Seth MacFarlane's A Million Ways to Die in the West(18)

“Yeah, can we get in on this grave?” said the second.

Albert sighed. “Yeah, sure.” Resources were scarce on the frontier, so everyone shared what they had with the community whenever possible. The two cowboys tossed the bodies into the grave on top of Elsie, tipped their hats in appreciation, and ambled off.


Albert and Edward took their time as they strolled down the thoroughfare. They were early for church, and it was an unusually cool 92 degrees. Edward pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at the beads of sweat on his forehead. His chunky physique didn’t serve him particularly well in such a hot climate, but Albert had never heard him complain. How the hell does he do it? He manages to find happiness in even the shittiest places.

A young boy raced past them, deftly using a stick to guide a rolling metal hoop down the street.

“I see kids everywhere with those stick hoops lately,” Albert observed.

“It’s gotta be bad for their brains, right?” said Edward.

“It has to be. Stunts their attention spans. There was an article in the paper.”

“I read that. It said it’s making them unable to focus on more long-term, thought-intensive tasks.”

“Exactly, it’s the death of innovation. I’m telling you, when intellectual progress comes to a screeching halt twenty years from now, you can thank the stick hoop.”

Suddenly Albert stopped dead in his tracks.

Halfway up the street stood the moustachery. It was a salon of sorts where a gentleman could go for a trim or a styling of his moustache. Moustaches were a sign of status and power, and the bigger, the bushier, the curlier a man’s moustache, the more he was to be respected. But what paralyzed Albert was the sight of the two individuals emerging from the building. One of them was Foy Ellison, the well-groomed, well-dressed owner of the establishment.

And the other was Louise. With her arm in his.

“Ho. Ly. Shit,” Albert cursed in shocked disbelief.

She had lied to him. Lied right to his face. Whether it had been in the interest of protecting his feelings or simply to avoid confrontation, he did not know. But the unpasteurized reality chewed his guts apart instantly. He hadn’t thought anything could be worse than Louise leaving him, but obviously there was one thing: Louise giving herself to another man.

“Oh, God …” Edward shifted uncomfortably as he regarded his friend with obvious sympathy.

“She told me she didn’t want to date anyone!” Albert sputtered. “She said she had to work on herself! Bull-fucking shit! And Foy! The owner of the moustachery! What. The. Fuck. If it were acceptable to be openly gay, Foy would have ten Englishmen living in his asshole.”

“Maybe you should grow a moustache,” Edward suggested.

“I can’t afford it,” Albert said with dismay. “The upkeep alone: the waxes, the oils, the creams. I don’t have the cash. My God. Fucking Foy.” Suddenly he had to be anywhere but here. “Come on, let’s go. Where’s Ruth? She coming to church?”

“No, she has a ten o’clock blumpkin,” Edward answered matter-of-factly.

Albert stared at him, confused. “What’s a blumpkin?”

“It’s when a man receives fellatio while he’s making stool. They just invented it in Italy, and it’s become popular here.” Edward smiled with pride in his awareness of world affairs.

“ ‘Receives fellatio’? You make it sound like a Communion   service,” Albert said.

“Well, it’s just the process.”

“So, a guy gets his dick sucked while he’s taking a shit.”

“Albert, don’t use those words,” Edward said with indignation. “It diminishes Ruth’s work. She takes a lot of pride in doing a good job.”

“I’m … I’m sorry, Edward. I wasn’t thinking. It won’t happen again.”

“It’s okay.” Edward’s moonfaced smile reappeared, his nature easily forgiving as always. He brightened still further as he pointed past Albert’s shoulder. “Hey, look! It’s the ice!”

Albert turned. Sure enough, seven men were laboring to complete the arduous task of unloading a massive block of ice from the back of a wagon. The block had endured a long journey prior to its arrival on the frontier. The Tudor Ice Company of Boston, Massachusetts, would cut large blocks of ice from frozen lakes and ponds during winter in New England and then ship them across the country, where they could be sold to communities whose climates made it impossible to otherwise acquire ice, particularly during the summer months. It was an impressive sight indeed to watch these men struggle with a block that was nearly the size of the wagon that held it. Three of them handled the rope-and-pulley system that hoisted the ice off the cart, while the other four guided it down toward the open icehouse doors, where it would be prepped for further cutting. Albert watched with fascination, allowing himself a tiny satisfied smile as he recalled the girl in the general store who had rebuffed him. “See, this is fun. She missed out.”