Grimace The Grammar Gunslinger (Unpublished Short Story)

As another spiteful wind left the last corners of the tavern, Grim Wallace tipped his wide-brimmed hat up and let the sand and dust pour off its back onto the floor. Others brushed down their slacks, coats and jackets or removed their hats completely, shaking them like trying to extinguish a match. The more extravagantly dressed women removed dusty shawls from their shoulders and handed them to their male suitors to shake clean. After a fleeting few moments of tranquillity, the doors suddenly swung open and the harsh sweltering sunlight illuminated Grim’s hunched and dust-drenched back.

Billy Blowhard, as he was known, swaggered into the tavern and loudly dragged a reluctant squealing stool underneath him, placing himself next to Grim and naturally at the centre of the room. He parades his smirking maw across the surroundings, leering at the women and challenging the stare of the men.

“Can a guy get some drink in this bughouse?” He stands on the rungs of his chair and slams his fist on the table as he descends, rocking the counter, laughing to himself and glancing around at the unamused patrons. Grim watches his own drink slosh from side to side in the impact. Waves lap the side of the rusty tin mug but recede before escaping the top.

The landlord puts an authoritative but reassuring hand on the hesitant barmaid’s shoulder as he passes to serve in her place. He takes a mug from beneath the counter and rotates a raggedy towel around its innards, never once taking his eyes away from Billy.

“What can I get ya?”

“Your strongest liquor that ain’t rotgut.” He proudly demands.

“None of my stuff’s rotgut but I’m guessing you’d be after a pint of “Coffin Varnish”.

“Whatever you say fella.”

Billy glances around the room again finally settling on his neighbour. Many assumed Grim slept like that, with a drink in one hand and the other tucked tightly up the sleeve under his first arm. Like a hunched old sack of meat propped up against the counter. The slumped bearded figure slowly lifts his mug to his lips as something clicks in Billy’s mind and he nudges Grim from his stooped stance against the woodwork.

Grim grounds himself to a halt, watching the liquid in his mug thrash against the sides. He waits for its unruly waves to settle, swiftly necks a mouthful and thumps it back onto the counter. Creaking his neck sideways to look at Billy.

“Ain’t you that Grimace?”

“Who’s askin’?” Billy slaps Grim’s shoulder and laughs, rocking on his stool slightly.

“Heh, guess ya don’t keep with the times if ya need to ask that.”

Grim doesn’t reply but turns back to the counter and takes another swig of his drink.

“Tell me, why do they call ya Grimace old man?” Grim sighs and places his empty mug down.

“‘Cos of the face they say I pull just ‘fore I gun summun down.”

This amuses Billy greatly and he continues slapping his thighs and rocking on his chair.

“Haha, can you even stil-“ Billy is abruptly silenced by the next harsh whirlwind crashing through the building.

The tavern doors swing wildly on their hinges, dust and sand swirls around the air and sweeps drifts along the wooden floor. Everyone hunches down into themselves gripping their lighter accoutrements and covering their drinks with their palms. The scorched wind and brittle dust demand all noise and motion exclusive to them for the next dozen or so seconds.

The scalding sandstorm finally subsides and the patrons shake off their hats and dust down their attire. Grim simply tilts his hat up again. Billy helps himself to cloths behind the counter and excessively attends to his appearance before jumping back onto his stool, a little exasperated and annoyed.

“I said, can you even still hold your shooter ol’ timer?” The patrons suddenly peek nervously around from their own affairs while Grim glances lazily at the well-polished piece by Billy’s hip. Another mug of frothing black liquid is placed in front of Grim as the Landlord eyes up the potential property damage.

“Sixty years and I’ve always found a way.”

“Ha, and how many people you actually shoot in that time?” Grim’s lips twitch and his teeth slowly grind against each other.

“Shot” Grim corrects him under his breath.

“I’m guessin’ less than five right?”

“Fewer”
“Ahahaha I knew it!”
“No. The word is fewer.” Grim growls his words through gritted teeth but still avoids eye contact.

“What?”
“Tha sentence would be fewer than five, ‘cos it’s quantifiable. Less than five is incorrect.”

There is a graveyard silence from every occupant in the building. Grim is motionless still sat by the counter, watching his drink heat up in the blazing sweat around them. Billy stares stone faced and blinking in confusion. Whether he comprehends the situation or not, something snaps within his fiery young temper as he stands abruptly from his stool, knocking it to the floor behind him, gripping his pistol tightly and casting a daunting figure leaning over Grim.

