a pretty good idea, friend,' said Fox. 'Look there!'
Just then, they saw the great rock Katrinka, rolling and thundering and crashing
down upon them.
'Run for it!' shouted Fox, taking to his heels. 'Katrinka intends to kill us!'
Weasel took out after Fox and they ran as fast as they could. But the rock kept
gaining on them.
'Let's swim the river!' suggested Weasel 'The rock is so heavy it will sink.'
So they swam the river. So, too, did rock, crashing over the bounding main.
'Quick! Into the timber, among the trees,' shouted Fox. 'That big rock surely can't
get through that old growth forest.'
So into the woods they ran, running circles around the trees and cutting this way
and that trying to lose the following rock. But to no avail. Katrinka the Rock tore on
through the woods, cutting a swathe a kilometre wide, splintering and squashing
everything in sight.
The two emerged onto the flatlands, prairie stretching from here to eternity, with
rolling hills that would only enhance Katrinka's approach.
Fox turned to Weasel and cried, 'Oh, friend, this is really not my quarrel. I've just
remembered I have something important to attend to, so I can't continue to
accompany you.' Fox rolled into a little ball and squirreled himself away in a badger
hole.
Weasel ran on and on, looking back at the rock gaining on him. What a
predicament. Weasel tripped and Katrinka rolled right over him, flattening him like a
pancake. The rock took back the blanket and returned to his place on the path,
saying, 'So there!'

A rancher rode by and saw Weasel lying on the ground. 'What a fine rug this will
make.' He picked up the Weasel skin and rode on home, putting Weasel right in front
of the fireplace."
"That's the story?" The whimpy cocked a disbelieving eye at his taller and
straighter hero-companion.
"Yep."
"Well, that'll learn 'im, eh? What's given's given."
"Oh, another DIY sign."
"Yeah. He's everywhere. Owns ever'thing'n ever'body."
"I see he owns the newspaper, too."
"Sure does."
"Must be something else to read. Quite amusing."
"Used t'be but now it's boring. 'Course, no one notices anything. Leastways, ain't
no one sayin' nothin'."
"A reporter's gotta keep his job, y'know."
"Th'hell you say! Why just this winter Gyorgy Yabu bought the Brazos river and
none o' them ink-stained fingers had anything but fine words and praise and good
predictions for future prosperity."
"He did?"
"Sure thing. Said he was gonna make sure ever'body got water. Then he built a
dam and we gotta pay ferit. Tastes kinda funny, if'n y'ask me. So, I prefer my Jack
Black with sa's'parilla t'other days."

"He can't do that! Why, people will go thirsty for not being able to buy a natural
resource."
"Well, he done it. 'Bout 50-60 people died in the last six months. That's about. .
.let me figger. . .2% of the town."
"Two percent? Why, that's a pandemic!"
"All the more water for him, says the newspaper. His ranch is prosperin'. Nice fat
cows. . .green trees. . .fruit galore."
"I hear tell not all those cows are his."
"You hear right. Say. . .where'd you hear that? You only been in town a few hours."
Buck stopped to survey Hellecchino.
"I told you. I'm a hero. I got second sight." Hellecchino patted the man on the
head. "Solving the cow problem's no problem."
"Every'body's afraid of doin' anything t'prove it."
"Ain't nobody here willing to stand up and say what needs to be said?"
"Not on yer life. Gyorgy Yabu owns the law."
"Well, who's cowherd has Yabu raided the most?"
"Guy by the name of Albert Cicifous."
"Albert got a last name?"
"Yeah. But you don't wanna know it. 'Sides, I can't pernounce it."
"Well, then, you go on and tell Albert to buy himself a can of pink paint and paint
his cows under-hooves. Next day when he's missing some more cows, he needs to
ride over to Yabu's and point this out to him."

