Metaphor Shootout

When I saw the young kid ride into town, I knew there was

going to be trouble. I just didn't know how or when.


His gait was was easy and his horse shiny and slick as a

playground slide. His eyes were colder than a well diggers feet.

He looked meaner than a landlord with a hot check.


He rode past me a few feet then abruptly reined in his horse

and turned--on a dime.


"Well, as I live and breathe , ain't you Kid Metaphor?"


My mouth fell open like a four-dollar suitcase. Just as I

had feared. He was trouble, and he had played me like a banjo.

He had me with the sun in my eyes. I had been dumber than a well

rope.


"Well, well, I'm calling you out kid," he said, "there'll be

a new top tongue around these parts from now on."


Top tongue, that's what all these kids wanted to be. I'd

hung up my thesaurus long ago.

"We'll see about that," I bluffed.

I drew first. "You're pretty good, boy. You got the sun in

my eyes, and it's brighter than a teachers pet."


He didn't even blink. "You mean, brighter than a deputy's

flashlight, don't you?"


I ignored the counter. "You've got your hands full, boy,

before this is over, it's going to get tougher than a wood-

haulers' hind-end."


"You mean it's going to get tighter than Dick's hat-band?


He must be real nervous to drag up that one. Maybe I had

him licked. I'd try a double.


"Whoa there, that's an old one. You must be as nervous as a

card cheat in church. You're sweating like a losing sheriff on

election day."


He wobbled back a step, then got off a round of his own.


"Give it up, old man. You're sillier than a hat full of

navels. Getting around me is like going from Maine to Spain by

way of Arkansas."


I had to admit that hurt. He wasn't going to be a pushover.

Before I could re-load, he came at me again:


"It's all over, old man. In five minutes you will be riding

out here like the Russians were in Ft. Worth. To have lasted

this long your head must be harder than third grade arithmetic.

I'm going to melt you down like butter on hot bread."



I was hurt, the sky was spinning around. I gasped, "Your

head is harder than christmas candy."



He laughed. I knew that one was no good. I was desperate,

and I was falling. The next thing I knew, my back was in the

dust, and I was looking up at the boy. He was the new Kid.



"It's all over, pops. You look rougher than the back-end of

a shoot'in gallery."



"I know it." The sun was beaming down. "I'm hotter than a

pepper sprout, how about a drink?"



The new 'kid' knelt down and offered me his canteen. I took

a long swig.



I had to try one more. "That water's cooler than the other

side of the pillow," I looked up at him for approval.



"Not bad, old timer, but it's too late. It's all over but

the shouting."



He was right, he was top tongue now. Somehow, I felt

relieved. Now he could worry about who was out there waiting to

cut him down.


"I wonder who," I wondered.


An editor--probably. One with a pencil sharper than an

Enron accountant.