“You mocking me ya senile ol’ bag o’ bones? Do you know who I am? My dad an’ me run this tow-“

A piercing snap echoes throughout the tavern, a thin trail of smoke snakes up towards the roof and Billy collapses onto his back with a hole in his chest.

“The word is I. As in, I run this town.” Grim  mumbles.

The other patrons gawp in horror at the scene as Grim shakes the remaining smoke from his punctured sleeve. He inspects his revolver momentarily before placing it back into his coat arm and taking a long reward from his drink in the newfound calmness. The landlord tentatively steps towards Grim. He shakes his head and collects himself, silently gesturing to two of his bartenders.

The shocked but dutiful bar staff awkwardly drag Billy’s body around the counter and into the back. “Grim? You know who that kid is right?”

“Was.”
“Sorry…Was.” The landlord grips his arm and looks nervously towards the door. “That boy’s father is Benjamin Bentley. He could buy this whole town if he wanted. I mean I’ll say that Billy had it comin’ but…” During the pause Grim twists his rusty neck up at the terrified tavern owner struggling to find his words. “I think you’ve gone too far this time Grim.” Grim’s gaze floats pensively back down to his drink.

The next few days are stressful and panic-ridden for the landlord and his employees. The regulars even become restless with the exception of Grim himself who remains as stoic and masked as usual. It is almost a relief when a sharp-suited individual with wealthy, shined black shoes, fedora and slicked back hair steps confidently into the tavern. The heat is at its horrifying height and the nearby well is constantly assailed by the townsfolk wielding their largest buckets. Many of the patrons sit dripping in their clothes, having thrown as much over themselves as frequently as possible.

The oily Detective takes a patterned handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his brow. The landlord takes this fleeting moment to signal to Grim with his eyes who returns the glance but remains seated; sweat drenched and with multiple empty mugs in front of him.

The detective strides up to the landlord and clears his throat. His practiced smile is both polite and offensive simultaneously. The landlord prepares a clean glass as a goodwill gesture but the detective waves away the offer.

“Good day Sir, my name is detective Dennis Carmichael and I’m here to investigate the disappearance of a one Billy Bentley, last seen entering this establishment several days ago.”

“Uh, yes we expected someone to come. We…have Billy’s body.” The landlord tries to swallow down his anxiety, Grim attempts to size up the detective from his peripheral vision alone and Carmichael merely raises an eyebrow at the news of his subject’s death.

“I assume this is not a confession Sir?”
“No! No, I, we…Myself and my staff were preoccupied, we only discovered Billy’s body after, whatever happened…had happened.”

“A day as warm as today…Must have had significant business. You couldn’t keep your eyes on every corner of the building.” The landlord cautiously nods accepting Carmichael’s freely given alibi.

“May I see the body?”

“Of course. Just through here.” He moves around the counter, opens the barrier and lets Carmichael follow him into the back of the building past the anxious barmaids feigning ignorance. Their voices fade as they progress to the tavern’s back rooms.

“I’d only warn you of the smell Detective.”

“Oh that’s alright; I’m quite accustomed to corpses in my line of work.”

Whether the landlord has a response or it is simply unheard, Grim can’t help hearing the detective’s last line as a veiled threat. Grim hated all kinds of officials, detectives and businessmen for their elusive motives and shifty demeanour.

“Yes he is very dead isn’t he?” Carmichael and the landlord walk back to the front of the tavern. “I’ll need some information on all the people you served on the day of the incident.”

“Well that’d be everyone in here now, Detective. We don’t get many new folk come this far.” Carmichael spins on his heel, leans his back to the wall and analyses the room, speaking in hushed tones to the landlord. Despite his age Grim has effective enough hearing and is sat close enough to the detective to hear their conversation.

“So everyone in here is a regular?”

“Yes Detective.”

“So you could in theory tell me about them? Their reputation and behaviour?”

“Er, yes I’ve known most of these folks for years now.”

“Proceed.” The landlord looks uncertainly at Carmichael who twists a hand gesture prompting the nervous tavern owner to continue.

The landlord subtly draws a finger towards the left side of the building and sweeps it across the room naming his patrons as he goes.

“Well, on the far left wiv the collared shirt we’s got Ticklish Tim and Naive Nancy, Mild Malcolm, Gentle Jill, Pat On The Back, Cuddly Cathy, Loyal Lloyd and Handshake Hansen on the far right there.

“What about this old fellow in front of us here?”

“Oh uh…That’s er…Grimace.” Carmichael strokes his chin thoughtfully.