"Good idea. Don't know why nobody thought of it afore." Buck suddenly ducked
behind Hellecchino, making himself as small as possible, kind of like Fox did to
escape Weasel's fate. "Looky there. That's Gyorgy Yabu comin' down the street now."
"No-ooo problem," said Hellecchino without breaking stride.
Gyorgy Yabu was taller than Sheriff Medusi Minkowski IV. And he was wearing
the latest in Western fashion in the latest sloven style, as adopted by the great
fashion houses of the Old World. Impeccable. With a thin-lipped smirking chimp
kind of a smile and truly large monkey ears, rat's eyes and a long, thin foxy nose, all
under a white, floppy 10-gallon hat set back rakishly on his pointy little head. His feet
were large and he slumped along the dusty street with a Dickensian pressured, long
striding walk that said, "I wish I had 10-league boots, so I'm pretending, I'll walk all
over you." And as Hellecchino approached, he grew himself taller so Yabu'd have to
look up to him. When they stopped, virtually toe to toe, Hellecchino beamed down on
him the most obsequiously gracious smile full of gleaming Hollywood star teeth.
"My name's Hellecchino."
"I know who you are. You don't know me. I'm Gyorgy Yabu and I own this town
and everything in it."
"So I heard."
"You heard about me?"
"Sure thing. You're the greatest. Everyone loves you."
"Really?"
"Sure thing. Why, even back where I come from people know who you are."
"Well, I'll be damned. You hear that boys?"
Yabu turned to his entourage, about three or four cowboys decked out in the latest
cowboy fashion and with spurs that jingle-jangle-jingled when they walked--and
when they were not moving, for they could not keep still, always shifting their weight
around. A cookie cutter could not have cut out such similar shapes nor an oven baked
them to such equal sugar cookie-soft whiteness.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Yabu, sir," they chorused very like the Vienna Boys Choir, the oldest
boys choir in the world. So old, in fact, that most moderns figured they were castrati.
"I hear you abused my sheriff and I don't like people abusing my people," said
Yabu in a pug-nosed sort of way.
"Really? I don't recall abusing a man. I'm not into abuse. But I'll tell you what. . .
some guy with double holsters and a bright shining star took out his guns and
emptied their chambers at me and I call that downright unneighborly."
"That ain't the way I heard it and my people don't lie to me. They know what
happens to liars. Sinners go to hell."
"They do?"
"Yes. They do. So don't you go lying or you'll burn in damnation internally."
"I'll remember that, little fella."
"I'm not so little and you're not so tall."
"Taller than you."
"I ride tall in the saddle."

Hellecchino looked around behind Yabu and asked, "When's the last time you
been on a horse?"
"I don't like your kind. You better shape up or get out."
"Ah, yes. I will do that. But first I'm thirsty. I understand you own all the water
hereabouts."
"That's right. You wanna drink, you come to me."
"Well, I'm here. Comin' atcha big buddy."
"You gotta pay."
"Well, now. I can't very well pay for something I don't know the quality of. But I'll
tell you what. . .I got this here conch shell, a relic from ancient China, that I'll swap ya
for a good long drink. Then, if I like the water, I'll buy into the program."
"Lemme see the conk shell."
Hellecchino whipped out of nowhere a big, beautiful, pink-shaded on the interior
conch shell and held it out to Gyorgy Yabu. Gyorgy Yabu's eyes grew big and round,
though they still looked like rat's eyes, close-set and real small in diameter. Before
you could say Jack Robinson, Yabu's hand shot out and snapped up the sea shell the
Chinese once sold on the sea shore--and inland, too. He began drooling and his nose
twitched.
"Come on out to the dammed. I'll give ya yore drank."
So they all trooped over to the north bend of the Brazos River, just above Tonk's
Crossing, where the Indian's had been cleared out in the name of advancing
civilization. And there it was. The dammed water. In a pool that was growing all the
time into a silvery shining lake beneath the East Central Texas sun, swallowing up
the scrub brush and scrawny trees and beavers. Hellecchino could see a few of the
latter's tails floating in the water. They weren't going anywhere, either. And
Hellecchino walked down to the lakeside and he bent over and stuck his head into
the water. He drank for some time before he came up for air.
"How's it taste? Good, huh?" prompted Yabu.
"I'm not so sure. But it doesn't matter. I'm not done taking my long drink you
promised me."
"Alright. You finish up. No one ever called me a liar and a cheat and a thief. I got
the best of everything."
And, once again, Hellecchino submerged his head in the water and drank. After a
minute or three, he came up for air, spluttered, held his finger up and dove back
down to get his fill.
"I wonder how it is a person can drink so much," mused Yabu aloud.
"We think so, too, Mr. Yabu, sir," echoed the high counter-tenored trio or quartet
behind him. Buck thought how nice it was to hear good three or four part harmony
out here on the plains where sharpened tones and contrasting melodies were the
norm, sounding like yowling cats on the prowl for pussy in the backyard.
"Surely he's got to be coming up soon."
"Maybe, sir, he's doing something down there."
"No, no. He said he was taking a long drink and nobody would think of putting
one over on me."

