The Savior of the East
by
P.L. Ellars
“Quick Sheriff! Ya gotta come quick! Mad Mongo the malcontent musician is a tearin’ up the town somethin’ fierce!” screamed the Old Prospector.
“No Way, dude!” replied the Sheriff, his eyes darting around the room, anxiously watching the door in case Mad Mongo the malcontent musician decided to come crashing through it looking for him. “I ain’t a goin’ down there to that there a saloon. Why, Mad Mongo the malcontent musician might jest take it into his pointy little head to use me as a percussion instramint! No sirree Bob! I jest ain’t a gonna do it!” he whined.
“But Sheriff, he’s a tearin’ up the whole town, startin’ with the SALOON! Why he’s already had four, an’ I say that agin fer effect (only this time in capital letters) FOUR sassyparillas. You know what an ugly cuss he turns inta when he gets all sugared up!”
yelled the Old Prospector.
“Ain’t that the truth. But I still ain’t a goin’ ta do that. You all ‘member what he did to the town last time after only TWO sassyparrillas!” yelled the Sheriff. “Why, we jest only recently got it rebuilt in time for our big ol’ Musical Mayhem Madness in the Mud shindig!” the sheriff said in a pathetic whining voice.
“Well, if’n you all ain’t a goin’ to do YORE JOB, which we, the poor, overworked, overtaxed, over abused and down trodden peasants is a payin’ you all for, than what in tarnation are we all a goin’ to do, if I might be so bold as to ask yore Brave Sheriffness?”
“OK, OK, yore remarks is a drippin’ with sarcasm and has shamed me into action, you old hedgehog. Jest hand me over my double pistol buscadero rig, that there 4-barrel shotgun, that big ol’ ellyfant gun, that there Gatlin Gun, mebbe a couple of them there knives, about 4 miles of that there 1-inch rope, six pair o’ handcuffs, that there tranquilizing gun, that whale net made outta stainless steel, then go out and round up about 49 hombres to make up a posse fer me and I’ll go and talk to Mad Mongo the malcontent musician and see if’n I can’t make him settle down.” said the Sheriff.
“OK, Sheriff, I’ll get right on it!” said the Old Prospector with joy and hope in his voice.
Meanwhile down at the saloon Mad Mongo the malcontent musician was juggling four big old cowboys with one hand and with his other hand he was shooting his six-shooter pistol into the floor making 10 more cowboys dance a hornpipe.
“YEEEHAAAWWWW!!!! yelled Mad Mongo the malcontent musician at the top of his lungs which caused eight more cowboys to get blown over, some crashing through the window and some getting flung through the swinging doors of the saloon.
“BY GOLLY, I AIN’T A HAD NEAR THIS HERE MUCH FUN SINCE YESTIDDAY!” he roared.
“M.. M.. M.. Mr. M..M..Mon…Mon…Mongo? Sir?” the Sheriff cried in a pathetic little sissy boy whispering voice.
Mad Mongo the malcontent musician did not hear the Sheriff. He was too busy reloading his six-shooter and punting Barky the saloon dog out through the swinging door.
“P..P..Please, S..S..S..Sir, Mr. Mongo. I’d a like to ask a real big favor of you all.” the Sheriff said in a syrupy sweet voice.
Mad Mongo slowly turned around. His evil eyes, glowing red, narrowed and his nostrils flared open. The Sheriff was sure he saw flames coming out of Mongo’s nose, just like a dragon.
“IS YOU TALKIN’ TO ME?!” he roared like a lion. Mad Mongo the malcontent musician slowly bent over close to the Sheriff who was cowering and quaking and shaking and quivering on the floor like a worm on a hot sidewalk.
“P..P..Please, sir, if’n you all would be so kind as to sorta keep it down cuz, believe it or not, some a these here townfolk is mighty, mighty terryfied of you all and they is a having a real tuff time havin’ their lunch, if’n you all know what I mean.” the Sheriff said in a broken, wavering voice.
“HAVIN’ TROUBLE WITH THEY LUNCH, IS THEY?” Mad Mongo bellowed.
“WELL, BRING ‘EM ON IN HERE. I’LL HELP THEM CHEW IT UP AND DIGEST IT REAL GOOD!” he roared laughing at the same time. He then put his six-shooter away and hung the cowboys he was juggling up one by one on the candle chandelier high up in the middle of the room with the idea of resuming his juggling fun later. He then bent over and picked the Sheriff up by his boots and started swinging him around and around in circles going faster and faster. Mongo was laughing so hard that the saloon started to shake. Sassyparrilla bottles started to dance on the shelves and then fall off and break on the floor. After spinning the Sheriff around about 92 times he let go of his boots and watched as the Sheriff went flying out the saloon doors on an ascending arc and disappear over the top of the building across the street. Mongo fell on the floor laughing so hard that the rest of the bottles of sassyparilla, root beer, lemonade and (my favorite) Ol’ Squeezed Squirrel fell and broke on the floor making quite a mess.
Well, old Mad Mongo the malcontent musician was laughing so hard that the tears were flowing like a river from his eyes. It would have made him mad to know that he was actually cleaning up the mess he made with his tears as they flowed and washed everything out the front door into the street, turning it into a river which is still there today and is known as “Sweet River”.
