“Good evening fine folk of the south desert, and honest men of the tilled earth. As you know, one night a week we have our very special performer. You all know her. You all lust for her, in your secret dreams. To all our delights . . . welcome our desert queen . . . Ximena Aljibe.”
The screams and yells of welcome from the citizens of the Red Saloon was heard throughout the town, but when she entered the balcony, the people quieted. With her first step the piano began and in her third step down the tall stares she began the song. She sang and she weaved her way down the wooden steps. Each step was three beats of a heart, but to the eager audience, it seemed like ten-thousand.
She walked with confidence, but in her heart sat a stone. From her voice came her passions and songs of lust that burned in the obsessed; the crowded joint responded. In her dance was the dance of the succubus, movements brought radiance, but from around came dark desires seething with lust; one will pay later . . . so will she.
She jumped and sat on the edge of the fine oak bar, the crowds gathered around, lust filled their loins, desire in minds, and she sang to the power of melancholy delight, salacious sin, and delightful devilry. She knew the highest bidder wold take her. After the show gold would be her only delight, and she would swim in a yellow lake.
On the other side, leaning in a corner, only a reflection in the mirror from behind the bar, stood a man who did not lust. A dark man whose soul reflected pain like Ximena’s brought desire. He stared with eyes of grey steel, and for a moment, his stare made the angel voice quiver; but only the ears of the dark man heard; it made him smirk.
The song she sang continued and slowly the melody focused only on the dark stranger and he felt the sting of green eyes in the hearts of the mob. His face was stone and that stung her. In her inner most thoughts she was already in love, her conscious mind hoped he would pay this evening. Her eyes to his, and when love gets brought in, the walls will invariably fall. So dark man of the dusty planes stood like a pillar of salt, watching Ximena bring the audience to near climax . . .
Then stop.
The song of Ximena Aljibe had finished. She vanished to her room in the tobacco filled air, reading herself for the high bidder, desire against hope, for her dark man.
But them old devils are at it again; the dark man did not come, but the rancher Stevens stood at the door, his toothy and droopy smile and drool at his lips corner and glazed eyes leered.
Stevens tossed the gold too her feet.
For the first time, since her innocence was sold for the yellow metal, she cried. This angered the rancher. He fucked harder, but Ximena learned, long time past, to embrace the pain and let it fill her, listen to the hurting to drown out the cause.
The first thing she remembered, since going away, was the quiet night. Stevens was gone; left sometime in her delirium. She fixed her-self, scrubbing the filth away, removing the sickness outside. But the inner sickness was rising, and refusing to be submerged again. What had the dark man done to her. His steel eyes tore through her like hot lead through flesh.
And that’s when the shots came. From the street below her window they rang; uncountable blasts, with a scream of rage, sounding like the cumming of Stevens. She ran to the window and in her sight was the rancher, sprawled on the dusty street, above him was the dark man, his double colts smoking but still aimed at the fallen face.
And the dark man looked to Ximena Aljibe’s window, steel eyes a weapon. He looked down to dieing man, and fired the double rounds. From Stevens face rose crimson mist mixing with grey smoke.
Without looking, the one in the dark duster walk off, not a care for those that stood around. Not heeding the woman in the window.
Hunter C. Coch
