In his secret underground lair deep inside the highest peak of the Malady Mountains, Thurgood Bastardson laughed quietly to himself. His laughter slithered around his cave like evil gerbils running in exercise wheels made of dishonesty.
This craggy expanse of rock and misery stretched the entire latitude of Rugged Outlaw County, and provided Thurgood with excellent cover from the prying eyes and dogooding ways of the local constabulary. This was fortunate, as he had a good mind to go out and make Buck miserable today. He whistled for his horse, waited nearly a minute, and then realized that his horse was aboveground, grazing in a field of the crappiest grass Thurgood could find. He slapped himself in his evil forehead and headed for the elevator.
The antagonist wrapped his long, evil fingers around a rope that ran the length of the shaft and began the laborious task of hauling the little car upward on its pulley system. He muttered to himself while he did this.
“That scalawag Studson thinks he’s sooo wonderful, with his quaint cabin in the mountains, his hairless chest festooned with heaving man-patties… his flock of giggling adolescents…”
This last one really got under Thurgood’s skin. The Flock. How many times had he longed for such a following! As a skilled banjo and accordion player, he had figured that the next inevitable step towards stud-god would be his own adoring harem.
But the accident in the mines with the foreman laughing at him, the slow and painful rehabilitation…and the discovery that his pickin’ hand was damaged beyond repair. The weight of this memory sat in Thurgood’s consiousness like a diseased yak with malice on its mind.
“Hello, yak,” he mumbled.
“Moo,” said the yak.
The elevator ground to a halt. Startled birds took flight as the door of the little green outhouse banged open, and Thurgood Bastardson stepped out to greet the day.
“Curse you Sun, and your hideous diurnal crawl!” he hollered into the vaulted blue expanse of the sky. “I shake my gnarled fist at thee!” He shook his fist and whistled for his horse. He waited nearly a minute, then realized his horse was tied to a bush on the other side of the rocks West of the elevator/outhouse. He slapped himself on the forehead and stomped angrily westward.
Thurgood tossed himself into the saddle, and spurred his mount. His dark hair trailed out behind him like the spiteful tail of an evil comet as he rode towards Buck Studson’s quaint little cabin. Oh, wouldn’t he be surprised, that woman-hogging putz! Bastardson let loose a cackle that covered the land like frost on the Devil’s brow.
“Buck. We are going to make something, you and I.” Cassidy’s voice, sultry and low, came sliding into the bedchamber like high-grade gear oil.
Buck looked up from the studly shotgun he held in his lap. It had gophers carved on the stock. “I’d hear more of this ‘something,’ my immaculately formed baked confection of desire,” he said with a wink.
“Oh, well, let me see here,” Cassidy purred. “It’ll be hot.”
“Oh boy!” His shotgun clattered to the floor as he stood.
“And oh so sweet…” Cassidy all but moaned, tilting her head back and gazing up into Buck’s nostrils.
“Glory to all the gods that be!” he bellowed. “We’re going to make cupcakes!” He pumped his fist in the air.
“With…sprinkles.” Cassidy purred again. “Let me go slip into something more, um, appropriate,” she said, tracing Buck’s jawline with her little finger.
Buck watched her flounce away and went to put on his silk baking shorts.
…to be continued!