"Of course not. Who could?"
"You got that right boys."
However. . .Hellecchino was doing something down there. He was digging out
under the dam all the time his head was under water. After all, he had to put his
hands into the dammed water to stop himself from falling in and drowning. A
drowned man was a pollutant. So nobody up top thought anything about it. That is,
Gyorgy Yabu and his yoe-men didn't think anything about it. After all, who was there
in the world who could outsmart them--Him.
Finally, Hellecchino came up for air, shook his hair throwing water everywhere
around him like a soaked dog just in from the pouring rain and pronounced his
verdict, "That's damn fine water."
Just then, the dam burst and the water went out into the valley and made creeks
and rivers and mini-waterfalls, this being the plains. More or less.
"Look what you did with my water, you varmint!" shouted Yabu, stomping his foot
and jumping up and down. If pushed, he could also chew gum and do this at the
same time.
"The Great Big Bang Creator of the Universe and Everything Under the Sun did
not make the water for anyone to own. He or She made it for everyone. Besides, if
you got it all unto yourself, when everyone around you dies of dehydration 'cause
they can't afford to buy your resource, what kind of riches you got?" Yabu took his
too-big hat off and began scratching his head and screwing up his face. His cowboy
chorus followed suit. "You see. . .if you're the only one, you may be on top but you're
also the last one."
Before DIY could gather its wits about it, Hellecchino bounded off laughing like a
mad duck, Buck the Blighted fast on his heels despite his unwholesome leg.
It was all pretty comical.
When Hellecchino returned to the underworld, he told Edgar he might write a
book about it, in his next life. "Horror story?" queried Edgar deadpan. "No. Comic
book," replied Hellecchino. And then he went back to sleep.

Hellecchino Becomes A Hero Xi

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secor 1 hellecchino becomes a hero

Hellecchino Becomes a Hero

shadow on its stone bed.

of stone monolith on stone monolith in an ancient decrepit space, presaging the

awakening of some timeless, mummy-curse.

"I don't wish it," abraded a voice.

"There's nothing for it, sir."

"I am done with heroics. Let me be."

"I am sorry, sir, but--"

"I don't want to be a hero! I am nobody's hero!"

"Apparently you are, sir. You've been summoned."

"Who is it has called me up from my sleep?"

"Ah. That is different. Who has he sent to carry me back?"

"A Chinese, sir. Shi KeJian."

"History repeats itself. He's been here before."

"Yes, sir. I believe he has."

"Does he never learn?"

"You have not yet disappointed him, sir."

"I am ever, Mr. Hellecchino."

man's shoulder, until he felt safe and balanced.

"Lead on, Macduff."

"Wish I'd eaten more carrots like my mother said I should."

"If you'd stay for awhile, you wouldn't have a problem."

Their voices did not carry very far.

"How many times you come down here?"

"Y'oughta know your way by now."

They were silent awhile.

The grade grew steeper.

"Y'know. . .it ain't easy being brought back."

"It isn't easy coming to fetch you, either."

"Then why do you do it?"

"Got a day job?"

Hellecchino chuckled. "So how come you do this?"

"Ah. Cheated death?"

"Not exactly. But I heard a voice."

"From out of your past? One of your previous lives?"

"No previous lives, Hellecchino. Just this one."

rest of your life down here?"

down this tunnel before. There was a voice at the end."

"When you were on a mission, yes?"

"When I cheated death, as you say."

"What do you call it?"

"They call it near-death up top."

"What do you call it?"

weight of the world.

"I called it a moment of peace. A moment of bliss," he said after awhile.

"I'm cursed like Sisyphus."

"Ironic, isn't it?"

"That was quite awhile ago, Hellecchino."

"Has anything changed?"

"Has anything changed!" bellowed Hellecchino.

"I heard you the first time."

"Not appreciably, no."

"Nobody listens to you, do they, Mr. Mirror of History?"

"No. Memory's too short."

out at the world.

mysterious traveler in the dust.

curling his lip, twitching his nose.

livin' than not."

"I don't like it so much," said another man.

"Shaddup, McTortle," said a third.

"Why don'tcha leave?" asked Hellecchino, raising an eyebrow.

"All he is is talk," said Mr. Suspenders.