Jesnails

A small while back I posted this, and everybody seemed bewildered. Well, here's what it was for. This is another joint effort between me and Ella.

The whole of the first part will be up in full on my own site shortly, but this thread's here to provide the Jesnails Digest Service :cooler: for readination in smaller chunks.



Prologue

The fish zigzagged upstream, darting to and fro and consuming the microscopic planty molecules that billowed up from the silt as they disturbed it, basking in the epic glow of life. This was their world, their time, and they did not ever think to contemplate the world and time beyond it.

Then a shadow eclipsed the sun, and the fish dispersed as the instinct for survival took over. They lingered in the depths, however, drawn by a curious sense of foreboding, and watched with their weird, unblinking eyes.

The shadow moved and the light shifted, outlining its edge. It was vast and round, like the sun itself, a vision that rippled in the water's surface. The shadow grew larger, apparently moving towards them, and yet the fish did not flinch, waiting with bated gills for what would happen next.

The shadow resolved, becoming a face, but one unlike they had ever witnessed before. Two circular pools of dark light gazed down upon the fish, their depths shimmering as the sunlight did on the water. Upon this strange and amazing entity sat a huge and wondrous, perfectly rounded crest of tight black curls which obliterated everything the fish had ever known.

The fish were deeply in awe, and craved such a crest for themselves.

And so, on the Seventh Day of her Prehistoric Visit, Jesnails did create fashion.

'Let there be disco!' she added, stepping one platform boot forth and pointing to the skies.

And the fish were dismayed, for they were not able.

Jesnails smoothed out her dazzling white suit and fixed its high collar. Then she stepped back and planted her ridiculous platform boots shoulder-width apart, facing meaningfully ahead towards some mountains. After a few seconds (a measure of time not previously conceived), white circles of light from within her fine crest came to life and blinked impressively on and off like festive decorations.

The world around her flickered and jumped like an old video, and then restored to its normal stability. One of the afrolights dimmed and died with an unpleasant fizzling sound. Jesnails looked around. She was in a different place, but not where she had intended to be. After a moment of awkward silence, Jesnails tilted her head to one side and poked around in the mysterious insides of the afro to try and sort out the problem. The afrolights suddenly surged with a new, blinding brightness; there were a couple of pops as further lights blew out, and a curl of smoke rose up from the afro's centre.

Jesnails stood in thought, considering her next move.

And then the world around her squeaked and crackled, broke up and burned away, and with an alarming sound not unlike a mouse caught around a motor, Jesnails was launched forward a period of one thousand, eight hundred and seventy-five years.

Little Pigaloo, USA 1875

The train chugged proudly and boldly forth through the desert, leaving in its wake the thick, dark smoke of grand industrial achievement. The driver leaned out of his locomotive and enjoyed the ride, allowing his balding locks to blow freely in the wind, until a speck of dirt or sand or somesuch got in his eye, and he had to retreat back into his cabin to deal with it.

He therefore didn't notice the ropes tethered across the track at curious angles to the few trees that were either side. The train shuttled blindly into them; the trees bent back and the ropes snapped, leaping like thrown snakes into the air.

The driver stumbled back to see why his train had slowed, blinking watery eyes.

Then, with a thump, the train hit a wall of hay.

And another.

And another still.

The driver waved away clouds of straw as the train finally came to a stop just short of, strangely enough, a goat indifferently chewing on some shrub. It was also tethered to a tree.

The driver, rubbing his eye, squinted with his other and looked around with a vague expression that suggested something which was not supposed to happen had done so. The boilerman, appearing behind him, was apparently feeling the same way. There were wagons, they noted. Why were there wagons here?

And then the driver was shot in the chest, and promptly fell to the ground.

There were shrieks of hooliganish glee as a look of horror appeared on the boilerman's face. He turned to seek shelter within the train, and an excitable group of the ambushers followed after him.

'Take it awl!' shouted a satisfied voice as a final gunshot sounded. With various whoops and yeehaws, the men proceeded in plundering the train carriages of their cargo, taking crates and sacks and the boilerman's boots.

The goods were loaded onto the wagons, the privelege of pulling them along being granted to several tired, weedy-looking horses.

Coals were shovelled into furnaces, knobs were tweaked and the train was set in motion once more. Those responsible jumped off, the last of whom was a fairly portly man dressed in black: black shirt, black trousers, black boots, black hat; and, mounting a stubbornly grey-white horse, he shouted, 'Got ma lucky goat? Good. Alright, back to town, y'all! Good work!'

And back to town they went.

