The Property of Bug-Eyed Motherfucker, story by Wynne Hungerford

Apache Springs the crossroads was known as, and for miles around the land was called Apache Springs also. There was a single saloon at the crossroads next to a boarding house with its roof rotted from the nightly urine of prostitutes that climbed up there and pissed beneath the moon. It never rained in Apache Springs. There was never a cloud in the sky. Because of this the prostitutes climbed onto the roof every night. Visitors began to take an interest. English or French people they usually were, spring or summertime cowboys who always stopped at the saloon first to get properly wasted.

Bug-Eyed Motherfucker was one of these Frenchmen. He spent a whole afternoon sipping rye whiskey and when he finally slipped into a good, moist stupor he headed over to the boarding house for some good, moist company. The woman only cost a silver dollar because she had a shriveled leg, but Bug-Eyed Motherfucker didn’t mind. He said, “Bonjour sexy,” and then used her cane, a piece of desert wood, to beat her across the ass. When they had finished and the prostitute was already climbing out of the window and pulling herself onto the roof with strong arms, Bug-Eyed Motherfucker realized that his pistol was gone. It had been a gift from his late mentor. They had been like father and son.

Bug-Eyed Motherfucker ran back to the saloon and swung open the doors.

Someone said, “Look at the bug eyes on that motherfucker.”

Bug-Eyed Motherfucker thought he saw the flash of his pistol’s mother-of-pearl handle at a table in the back of the saloon. He had excellent vision. The fellow sitting at that table was an Englishman. Bug-Eyed Motherfucker swaggered back there and said, “Mon pistolet!”

My good man,” said the Englishman. “I beg to differ.”

Then the Englishman picked up the gun and shot Bug-Eyed Motherfucker through the eye. He fell dead to the floor. “I apologise for the disturbance, everyone,” the Englishman said. “Carry on.”

Meanwhile, the crippled prostitute of Apache Springs stood like a flamingo on the roof of the boarding house. She had been the one to take Bug-Eyed Motherfucker’s pistol, even though he had not suspected her because of the shriveled leg, and now she was pointing the pistol at the moon. She’d heard the other girls call the moon beautiful but, to her, it looked like a pustule that needed to be popped.

hungerfordWynne Hungerford has published work in Epoch, Talking River Review, The Whitefish Review, The South Carolina Review, and The Weekly Rumpus, among other places. She is an MFA candidate at the University of Florida.

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One Response to The Property of Bug-Eyed Motherfucker, story by Wynne Hungerford

  1. Robert Stubblefield says:

    Wynne Hungerford rocks it, per usual!

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