Grimace slumped on the floor of his cell and clanked his handcuffs together. The smell of sweat and body odour was even more prominent here than in the tavern while cockroaches crawled in and out of gaps in the walls and bars like it was nothing. Grim nonchalantly kicked one of the bars with his good foot.

He might have to play the long game, he thought. Wait for an important prisoner he can take hostage or a weaker, less savvy guard but then, how long does he really have at his age? He fondly recalls a time in his youth when he simply kicked loose the inefficient bars but as he got older, construction improved and he has neither the strength to break out nor the time to wait 5-10 years for an opening.

“Psst, you lookin’ for an out?” Grim shuffled around to face his cell-mate. It’s important to face people in prison; shows a sense of equality that can buy trust, also stab wounds in the back are a hassle to fix up on your own. There are three other men in this cell, one lies asleep atop a rug in the corner, another observes silently and the third has dragged himself towards Grim inquisitively. He has no shirt or head hair but bloodshot eyes and a scraggly brown beard that is so unkempt he has probably tried tearing it out by the roots as an insane alternative to shaving. The quality of his advice might be suspect.

“Juss pull yourself through Skinny Smithy’s passage there.” The man gestures towards the prisoner sleeping in the corner who opens his eyes at the mention of his name. Grim scans the men suspiciously until “Smithy” sits up and ever so slightly lifts the rag he was lying “asleep” on. A dark hole in the cell floor is visible and as Smithy quickly covers the route again, Grim sharply looks back to the bald shirtless man.

“How in blazes did you wrangle a thing like that?” The bald man giggles prompting a raspy chuckle from Smithy as well.

“Ee’s my pa see? An his pa started digging that hole years ago.” The bald man squeaks.

“Family secret” mumbles Smithy through an elderly grin of sparse teeth.

“And you’ve never been rattled?”

“Naw, we fill the top with mud when we ain’t got the rug.” Grim glances around the soilless wood and stone of the cell before thinking better of his line of questioning.

“May I?” The bald man nods excitedly and Smithy lifts the rug. Grim considers asking about the third cellmate who remains motionless in the far corner, watching the proceedings but it is another mystery probably better left unanswered.

Never disregard an insane person’s advice, just don’t fully buy into it either. A hole in the floor is good enough, Grim concludes; he’ll work the rest out as he goes. He scuffles hastily towards the exit as Skinny Smithy slams the rug down and immediately drops back into his sleeping performance. Grim pauses in exasperation, before swiftly spinning around along with the bald man to see a smug visitor clop his expensive shoes into the corridor.

“Grim Wallace, didn’t expect to see you chewin’ the rag down here.” Detective Carmichael strolls off the steps and past Grim’s cell. Grim stays silent but can’t prevent his eyes darting to the ring of keys jangling at Carmichael’s pocket.

“Been given free rein to experiment a bit here Grim. Figured you’s a bit too handy to be bothered by a cell full o’ nutjobs…No offence fella’s.” The other prisoners fire bitterly vicious glares at him.

“Gonna try a new scheme we’ve hatched up in the city. We called it Community Service.”

“What do ya call it now then?” Grim growls. Carmichael simply grins, clicks his fingers and two burly guards thump down the stairs to escort Grim away.

Chained to a post like a dog, out in the blistering heat with two pistols trained on him at all times. This was the most unorthodox school Grim had ever attended and he’d seen at least six. Pretty sure he didn’t even rob one or two of them. The class of children, aged around 13-16, sit smugly in the shade about fifteen yards from Grim’s post, scribbling away in their notebooks amused by the whole peculiarity as their teacher glances sternly between them and Grim, who receives a far more cautious stare you might give a wild boar or a wolf.

“A pail of water…A pale-skinned boy… These words sound the same but are spelt differently.” Grim grinds his teeth together and clears his parched throat. “Who can spell the former?” The group of conceited children don’t respond beyond giggling and gossiping between themselves, staring out at Grim like he was a party clown solely for their amusement. One of the guards bounces a stone off Grim’s forehead from his seat over in the shade.

“Who can spell pale, as in pale skin?” Grim repeats. One of the children raises a hand and the teacher gestures to him. He stands up from his stool and confidently pronounces the letters.

“P-A-Y-E-L” Grim’s teeth slip against each other and clamp down hard on his tongue. His hand instinctively flies to his hip but there is nothing there to grasp. He sighs and spits on the floor.

“No. No, kid that ain’t it at all.”