* * *

Cool

The Shotgun and Spur saloon bar was, as usual, heaving. Most of the clientele were of the typical cowperson mould, flashing status symbols of varying monetary worth, style and importance; the only thing they all had in common was that they were all extremely clichéd. Shotgun and Spur patriots were your genuine non-Indian Wild Westerners. Pairs of guns were worn slung low around the hips, in case of emergency duel. Spiky spurs glinted on the back of nearly every pair of pointy-toed boots. All the men wore hats. All the women wore headscarves and dangly jewellery. Whatever it was, it did not matter. As long as you looked the part, you were in.

The saloon doors swing inwards, indicating the arrival of another thirsty mouth. The bartender glanced up. A white cowboy hat made its way through the crowd. The bartender looked back to his glass. A moment later, he frowned and looked up again. The white cowboy hat seemed to be accompanied by one of the things he hated most: silence. Silence always meant trouble. And there was definitely too much of it behind the white hat.

The bartender watched in trepidation as the hat approached the bar. Silence levels had increased with every step the owner of the hat had made. This was indeed bad. The bartender wondered who was wearing it to instigate such a reaction in his usually untameable crowd. The only thing he could tell from here was that the man wearing it was very tall.

When the hat reached the bar, the bartender realised he was wrong on both counts. The owner of the hat wasn't tall. And neither were they male. With growing amazement, the bartender realised he was staring at a… well, definitely not a man, with a white cowboy hat perched precariously on top of an enormous afro.

Jesnails smirked at the bartender, seemingly oblivious to the gaping mouthed reaction her presence had prompted in the people around her.

'Yo dawg,' she drawled. 'Trickle me a whiskizzle, baby, ya finest shiznit, dig?'

The bartender blinked. He wondered if he was hallucinating. This alien creature in front of him was like nothing he'd ever seen, or heard, in his life. The woman was wearing what could only be described as a white leather jumpsuit, with flared legs and sleeves, and covered from head to foot in tassels, giving the wearer the appearance of a white leather llama on its hind legs. Gold studs glinted along the edges of the hems and along the lapels. Bang in the centre of her chest was a large gold (plastic) star, encrusted with shining (plastic) diamonds, which spelt out the word 'YO'. The woman continued to stare back at him.

'Er...' he faltered finally. 'Er...'

The woman scowled. 'Yo' not speak ma lingo?' she demanded. 'Yo' STUPID?'

The bartender jumped slightly. 'Stupid?' he repeated stupidly.

'Ah, away with ya weirdo brutha,' the woman scowled, turning away. 'Yo' whiskizzle mose deffo horse pizzle anyways.'

The bartender shook his head, trying to shake away the shock. 'Who are you?' he demanded. 'Who are you and where do you come from?'

Jesnails turned back to him. 'Y'all know who I is.'

'I don't think we do,' drawled a gruff voice behind her. Jesnails turned. A thickset bear of a man wearing a bloodstained black jacket and a dented cowboy hat was standing in front of her, barring her way to the exit. He had his arms folded and his legs spread far apart, and a dark sneer upon his face. He didn't look particularly impressed. 'You better be explainin' your presence, friend. I'm the sheriff of this town, and you just don't look like you belong here.'

Jesnails folded her arms and looked back at him, unintimidated. 'Brutha, yo' hat made out of paper,' she declared.

The man looked slightly embarrassed. 'Ma horse ate ma hat!' he shouted. 'That don't mean I ain't the sheriff round here! Cause I am the sheriff round here! Look at ma badge!'

Jesnails looked at his badge. 'Yo' call that a badge?' she asked incredulously. 'Where's da bling, baby?' For clarification she pointed at her own badge, which sparkled even in the low light of the bar.

The sheriff peered at her badge. 'Hey, you can't be usurpin' ma authority like that! Where you get that from?' He leant in closer. 'Hey, are those real diamonds?'

Jesnails prodded the man firmly in the chest. 'Baby, I ain't in no mood fo' yo' shit. Tell me brutha, where can dis messianic bitchizzle get some o' that sweet bourbon shiznit I were thinkin' this ghetto wuz famed for? I ain't had a sip in damn near a week! Brutha coulda created damn world in less, ya dig?'

The sheriff looked stunned. He'd never been talked to this way. Indeed, he hardly understood what this mysteriously attired, big haired, weird looking bloke was saying at all.

'Look, I aint your brother. And if you want bourbon, damn well ask Sid the barman.' Sid the barman twitched at the mention of his name. 'All ma business is with you is what you're doin' in ma town, and what the hell you think you're doin' struttin' round with a bigger badge than mine!'

