El Dupree, Selected Works, Volume 4 Alf the Poet, Editor Lindsey Durway, untitled: The Path is only for the Lost. May all find what they seek... After taking one last, long draw on the damp stub of his last White Owl Imperial Corona, El Dupree stood up slowly. The cigar butt fell from his hand onto the carefully arranged pile of pottery shards lying before his aging, hand-stitched boots. He had studied the shards for nearly 20 minutes, trying to divine their message. Should he take the left fork to reach Mejavi Mai? Or was it to the right? The orientation of the jug handle indicated, according to ancient Anasazi lore, that an eastern route was advised; thus the Lone Sage should take the left fork; but the cracked apothecary's mortar, poised so that only the noon-day sun of the summer solstice could illuminate its depths, suggested that he should follow the track of Ka'ela-Ta-Miyii-Qi'T, the mythical Jackal of the Red Mesa, who always took the westward trail. But it was the chipped fragment of medicine bowl with the Qabala runes scratched crudely across the upturned, convex surface that puzzled El Dupree the most. Could it be that Father Aureliano was even now trying to warn him away from the fate that almost certainly awaited him in the ruins of the El Grand Dolor saloon? Or was this just another one of Pablito's attempts to waste his time? And what of Manuel Transmicion? "In time, Pablito," muttered El Dupree as he fingered the loop of yarn at his waist, "in time." Alf the Poet, from El Dupree Down South, Life after Little Pockets: The stranger approached, as tall as El Dupree was wide. Taking care not to show his concern, the Unwashed One sat insolently under the bobo tree, his glamorous sombrero tilted upward from the pressure of his head against the trunk, a slight stain there. The stranger stopped, not ten feet away. "Senor," began the stranger, "you are the great El Dupree, yes?" El Dupree spat on the hard-baked ground at his feet. "Si," he replied, knowing that to try to stand would take too long. The tassels on his sombrero were as still as the stifling air. Only his eyes moved, tiny within the folds of his face. He had seen the man coming for miles, knowing that there was no longer any way to avoid the confrontation. The stranger said, "I am told that you are fast, senor. You do not look fast." "I have been faster than many," said El Dupree, his heartbeat and his thoughts slow now, loose, primed. The stranger drew his gun slowly, keeping it at his side, pointed toward the ground. He said, "I am called the Harbinger. I am not fast, but I have never lost." Then he was down, before he could even form the thought, his whole world suddenly the pain in his wrists and fingers! The Corpulent Compadre had barely moved. El Dupree said, "Hah, big man, fucking crusader! CamChata!!" Greg Anderson, untitled: Two buddhas walk into a bar...becue where a fine roast ox, the largest and most sway-backed ever seen west of the swollen Mississippi and north of the fetid Rio Grande, turns slowly on the spit as hickory chips hiss unrelenting fire. "Isn't that the ox we rode in on?" asks the first. "No, that is the Ox of the Western Plains," answers the second. "Watch your back, my friend. The Lipidinous Keeper of the Headsacks is sure to avenge the death of his only lifelong companion before this night is through." Alf the Poet, from El Dupree Down South, Life after Little Pockets: The blazing southern sun beat unmercifully upon the scene. El Dupree, the Muchicito of Mejave Mai, the Satyr of the Sisters of Mercy, grunted as another shaft of pain shot through his nether regions. The assailant had caught El Dupree off guard, as most did, and skillfully pressed the advantage by driving his head straight into El Dupree's impressively large gut. El Dupree tried desperately to twist away, but the well-coiffed head knocked the wind from his lungs and a decent portion of his lunch from his stomach. Though the people of Mejave Mai are kind and naive, willing to leap to the aid of anyone in distress, the onlookers held back, repulsed by the aroma of the Adipose Antihero and blinded by the light reflecting from thousands of sequins and rhinestones on the attacker's suit. Though almost of a size with El Dupree, the attacker was more agile, able to pivot almost unnaturally at the hip to smash again and again our hero's rapidly swelling face. A shout came from the street, "El Rey!! El Rey!!" Momentarily confused, the attacker paused, stood, and searched for the source of the distraction. El Dupree could see his assailant clearly for the first time. It was Elvis. Scanning the crowd, Elvis did not see the small figure creeping up behind him. Suddenly the figure struck with a 2-pound, leather-wrapped corzappa. With one motion he crushed the back of Elvis' skull and spit in El Dupree's face. "Sausalito!" the figure cried, "It is over!" Elvis crumpled to the ground at El Dupree's feet. El Dupree knelt and cradled the King tenderly. Elvis looked up with fading eyes. "You...ain't..." he gasped, "...ain't... nothin'... but... but a..." He never finished the sentence, and went on to immortality, or maybe to doing Volvo commercials in disguise. As the crowd began to disperse, El Dupree went into the street and, with a faint slorping noise, squatted. He picked up his many-tasseled sombrero and reverently brushed away the dust that covered it. Standing again with difficulty, he turned to face Delray Dupree, his only son, who had disappeared again after the fateful incident with the Aztec. Delray was still defiantly brandishing the Corzappa. "Well, my leetle enchilada," said El Dupree. "Again ju hav saved my ass. Weel ju come with mee to Monte Hall thees time, eh?" "Oh, sure," replied Delray, "as soon as you can touch your toes, Mr. Emilio Verrucoso." Heckler, untitled: El Dupree, sated, rested his bulk on the rough weave of Juanita's blanket. Juanita, moments before, had squirmed free from the embrace of the Lipidinous Drifter, and was now busily engaged in sweeping the floor, which was liberally covered with Masa Harina. It was hot. There were flies. Juanita seemed tired. The air was like the exhaust of a '57 Chevy, and smelled similarly. Juanita took great lungfuls of this noisome stuff, glad to be free from the pungent funk that enveloped the Unwashed Hero of the Western Plains. "El Dupree. Corazoncito." Cracking open an eye gummed shut with sweat and grime, the Odoriferous One espied Juanita looming over him--yes, all five feet two inches of her--with a frying pan in her hand. The aceite de palma within sizzled menacingly. "Juanita, are jou crazy? Put that pendejada down." But the gleam in the dusty woman's eyes did not abate. "I weel make jou all mine, El Dupree. Jou weel stay with me because I weel be the only one to love jour scarred face. I--" Thunk! The pan went flying, and Juanita fell like a sack of papas that had been badly tied to Pepito's back. Yes, Little Pockets had once again come to the rescue of El Dupree. The Adipose Protector eyed the sprightly boy suspiciously, and licked some residual Masa Harina >from his lips. "So, Delray. Three times now jou have saved me. I weel be satisfied now. I ask jou no longer: jou weel accompany me to the stripmalls of my youth, and we shall fiesta. Come." "Fuck you, old man. You're fat and slow. I have the corzappa." For there in his hand gleamed the ancient Aztec implement of justice, deadly and eternal. El Dupree sighed, "So be it." A few hours later, El Dupree pushed open the door of the Mejave Mai bar with the corzappa, and drank to Delray Dupree, trussed up like a chivo in the dusty heat of Juanita's room.