“Tell him what it is then ya daft old coot!” The guard throws another stone at Grim while his colleague and all the students laugh uproariously. Grim snarls at the guard through gritted teeth.

“These are barely kids! They should know a basic word like pale by now. In fact they’ll need it to describe their faces when they’s all riddled with cholera!” The children and their teacher gasp in horror as the guards get up from their chairs and start beating Grim senseless.

This became Grim’s gruelling routine for a horde of unforgiving summer and autumn months. Mocking kids who either didn’t know or didn’t want to know the simplest of spelling and grammar rules whilst the guards peltered him with pot-shots as and when they fancied.

Every week or so he’d be dragged into Carmichael’s office for a gloating diatribe about Grim’s pitiful existence and the detective’s own magnificent cunning. All the while still being paid through the teeth by Bentley to bleed a confession out of Grim, as one or both of them decided his punishment was not yet severe enough and if a proper court could have him hanged, they would find a way to ensure it.

It was an overcast and monochrome day as Grim stepped into Carmichael’s office, directly overlooking the courtyard. There hadn’t been an incident requiring the guards in months so Carmichael only brought them in a few days a week. Fewer wages for them meant a greater share of Bentley’s money for him and he frequently smoked fine cigars, sipping wealthy liquor whilst talking to Grim, who had himself become entirely docile.

“So how do you like my latest addition Mr Wallace?” Carmichael was leaning back on his chair, resting his feet on the desk. He pointed with his lit cigar to a golden miniature of a waterwheel. “Very appropriate for an office of law don’t you think?” He spins the wheel with his little finger. “What goes around comes around…often with interest.” He chuckles to himself. Grim looks at the statuette indifferently, his cuffed hands hanging limp between his legs.

“It’s very nice Mr Carmichael.” The detective sniggers and takes a drag from his cigar.

“I don’t suppose you feel like confessing today does you?”

“Sorry Sir, not today.”

“Haha excellent. Then we’ll just run out the clock on this meeting and you can go back to your pem.”

“Did you mean pen Sir?”

“You’re telling me a pig’s home is not a pem?”Carmichael sneers down his nose at Grim, humouring his eccentricities whilst unscrewing a large bottle of whisky.

“A pig pen is where you keep pigs Sir.”

“Fascinating. That’d be one of those multiple meaning words you’re so fond of, correct? You live in a pen; I write to Mr Bentley that you’re still uncooperative with a pen. They sound the same but they’re in fact spelt differently.” Grim’s feet shift slightly underneath the table.

“Actually Sir, those two are spelt the same but have different meanings.”

“Haha, it’s alright Mr Wallace I don’t actually care for your pedantics”

“Pedanticalness is the word if you’re using it as a noun.” Carmichael places the bottle on the table and looks deeply at Grim for a moment.

“Now you are just joking with me.”

“Not at all Sir.”

“Pedanticalness is not a word.”

“You have an expansive dictionary on your bookshelf Sir if you’d like to confirm.” Carmichael smirks and takes another swig from the whiskey bottle.

“You know what, I will confirm, because I’d take no greater pleasure than proving you wrong.” He reaches up and pulls the dictionary from the top shelf as a plume of dust cascades from it onto his face. Carmichael chokes and coughs amidst the cloud of dust and drops the heavy book onto his desk to try and wave away the mist.

No sooner than the dictionary hits the table-top does Grim snatch the book with both hands and swing it with all the force he can muster solidly into Carmichael’s face, knocking him flat on his back. Grim crunches a foot down on each of Carmichael’s arms and lifts the dictionary high above him. Grim glowers at the detective with a devilish burning detest in his eyes. His mouth contorted into a furious scowl full of repressed loathing.

Carmichael stares back, mouth agape but not so much surprised as confounded before a decisive downward blow of the dictionary ends his silver-tongued schemes. Tasting freedom at last Grim has to think quickly about exonerating himself from a murder as well as a jailbreak. He grabs the detective’s pen.

Weeks later in the tavern, Grim enjoys a quiet drink without quite as harsh a heat on his back. A polished new revolver sits modestly up his sleeve. The calling card left at the scene of Carmichael’s murder claimed responsibility for both his murder and that of Billy Bentley, allowing Grim to walk free when the police found him sitting obediently in the courtyard. The landlord pours Grim another pint and leans in closer as he passes it to him. “Tell me again, how the authorities don’t suspect you at all Grim?” Grim sips his drink and smiles.

“Supposedly the calling card was rife with spelling mistakes.”