Jesnails glared at him. 'This ain't no brooch, baby. And you ain't gettin' it, so git yo' mahoosive ugly beak away from it!'

Jesnails decided to cut her losses. This establishment was clearly not going to give her any whiskey. 'Brutha's, it's been a jive rappin' with y'all, but I gotta jump. Check y'all on the grooveside, bitches.'

And with that, she poked the gaping sheriff out the way and strutted funkily past the frozen drinkers and out the door.

* * *

'I'm sorry, sir,' said Sheriff Bigbad, scratching his head as he shared the small man's bewilderment. 'I jus' can't help ya. It prob'ly happened some way down the track out in the open, is ma guess. Lookin' around those parts might help ya, but the trains keep passin' through here jus' fine. I wish I could be of more assistance, but I ain't seen nothin', and I doubt that any folk else here know a damn thing neither. We pride ourselves on impeccable law an' order here in Little Pigaloo.'

'Werl,' replied the harassed-looking man, casting his eyes around the town. 'If you're sure...'

'Surer than ma sheriff's badge, sir.' He helped the slightly diminutive man onto his horse. 'Jus' yell if ya need anything else,' he said. 'Well, I prob'ly won't hear ya all the way from New Oare, but I'm always here if ya need me.'

And with that, he smacked the horse on the backside and it took off towards the horizon.

Bigbad watched the man depart with a scowl, and cast a dubious glare around him before he returned to business, running his hand through his slicked-back, grey hair and replacing his paper hat on his head. He swaggered back through the town, making his way to a warehouse, which he slipped into after glancing furtively about once more.

Inside, his men were busy, moving things in and out of the warehouse, sacks and crates of newly acquired goods; counting, checking, rubbing their hands together at the prospects brought about by a job well done.

The sheriff looked around with satisfaction.

'Everythin's runnin' nice and smooth, boss,' said one of the men, Seriously Grubby Harold, strolling up to him, an especially scarred individual with a face covered in stubble. He was wearing new boots, the sheriff noticed. 'We reckon we's doin' so well we could even maybe afford to... you know, give the whole town a little somethin'.'

'Ya think?' asked Bigbad, looking around at the sheer volume of stuff that filled the warehouse. 'Feelin' generous, are ya? Well, maybe. But we got another problem on our hands.'

'Boss?'

'That new guy...the one in the bar with the diabolical hair. I don't like him. He's trouble and I can smell it.'

The scarred individual shifted in anticipation. 'You want us to deal with him, boss?'

Bigbad continued to survey their spoils. He was building himself quite a nice little economy here in Little Pigaloo, and didn't want anybody to start messing things up for him.

He nodded grimly and said, 'He ain't got no business here.'

* * *

i know you two have more of this hiding somewhere....

so why don't you post it? as quickly as possible please.

The sun blasted down upon Little Pigaloo. In a wide alley behind the Shotgun and Spur saloon, several large crates of decomposing rubbish softened in the heat, oozing a sticky trail of goo of indeterminable origin, which snaked its way across the sandy road.

The back door creaked open, revealing Sid the bartender. He leant out the doorway and launched another bag of pub waste onto the top of the nearest crate. It wobbled for a moment, before slipping sideways and toppling to the ground with a squelch. Sid paused before going back in, nose frozen in a distasteful wrinkle. He swore he heard something swear. After a moment he shrugged and went back in, slamming the door behind him.

Three of the sheriff's finest henchmen crouched silently behind a rubbish crate. J. Hemispheric, a killer whose aptitude with a whip was only exceeded by his resemblance to one, leant forward and peered towards the street.

'All clear,' he muttered, impressed with how official it sounded. 'You can let him go now.'

Parrot Dan removed his hand from his colleague's mouth. Meatbag McFairy spluttered.

'Yeah alright, you try 'avin' a massive bag o' stinkin' crap fall on yer 'ead without makin' a noise,' he whispered angrily.

J. Hemispheric flapped his hands. 'Shuttup! I can see her!'

All three henchmen peered around the crate. Approaching from the distance was a hazy outline of a figure, walking bouncily towards them, moving its arms in a rhythmic motion, as if they were dancing.

J. Hemispheric pushed the other two back. 'I need space for this manoeuvre,' he said quietly, again impressing himself with how cool he sounded. 'You two stay here and don't move until she's immobilised. Then come out and surround her.' He turned to Parrot Dan. 'And Dan? Don't forget your gun this time.'

* * *