When all of a sudden a single musical note is heard. Mad Mongo wasn’t sure he had heard it at first so he quieted down just a little. There! He heard it again. And another note. The corners of his mouth started to curl up in the tiniest little smile you’ve ever seen. Mad Mongo thought his face was breaking up. He had never smiled. Ever. Not ever in his entire life. Not even once. Oh sure, he laughed a lot. Usually when he was treeing a town. But to smile? No way. Not no way, never! It was such a new and unusual experience for him that he got real quiet and started to listen.
Suddenly the musical notes started to flow and pour forth like Niagara Falls. It was the sweetest, most delicious sound Mad Mongo the malcontent musician had ever heard. He pulled over the nearest cowboy and used him as a pillow as he lay there on the wet saloon floor listening to the prettiest music he had ever heard in all his born days. He felt so calm, so quiet, so peaceful and happy. His mouth curled up even more as his smile grew bigger. He liked this music. After a few seconds he felt so good that he had to get up off the floor and find out where this wonderful, soothing music was coming from.
He listened real hard and decided that it was coming from outside the saloon. He tip-toed to the swinging doors and peeked outside for a look. There, across the combination main street and river, on the wooden sidewalk in front of the building the Sheriff so recently flew, over he saw a little girl, as pretty as an angel, sitting and playing a harp. He stood there transfixed, as if he were nailed to the spot. The little girl continued to play her harp and Mad Mongo’s smile grew bigger and bigger. He had to hear more. Crashing through the saloon doors he dove into the river making such a big splash that the whole town was washed clean. He swam to the other side and, climbing out, sputtered “WHO ARE YOU AND HOW DO YOU MAKE SUCH PRETTY NOISE?”
“I am Harp-A-Long Angelise and I’ve come to show you the evil of your evil ways, you evil malcontent musician.” and she strummed a few more chords on her beautiful harp.
“Take that, Mr. Mad Mongo the malcontent musician!” and with that she got down to some seriously fancy finger work. Mad Mongo’s eyes sort of glazed over, his size 26 rhinoceros-skinned cowboy boot started tapping in time with Harp-A-Long Angelise’s music. He was smiling from ear-to-ear. It would have been shocking to see except these townfolk were used to seeing wild animals smile.
Harp-A-Long Angelise continued to play and with each note Mad Mongo the malcontent musician got mellower and mellower and his smile grew bigger and bigger. After playing for about 10 minutes Harp-A-Long Angelise decided that Mad Mongo was just where she wanted him. She stopped playing and, reaching into her music bag, pulled out a book.
“Mr. Mongo, I want you to do a favor for me now.” she said.
“OH, YES! PRETTY LITTLE MUSICAL ANGEL, ANYTHING, ANYTHING. YOU JEST SAY THE WORD AND IT’S AS GOOD AS DONE! he said trying very hard to keep his voice down to a dull roar but not being very successful.
“I want you to take this book I’m going to give you and take it home and not come back until you have read ALL OF IT!” the little harp playing angel said with such determination and fierceness that Mad Mongo’s eyes opened wide.
“BOOK! WHY, I KIN BARELY READ! IT MIGHT TAKE ME A LITTLE WHILE, BUT, OK, A PROMISE IS A PROMISE, EVEN AMONGST US MALCONTENT MUSICIANS.” he said with a little pride in his voice. “WHAT’S THIS HERE BOOK ALL ABOUT ANYWAYS, LITTLE ANGEL?” he asked, not able to hide the little bit of fear that was creeping into his voice.
“It’s an excellent book on nutrition and the effect sugar has on moods. I think once you get started on it, you’ll find it a fascinating study in human emotion as well as dietary requirements. You know what they say, don’t you?” she asked watching his face develop a puzzled look.
“WELL, NO, NOT REALLY, I AIN’T GOT NO IDEAR A’TALL OF WHAT THEY SAY. IS IT GOOD? HOW MANY GUESSES DO I GET? IS IT SOMETHING I MIGHT A HEARED AFORE? IS IT SOMETH…”
“They say” she said interrupting his blathering “that: Good Nutrition is its Own Reward. Now, once you finish reading this book, I want you to put that saying in a needlepoint wall hanging, using 4 different colors with some very nice vines and flowers around the border and hang it on the wall over your bed and every night before you go to bed and every morning when you get up I want you to look at it and recite it: Good Nutrition is its Own Reward! Get it?”
“GOT IT.”
“Good.”
Harp-A-Long Angelise then commenced to play on her beautiful harp again and Mad Mongo the malcontent musician curled up at her feet on the sidewalk, his feet hanging over the sidewalk into the river below.
And there is where we shall leave them. Harp-A-Long Angelise, the Savior of the East, playing the sweetest music this side of heaven and Mad Mongo (now known as Mad Mongo the Merry Musician) sleeping peacefully at her feet, an angelic smile on his face.
THE END
This here a story is a dedycated to anuther little angel. One that koinsidentally also happin’s ta play the harp beeyootifully – Annelise Ellars.
sined, The Old Prospector, eyeball witness to the happenin’s above faithfully re-recorded in glorious detail and no prejadice (well, mebbe jest a little).
