william s. burroughs - salt chunk mary lyrics
this is a place of dead roads. rod riding yanks and peat men and cat burglars, black bindle stiffs and hobo jungles. here is salt chunk mary the fence in her red brick house down by the tracks in portobello, idaho
mary keeps an iron pot of pork and beans always on the fire, you eat first and talk business later, watches and rings slap down on the kitchen table
she names a price, she doesn’t name another
mary can say ‘no’ quicker than any women i ever knew, and none of her ‘no’s’ ever meant yes
she kept the money in a cookie jar, but n0body though about that. her cold grey eyes would have seen a thought. and maybe something goes wrong on the next day. john law just happens by. or a citizen comes up with a load of double zero buckshot in your soft and tenders
[muttering.]
like mr. hart, kim has a dark side to his character. unlike mr. hart, kim is not afraid to hear the word death. or take his bl–dy chances in a shoot out. sat-rday maybe somebody from across the river comes in the uncle tesla’s saloon lookin’ for trouble. he won’t have to look far
‘the short barrel, double action .44 tonight’, kim decides. as soon as kim walks through the swinging door, he knows this is it
two men at the bar by the door, one is tall and thin with a dead sour wooden face. the other tall and fattish and loose lipped with lead grey eyes. loose lipped smile, showing his awful yellow t–th
‘now i don’t like drinkin’ in the same room with a fairy. do you clem?’
‘can’t says i do, cash’
yeah, they want to bat it around a while, but kim doesn’t…
‘are you gentlemen referring to me?’
kim’s hand sweeps down to his belt and up smooth and casual like he was giving clem his visiting card. as clem clears his holster with a .45, kim shoots him in the stomach. clem doubles forward and his false t–th fly out. his .45 ploughs a hole in the floor
kim pivots and shoots cash in the hollow of the throat. the bullet goes through and spatters the wall with slivers of white bone. cash buckles and his .45 chunks back in the holster. clem is weaving around tryin’ to re-c-ck his .45 with numb fingers. taking his time kim shoots him in the forehead. both -ssh0l-s are dead before they hit the floor!
as kim looks down at the two bodies crumpled there, spilling blood and brains on the floor – he experiences a rush of pure joy
two enemies will never bother him again. two lousy sons of b-tches melded into error and gun smoke. like a prisoner who’s k!lled his guards, he steps lightly though an open door
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