Chapter 1: Rucky and Chung Back on the Run
Rucky and Chung were on the run again. The weather forecast had said they would be, but it was often wrong; the morning newspapers had announced it, but everyone knew those writers were paid to lie; the policeman outside the bank had tipped his hat and started wheeling his bike to let them know he’d soon be chasing them, but he was always given to the strangest practical jokes. It was only when Rucky and Chung really found themselves running down the railroad tracks, police cavalry and steam engine in hot pursuit, that Rucky turned and asked, “Are we on the run again?” “Yes,” boomed a voice from the heavens, and Chung just stared on, pale-faced.
It all could have gone differently just an hour back. Rucky had prepared a whole getaway plan, with blueprints and post-it notes and phone reminders and everything. He’d taken it to the constable a week in advance. “Could you catch someone making a getaway like this?” he’d asked. “Thank you for your time,” he’d added as a polite gesture, as the constable put down his loaded revolver, pushed up his spectacles, and downed a shot of rum over the blueprints. The silence had filled the room, and the constable had finally concluded, “No, son, I don’t believe we could.” He’d even added, “This might well be the best doggone getaway plan I’ve seen since the civil war. Good luck to you, son.” Rucky had beamed with joy and even taken a selfie on the way out. But when it had come time to escape through the cactus, Chung had gone pale and balked.
Chung had always had a problem with cactuses. It went so far that he didn’t even drink tequila, while Rucky downed it as if it were orange juice. Come to think of it, it could have all gone differently an hour before they even got near the doggone getaway cactus, way back at the saloon, as they celebrated their successful robbery with the whole police department. “For every shot you down,” the sheriff had roared, “I’ll give you a mile’s headstart.” Chung hadn’t even tried to down one. Right beside him, the sheriff’s horse was already six or seven shots deep, and Rucky figured he’d have to shoulder the whole doggone burden alone. He’d then ordered a whole bottle of tequila and tried to chug, but quickly turned red as a tomato and spit it out. Doggone Chung, he’d thought. “Doggone Chung,” the constable had repeated, as he poured tequila into his Tesla. Now that Rucky and Chung were on the run, Rucky figured he really could, maybe should blame Chung for all of this.
They’d known from the start that they’d be shot if captured. Sure enough, the steam engine was closing in, and a bullet whizzed right through Chung’s cowboy hat, then another. “Serves you doggone right,” said Rucky, and Chung turned paler. The Tesla pulled up right beside them, still slurring its turn signals, and Rucky only narrowly dodged its lasso.
It could have gone differently an hour earlier still. With everything ready, Chung had gestured away from the bank and away from the general store and towards the sperm bank. “Doggone it, Chung,” Rucky had said, slapping his knees, “you know how I feel about these long-term investments.” But things were already going Chung’s way, as always. “He’s right,” the unborn children had come out to say, “you will make far more money from us in the long-term. What’s a gold nugget against a lifetime’s earnings?” Rucky had grumbled, so the fetus with glasses had continued, “We’re proud to offer a diversified portfolio of potential future income streams. In terms you’d understand, what if one of us goes on to work in medicine, law, or tech? Or maybe for you?” At that, he’d finally acquiesced. But that had only made their job so much harder, since the sheriff and her wife, who were trying to get pregnant, were mad as bulls now.
The steam engine was gaining steam, and the steamboat behind it. Toy fighter planes flew off it and blew Chung’s hat full of holes until it looked like Swiss cheese. The policemen controlling them fist-bumped each other, knowing they’d now have to be paid Swiss wages, and ran off to celebrate at the saloon. Rucky could feel his knees giving out, and Chung was now pale as a sheet. Then they saw, just up ahead, a whole long line of police horses. A blockade. “Doggone it!” Rucky cried out, but it was too late. The horses aimed their revolvers, the Tesla too, and the sheriff and constable, who’d just caught up. “Three, two…,” the sheriff called out through a megaphone, “...and one!” The whole department fired in unison. Rucky shut his eyes hard.
When he opened them, he found he and Chung were both soaked with tequila. Chung was weeping. “You shoulda seen the look on your faces,” hollered the sheriff. Her wife took a selfie and squirted the pair a bit more with a tequila revolver just for show. All the spermatozoa rushed off to fertilize eggs. Then a voice boomed down from the heavens, saying, “Another job well done, boys.” Rucky tussled Chung’s hair a bit just to tease him, and they both held up their punchcards to get another stamp. Eight to get to heaven.
Chapter 2: The Death of Rucky
The stars all hung in place, as if announcing
The hour had come at last, and on the porch
The sheriff called the village-folk, pronouncing
Sweet stories of salvation, as the torch
Shone weaker by the moment, and inside
The constable and stately priest kept watch.
O dearest Chung!, the bedded Rucky cried
Since our just Lord saw fit thou yode before me,
And leftest me alone, since then I bide
My hours before this hour. Now I implore thee
Come, greet me when I join the chosen few.
Already dims the light. Already, stormy,
Beclouds the window in my fading view,
And cops’ and robbers’ shadows on the dresser
Now reenact my memories of you.
It comes! Call quickly the confessor
And tell, O tell, that without dearest Chung
The wily Rucky would have been far lesser
Than any fool who’s ever deigned to run.
O tell, o tell the sinners in the hallway
Tell them of our exploits when we were young,
Tell them of how we trod our boots down Broadway,
Tell them, tell them—