A PSYCHEDELIC MOON PIERCED the swirling haze above Melady, Wyoming. Nothing much came through this one-time
hatbed of the Wild West, where cowboys had daily traded their lead for steed. No: since 1892 it had been a withering reed in
the desert and, like so many of its brethren, the roads which fed into it were lined with shaman and wrinkled ranchers alike
who warned the ablivious traveler to keep clear, for " Nothing that comes into a small town ever leaves. Even the tumbleweed,"
they would sing," find that there lies only one profitless path through the humble hamlet... because the claws of the small town
are the hawk's: sinking effartlessly, tightening relentlessly, and hauling you back the further you tread towards the great,
beguiling horizon." One hundred years later, however, there was still a group a band of lethally ferocious rustlers who
made active use of inconsequential burgs like these. Yes, there were certain businesses which blossamed in the shadows, like a
disease untended, far away from the newfangled contrivances of the righteous living, citified beau monde. Many a law
enforcer had tried to make heads-or-tails of these villains and their natures; some had even attempted a brotherly connection
only to meet their ends in a smattering of blood and bones. And fair again and again they would, for the links these monsters
must have had to anything societal or humane had perished long ago with their vestigial souls. But don't get them wrong;they
still knew how to get jiggy with it. And this they did in style: The Hammerhead Grand Hoted sat on the loftier edge of
Melady. It was a stately establishment which proudly boasted structural cunning unchanged from whence it was built. Yet,
the massive cypress rafters had lost their purpose to retrofitting ( even if they did still look quite useful ); the once sensually
fluted wainscot was now retouched and cartoonishly tame, and the "half-of-a-tribe of Crow Indians" who had been mixed into
the oniginal foundation were no longer mentioned within the pages of the latest, politically correct, promotional brochures.
Still, the hated was Melady's centerpiece and had been from the day it was built one hundred years ago by the Confederate
general, Wilton Bursah ,one of the few stubborn rebels to find fartune, personal renaissance, and fabled fame after walking
away from neariy winning the Civil War. Legend had it that instead of overrunning the Capital as ordered, the general
declared that he would rather "tangle with broads and beer than his fellow man" and disbanded his unit. His superious
apparently disagreed with this decision and set after him. Thus, it was than that Bursah set out on a serendipitous adventure
with his pet wolf, Lucky-Ash, one that even Pecos Bill couldn't match. The two dashing renegades, man and dog, began their
escape by putting on disguises and entering a series of bear-wrestling towrnaments. Neither had a talent for fighting bears, but
the duo employed crafty secrets and secret crafts Luckly-Ash had gleaned from days spent listening to the "wise ripples of a
pond" and Witton, while observing the purple honeybee. (1) After trouncing every bear in Alabama ( and making lifelong
friends with several ), the two pocketed the winnings, lassoed a pair of tornados, and rode them out west. After carving out the
Mississippi River with nothing more than a jack-rabbit's tail bone, and numerous other larger-than-life adventures, Bursah
become an engineer on the fastest passenger train in the West and, with Lucky-Ash at his side, re-routed a line as they headed
to Wyoming in search of untamed adventure. Along the way Lucky-Ash scared off attacking Indians with the "biggest durn
bark this side of the Mississippi," The nois ( which was said to echo for two days straight and was even heard by the King of
Bavaria) let loose avalanches aii along the state border, burying their train in snow. The two triad to lead the passengers
along a risky pass to safety, but this turned into an adventure just a little more grand than any of Homer's. In summary,the
rest of the traveling party died to water lust, greed, a giant shvemaking ogre, and frostbite fairies all while violently bickering
over how to again turn tornados into a form of mass transit. Eventually the feisty pair of Bursah and Lucky-Ash struggled
onward alone from winter into spring. After farty-nine days like this, the haggard general and brave dog paused in the middle
of a drought-ridden plain. Bursah had grown weary and sensed that his legendary life was coming to a close. Looking up to
the sky, he watched the clouds zip by as though in accelerated motion: Time had dropped his dead weight and moved on
without him. Who was he to die at this stage? Was he not a living legend at the prime age of thirtyfive? When he saw an
opening between the clouds he yelled to the Heavens, " I beg your damn pardon!" Indeed, it was slightly rude that the
Heavens hadn't planned a better spectacle to welcome him, and for this, there was going to be some hell to pay. He waited for
another opening in the clouds and then bellowed, "With the ruckus I've wrought down here, are you honestly ready for my
likes up there?" Neither life-replenishing rainwater nor heavenly chariots came in reply. Wilton groused,"Can you belive this
tarnation?" Lucky-Ash cursed in wolf-tingue. Indeed,they gathered that his incredible, mortal tale was about to reach an end
without tha decency of a heavenly parade, mind you. For hours he rebuked his Maker, reasoning that lassoing a cyclone alone
was worth a few trumpet blasts. Yet, no response. He announced then that he refused death ("That's right, I said it! Ain't
goin'!") without a dignified answer as to why he, who was clearly a legend, should suffer a fate so prosaic. It was said that
the winds (for they recognized his greatness) accepted his request for comfart. They buffeted him upright so that he could
sleep in between polite admonishments and Divine snubs. For hours the legendary general and dog wavered in the wind and
would not die. It still said to this day that in honor of them, all cacti now refuse to fall nor do they drink much water but
stand firmly with their hands held high, posing as Wilton Bursah did when he told his Maker to get with the program. Finally,
not even the winds could hold then. The stubborn saldier collapsed to the earth, followed by his obedient dog. It seemed Death
would not be glorious but just... Unimpressive.
