main street 3

Somewhere out West, I guess..


Lying prone with a migraine, the Reverend experiences a series of bizarre fever visions. From whence they come he knows not. The depths of his fevered brain? The ergot-based migraine pills? Perhaps it is a true Vision sent by the Gods. The Reverend can do naught but bear Witness as before his closed eyes unfolds..


A surly Santa Claus swaggering down the wooden boardwalk of a archetypal “Wild West” frontier town. It’s all there; the bank, the saloon, the brothel, “Paws General Store”, the blacksmith and of course, the sheriff’s office with its attached drunk tank.

So archetypical is this Western street scene that one is struck by an uncanny sense of deja vu, as if this scene is too archetypal to be real. It feels like a simulacrum of the thing itself, a copy concocted by Aliens. Paranoia whispers that the buildings are merely facades, held up by wooden props and scaffolding. Perhaps the whole town is just something Santa slapped together in his workshop.

He is smoking a rank cigar and reeks of rum. His face is red from the heat and he perspires heavily- the armpits of his red long johns are soaked with sweat.

Hanging low around his hips is a leather ammo belt with two six guns sitting in holsters hanging below his gut.

Behind him follows his side-kick, an incongruously bizarre looking apparition in any location let alone here on the streets of El Paso, or Dead Wood, or Dry Gulch or where-ever the hell this is;

The Sidekick’s body appears to be encased in a large (approximately 4′ by 4′) cardboard box, gift wrapped and tied with a red ribbon. Or (a voice whispers in my mind) possibly the box actually IS the Sidekick’s body.

Whichever; from the bottom of the box protrudes a pair of giant chicken legs. From their size I would have judged them to be ostrich legs, were it not for the fact that out of the top of the box, thru a neat, circular hole, protrudes the over-size head of an enormous chicken. About the size of a football, with madly staring chicken eyes and a bright red wattle & comb, the Sidekicks head nods and bobs in amiable confusion.

The shop keepers duck and scurry back into their shops as Santa and his Sidekick pass by, t-they don’t want no trouble Mister.

Santa contemptuously ignores them.

The town clock starts chiming 12.

It is High Noon in Main street.

Right on cue, across the street, through the swinging doors of the Saloon strides the Easter Bunny. He wears a white Stetson and chaps, a pair of six guns, his vest bears a shiny silver badge.

Santa spits out his cigar contemptuously and steps out into the street to meet his ancient foe.

Clucking nervously his Sidekick withdraws its head and feet into the box.

The easter bunny steps out into the street to meet his Nemesis.

The Midday sun glares down..

The frowning with concentration, the EB sheriff’s face betrays no emotion.

Santa smirks.wild west poster


Suddenly, Elves holding shotguns burst out of hiding on all sides,

popping up out of barrels, bales of straw, horse drinking-troughs, chimneys.

It’s an Ambush!

Simultaneously they open fire and the Easter Bunny is mown down in a merciless fusillade of bullets.

When the shooting ceases and the smoke clears, the Easter Bunny’s prone, bullet-riddled body is seen lying flat on his back on the ground in a spreading pool of sawdust.

A lone crow flaps down and pecks hopefully at one of the rabbit’s black, staring eyes. But the eye is discovered to be only a large, sewn-on button. The crow flies off, croaking its disappointment.

The button, now hanging by a single thread, dangles down the side of the dead sheriff’s face.

Standing spread-legged by the body of his fallen foe, Santa ostentatiously spins and reholsters his guns and lights another cheap cigar.

“So long, hop-a-long”, he whispers

The school-Marm, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Mother Goose in her bonnet and outsize spectacles, rushes out into the street and weeping, cradles the fallen rabbit in her arms. The town drunk and the undertaker appear (one and the same person though there appears to be two of them) and staggers out cautiously to comfort the grieving widow.

No-one moves. Only the sound of weeping and flies.The scene freeze frames and fades to black. There is no closure.

wild west boothill


SECRETS (reduced)



The Reverend Hellfire is a Practising Performance Poet, President of the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity and an ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanists AND the Church of the Universe.

Has never told a Lie apart from this statement.



~ by reverendhellfire on February 16, 2014.


  1. A moving tragedy of the Old West! I never did care for the Easter Bunny, though. Just too much the sanctimonious goody-goody.

  2. Oh Rev, allow me to assure you, there is no such nonsense as closure, neither real or fantastic. Dreams can, however, provide some vicarious satisfaction for the frustrations of civilization…

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