Rio Loco by Robert J. Conley

screaming. Sly said, “I’ll get the doc,” and went running off. “Somebody get me some whiskey,” I said.
    Bonnie dropped down on her fat knees right beside a’ me and went to wringing my free hand. “Barjack,” she said, “Barjack. Don’t die on me. Sly went after Doc.”
    Polly brung in my whiskey bottle from the desk, and I pulled my hand a-loose from Bonnie’s grip and tuck it. I had me a long drink. Then I said, “Hell, I ain’t going to die. I’m too damn pissed off to die.”
    â€œDoes it hurt, Barjack?” Bonnie said.
    â€œIt hurts like hell,” I said. “Who shot that son of a bitch?”
    â€œI did,” said Polly.
    â€œDo you reckon it was worth it to him to’a nicked me and then got his ass kilt like that?” I said.
    Bonnie tore off a piece a’ her petticoat and pulled my left hand away from the wound. Then she went to daubing at it with that rag. She made a hell of a face while she was a-doing that.
    â€œDoes it look that bad?” I said.
    â€œIt looks pretty damn bad,” she said. “Polly, bring me some water, will you?”
    â€œSure,” Polly said, and in another minute she done it. Bonnie dipped that rag in the water and daubed a little bit more. Then she tuck my left hand and washed the blood off a’ it. She tore off another bit a’ rag off a’ her petticoat and folded it up and laid it on that wound and held it down tight. About then the doc come in. Someone pointed him to the cell and Bonnie got outta his way.
    He studied on my hurt neck for a little bit, and then he went to messing with it. Whenever he was all done, I had some kinda salve rubbed on it and a bandage tied down on it. He stood up and picked up his bag. “Just keep quiet,” he said. “Don’t do anything strenuous for a while. It’ll heal up.”
    â€œSend your bill to Peester,” I said. He walked on out.
    I drank me some more whiskey outta my bottle, and pretty soon I dropped off to sleep. I dreamt that someone had shot me, and my whole head went flying off. I don’t know how I coulda been conscious the whole time and even seen my own head rolling around in the street, but that was the way it was. Course, it was only a dream. But whenever I woked up I couldn’t help thinking how stupid it was. Hell, my eyeballs was out there in my goddamn head, and it was rolling around in the street along with them other pieces a’ men what Happy had blowed up. I was a-standing on the boardwalk without no head, and so a’course, without no eyes, but still I was a-looking at my own head out there. Dreams can be awful damn dumb sometimes. Dingle had called that some kinda word one time, and I was a-wishing I could remember that word, but it just wouldn’t come to me.
    I tried to turn my head, but it hurt too bad to do that, so I just yelled out, “Dingle. You out there?” He come into the cell right quick, and he looked like he had been in a war. His shirttail was out on one side, and his shirt was full a’ bullet holes. There wasn’t no blood, though. His hair was all messed up, and his face and his shirt was smudged black from the powder his own shots had blowed back on him. “Damn,” I said when I seen him. He kinda grinned. He was holding his pad and a pencil, though.
    â€œThey came close but they never hit me,” he said. “What did you want with me, Barjack?”
    â€œWhat was that there word you used once? You said it meant something what was like a dream. Do you recollect?”
    â€œOh,” he said. “Yeah. It was surreal.”
    â€œSurreal,” I said. “Surreal. Yeah. That’s it. Well, I just had me a surreal dream. My head was shot off, and I was a-looking at it. It was a surreal son of a bitch.”
    â€œYeah. It sounds like it.”
    â€œSo that there’s the right word for it?”
    â€œI’d say