hatbed of the Wild West, where cowboys had daily traded their lead for steed. No: since 1892 it had been a withering reed in
the desert and, like so many of its brethren, the roads which fed into it were lined with shaman and wrinkled ranchers alike
who warned the ablivious traveler to keep clear, for " Nothing that comes into a small town ever leaves. Even the tumbleweed,"
they would sing," find that there lies only one profitless path through the humble hamlet... because the claws of the small town
are the hawk's: sinking effartlessly, tightening relentlessly, and hauling you back the further you tread towards the great,
beguiling horizon." One hundred years later, however, there was still a group a band of lethally ferocious rustlers who
made active use of inconsequential burgs like these. Yes, there were certain businesses which blossamed in the shadows, like a
disease untended, far away from the newfangled contrivances of the righteous living, citified beau monde. Many a law
enforcer had tried to make heads-or-tails of these villains and their natures; some had even attempted a brotherly connection
only to meet their ends in a smattering of blood and bones. And fair again and again they would, for the links these monsters
must have had to anything societal or humane had perished long ago with their vestigial souls. But don't get them wrong;they
still knew how to get jiggy with it. And this they did in style: The Hammerhead Grand Hoted sat on the loftier edge of
Melady. It was a stately establishment which proudly boasted structural cunning unchanged from whence it was built. Yet,
the massive cypress rafters had lost their purpose to retrofitting ( even if they did still look quite useful ); the once sensually
fluted wainscot was now retouched and cartoonishly tame, and the "half-of-a-tribe of Crow Indians" who had been mixed into
the oniginal foundation were no longer mentioned within the pages of the latest, politically correct, promotional brochures.
Still, the hated was Melady's centerpiece and had been from the day it was built one hundred years ago by the Confederate
general, Wilton Bursah ,one of the few stubborn rebels to find fartune, personal renaissance, and fabled fame after walking
away from neariy winning the Civil War. Legend had it that instead of overrunning the Capital as ordered, the general
declared that he would rather "tangle with broads and beer than his fellow man" and disbanded his unit. His superious
apparently disagreed with this decision and set after him. Thus, it was than that Bursah set out on a serendipitous adventure
with his pet wolf, Lucky-Ash, one that even Pecos Bill couldn't match. The two dashing renegades, man and dog, began their
escape by putting on disguises and entering a series of bear-wrestling towrnaments. Neither had a talent for fighting bears, but
the duo employed crafty secrets and secret crafts Luckly-Ash had gleaned from days spent listening to the "wise ripples of a
pond" and Witton, while observing the purple honeybee. (1) After trouncing every bear in Alabama ( and making lifelong
friends with several ), the two pocketed the winnings, lassoed a pair of tornados, and rode them out west. After carving out the
Mississippi River with nothing more than a jack-rabbit's tail bone, and numerous other larger-than-life adventures, Bursah
become an engineer on the fastest passenger train in the West and, with Lucky-Ash at his side, re-routed a line as they headed
to Wyoming in search of untamed adventure. Along the way Lucky-Ash scared off attacking Indians with the "biggest durn
bark this side of the Mississippi," The nois ( which was said to echo for two days straight and was even heard by the King of
Bavaria) let loose avalanches aii along the state border, burying their train in snow. The two triad to lead the passengers
along a risky pass to safety, but this turned into an adventure just a little more grand than any of Homer's. In summary,the
rest of the traveling party died to water lust, greed, a giant shvemaking ogre, and frostbite fairies all while violently bickering
over how to again turn tornados into a form of mass transit. Eventually the feisty pair of Bursah and Lucky-Ash struggled
onward alone from winter into spring. After farty-nine days like this, the haggard general and brave dog paused in the middle
of a drought-ridden plain. Bursah had grown weary and sensed that his legendary life was coming to a close. Looking up to
the sky, he watched the clouds zip by as though in accelerated motion: Time had dropped his dead weight and moved on
without him. Who was he to die at this stage? Was he not a living legend at the prime age of thirtyfive? When he saw an
opening between the clouds he yelled to the Heavens, " I beg your damn pardon!" Indeed, it was slightly rude that the
Heavens hadn't planned a better spectacle to welcome him, and for this, there was going to be some hell to pay. He waited for
another opening in the clouds and then bellowed, "With the ruckus I've wrought down here, are you honestly ready for my
likes up there?" Neither life-replenishing rainwater nor heavenly chariots came in reply. Wilton groused,"Can you belive this
tarnation?" Lucky-Ash cursed in wolf-tingue. Indeed,they gathered that his incredible, mortal tale was about to reach an end
without tha decency of a heavenly parade, mind you. For hours he rebuked his Maker, reasoning that lassoing a cyclone alone
was worth a few trumpet blasts. Yet, no response. He announced then that he refused death ("That's right, I said it! Ain't
goin'!") without a dignified answer as to why he, who was clearly a legend, should suffer a fate so prosaic. It was said that
the winds (for they recognized his greatness) accepted his request for comfart. They buffeted him upright so that he could
sleep in between polite admonishments and Divine snubs. For hours the legendary general and dog wavered in the wind and
would not die. It still said to this day that in honor of them, all cacti now refuse to fall nor do they drink much water but
stand firmly with their hands held high, posing as Wilton Bursah did when he told his Maker to get with the program. Finally,
not even the winds could hold then. The stubborn saldier collapsed to the earth, followed by his obedient dog. It seemed Death
would not be glorious but just... Unimpressive.