Cactus Jack and the Beans Talk
or "Jack and the Beanstalk" aka "Jack the Giant Killer"
-as retold by Predator Press
[LOBO]
“You’ve got to be joking,” says Squatting Bull. “You actually believe the Vatican had the Taco Bell dog assassinated?"
“Jeez, man ... not so loud,” says Cactus Jack, peering from under his hat nervously. “I thought you people didn’t, you know, talk much.”
“There's nothing around us for fifty miles," gestures Squatting Bull to the vacant horizon. "And besides, that 'talking' thing is just another racial stereotype the white man thrust upon us.”
“Well you know what?” Jack replies, idly spinning the bullet chamber of his revolver. “Whitey did this. Whitey did that. Cripes I’m sick of it. At some point you have to assume some culpability here -and anyone that trusts a culture that digs Riverdance deserves exactly what they get.”
“How come you aren’t wearing the mask today?”
Jack stares down his gunsight at a distant tumbleweed, contemplative.
“I figure there’s no point in trying to hide my identity anymore,” he says finally.
“Huh,” says Squatting Bull. “I didn’t know it was to hide your identity. I thought it was, like, a public service or something.”
“Nope,” says Jack, oblivious of the subtle insult. “And for the record, I don't think masks made of cactus are a very good idea. The acne is a nightmare." Standing, he holsters his weapon. "Well, we better get movin. That Giant ain't defeating himself.”
“Hurry, Kimosabe," says Squatting Bull in a mock Indian drawl. "Me want see him tear paleface off, and shove it up own pasty butt." He arcs has hand overhead. "Me laugh many moons."
"Very funny."
Eyebrows furrowed, Squatting Bull folds his arms. "So what's your plan?”
“Were gonna use these magic beans I bought,” says Jack. Picking one from his shirt pocket, he places it in the dirt.
-And within moments, a 1973 Ford Pinto sprung up out of the ground.
“They didn’t have any Porsche beans,” Jack explains. “And it was either this or a bunch of GMs.”
“Eh,” Squatting Bull shrugged, checking the interior. “Then what?”
Jack scratches his neck thoughtfully.
“Then we trick him into driving it and rear-end him.”
-as retold by Predator Press
[LOBO]“You’ve got to be joking,” says Squatting Bull. “You actually believe the Vatican had the Taco Bell dog assassinated?"
“Jeez, man ... not so loud,” says Cactus Jack, peering from under his hat nervously. “I thought you people didn’t, you know, talk much.”
“There's nothing around us for fifty miles," gestures Squatting Bull to the vacant horizon. "And besides, that 'talking' thing is just another racial stereotype the white man thrust upon us.”
“Well you know what?” Jack replies, idly spinning the bullet chamber of his revolver. “Whitey did this. Whitey did that. Cripes I’m sick of it. At some point you have to assume some culpability here -and anyone that trusts a culture that digs Riverdance deserves exactly what they get.”
“How come you aren’t wearing the mask today?”
Jack stares down his gunsight at a distant tumbleweed, contemplative.
“I figure there’s no point in trying to hide my identity anymore,” he says finally.
“Huh,” says Squatting Bull. “I didn’t know it was to hide your identity. I thought it was, like, a public service or something.”
“Nope,” says Jack, oblivious of the subtle insult. “And for the record, I don't think masks made of cactus are a very good idea. The acne is a nightmare." Standing, he holsters his weapon. "Well, we better get movin. That Giant ain't defeating himself.”
“Hurry, Kimosabe," says Squatting Bull in a mock Indian drawl. "Me want see him tear paleface off, and shove it up own pasty butt." He arcs has hand overhead. "Me laugh many moons.""Very funny."
Eyebrows furrowed, Squatting Bull folds his arms. "So what's your plan?”
“Were gonna use these magic beans I bought,” says Jack. Picking one from his shirt pocket, he places it in the dirt.
-And within moments, a 1973 Ford Pinto sprung up out of the ground.
“They didn’t have any Porsche beans,” Jack explains. “And it was either this or a bunch of GMs.”“Eh,” Squatting Bull shrugged, checking the interior. “Then what?”
Jack scratches his neck thoughtfully.
“Then we trick him into driving it and rear-end him.”
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