By Satish Aparajit
For nigh on twenty days now, every saloon, telegraph wire, and hollerin’ news feller from here to the farthest canyon’s been yappin’ ‘bout one thing — the IIA War.
Now back in Injia, we don’t rightly got “news channels”. Nah, what we got is a full-blown stampede of shoutin’, screechin’, drum-bustin’ anchors hollerin’ louder than a coyote with its tail on fire.
Now lemme tell ya ‘bout ol’ Sudden — the most famous cowboy of the 19th century… or at least that’s what he thinks. Only difference is, this fella’s ridin’ around in the 21st century, wearin’ a golf cap instead of a proper Stetson, and tootin’ his own trumpet louder than a brass band in a dust storm.
One fine day, an Amigo from the “Holy Land” rides up — hair all golden like a prize stallion — and says:
“Hey there, Sudden… reckon you wanna hear what them Red Injuns are plottin’? They’re fixin’ to burn down Cowboy Land and snatch up all your P-dollars!”
Sudden leans back, cigar hangin’ off his lip, swingin’ a golf club like it’s a six-shooter (don’t ask), and says:
“Well now… that there sounds mighty interestin’. Go on, git ‘em! I’ll send my finest flyin’ iron horse — the USS Ford. We’ll blow ‘em clear into next Tuesday! Haw haw!”
So off they go — boom! bang! — flyin’ horses takin’ off like bats outta hell from the Holy Land.
But hold yer horses…
Barely two weeks pass, and ol’ Sudden starts smellin’ smoke — and it ain’t from his cigar. Turns out them Red Guards ain’t no tumbleweed pushovers. They done blocked the main strait tighter than a miser’s purse. Ships stuck, tempers high, and Sudden’s startin’ to look like a cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs.
He hollers:
“Hey! Where them Apachees at?!”
But wouldn’t ya know it — all his fancy friends in cowboy hats, bowler hats, and them big ol’ sombreros (you know the gang) — they done vanished faster than free whiskey at a rodeo.
Now it’s just Sudden and his Holy Land Amigo, standin’ in the dust.
Meanwhile, the Reds?
They’re laughin’ like hyenas at a picnic.
They even took a wild shot clear across the desert and hit a far-off ranch called Diego Garcia. Folks say Sudden dropped his trumpet mid-toot and hollered:
“Alright! Alright! No shootin’ for five days!”
Even his prized flyin’ horse carrier got banged up somethin’ fierce — limpin’ back home missin’ 16 of its best winged critters. Ain’t gonna be ridin’ out anytime soon.
And while all this rootin’-tootin’ chaos goes on, lands from Shiva to Zen to Yen to Down Under are sweatin’ bullets — no liquid gold flowin’, economies wheezin’ like an old mule climbin’ a hill.
Them self-proclaimed “Wish Gurus”? They’re holdin’ their breath tighter than a gambler on his last coin.
So what’s next in this here boom-boom, dishum-dishum rodeo?
New gangs. New rules. Maybe the P-dollar ain’t king of the saloon no more. Maybe the Holy Land’s future’s shakier than a one-legged stool.
But one thing’s for sure…Them Red Guards? They ain’t ridin’ off into the sunset.
They’re plantin’ their boots, pinning on shiny new badges…
…and lookin’ mighty keen to become the new Marshals of the Mid West.
(Satish Aparajit is a retired Wing Commander and Shaurya Chakra awardee.)
