SERIALIZATION OF “the Zany Time Travels of Warble McGorkle” – Chapter 27 of 61
Warble’s PsyOps Against Santa Anna and the Mexican Army
Chapter 27
Warble’s PsyOps Against Santa Anna and the Mexican Army
Like a small dog who starts chasing a car—once it’s heading away from him—Warble sees that Santa Anna’s men are disappearing over the horizon.
“They’re fleeing to ‘Flea’” he yells out exuberantly. “Probably to the shining sea, if I’m not utterly mistaken.”
Tanglefoot tells Warble the ammo has given out—there are no chili or donuts at all left.
“Dang it!” is Warble’s response to that intelligence. “I wanted to have a bowl of that larrupin’ good chili in a victory celebration, as a symbolic in-your-face ... or actually in my face gesture. Oh, well. When you’re out of ammo, boys, you have two options: charge or retreat. If the latter is ‘not an option,’ then it’s time to ‘fix bayonets!’--remember the 20th Alabama at Little Flat Top!"
“But Warble, that hasn’t happened yet,” Marianne tells him. “And it wasn’t--”
“No matter,” Warble tells his security expert under his breath, waving his hand to silence her. “They don’t know that,” he gestures with his head back towards the Texicans. “For all they know, the present is the future. So this is like comparing peas and peaches, or perch and percherons, anyway.”
It’s all too much for Ward, who has overheard Warble’s aside to Marianne. WarbleLogic(™) has addled his previously moderately sound brain. Ward begins babbling and mumbling, and wanders off, away from the group that is mingling, commiserating, and socializing in the warm afterglow of all-out, unmitigated victory. Nobody notices Ward climb onto the parapet until it’s too late. With a whimper followed by an anguished shriek, he leaps out into space, and falls, head over heels and ankles over elbows, to the ground below.
Nobody takes time to check on Ward at the moment, though. The victory celebration is on—they drink Texas Tea and dance the Texas Two Step.
Soundtrack Note: “T for Texas” by Jimmie Rodgers, Lynyrd Skynyrd, or Dwight Yoakam
Once the tea cups have been drained and the Two Step stepped, the Texicans and most of Warble’s entourage chase the Mexicans due south. As they catch up to them at the border (just past the Taco Bell there), the Mexicans are settling in for lunch, to be followed by a siesta. Embarrassed over the indignity of the battle’s outcome, and livid over the poor usage of their stylish uniforms, Santa Anna’s men pointedly deign to acknowledge the proximity of their foes, seemingly completely ignoring even the very existence of the Texicans and their funny friends.
Warble wants to get as much mileage out of his victory as possible, though. On an adrenaline high, his trash-talking reaches new heights of hubris, pinnacles of impudence, and depths of inimitable inanity. But there is a method to Warble’s madness: He doesn’t want this defeat to decline in significance in the eyes of the Mexicans as time passes, like a spring-training baseball game does at the onset of fall. He wants the Mexicans to be so angry that they will fight like madmen the next time, at San Jacinto, and win by any means (or nices) necessary.
Warble accomplishes his goal. Each soldier in Santa Anna’s army, even normally easygoing ones with peaceful tendencies and pleasant dispositions who just came along with the army for a lark, as well as those who were pressured into serving against their will, vow in their hearts to not just beat the Texicans next time, but trounce them beyond any doubt—unconditional surrender of Texas or bust! Not that they want the ‘prize’--they just want sweet revenge.
After the Mexicans finish their meal (which sticks in their craws) and their siesta (which is spent tossing and turning and gritting their teeth), they silently pack up and move on, south for the season, somewhat reminiscent of a team of Arctic Terns, a gaggle of Canada Geese, a murder of crows, or a bunch of lightly clad hobos.
Warble returns to the Alamo to survey what he considers to be his parade grounds. Walking around the perimeter of his “castle,” as he now views it, all of a sudden he comes upon Ward, unconscious, lying on his back at the base of the Alamo’s south wall.
Warble hopes Ward is not dead -- because then he might have to help dig his grave and/or be expected to tip the undertaker after the burial rites. And where would he find a replacement image consultant among these uncouth and barely civilized Texicans? Scarcely a one of them would know a cuff link from a handcuff or a manicure from a manatee.
Warble finds, though--much to his relief--that Ward is OK after all. A giant glob of congealed chili had broken his fall, and his head is resting on a day-old Texas-sized donut. As Ward sleeps soundly, Warble gazes wistfully upon the macabre scene. “Typical image consultant,” Warble says to no one in particular. “Stages his own dramatic and glorious demise, but then doesn’t follow through with it. Chicken, probably.”
Comatose as he is, Ward is not in the least bothered by Warble’s ramblings. His face is at turns angelic in peaceful repose, then scrunched up as if concerned with a matter.
Suddenly, Ward wakes up with a start. “Chicken? Did I hear somebody say ‘chicken’? I’m famished! I could eat a horse. Well, I could eat just about anything right now—anything but Texas Chili and donuts, that is. How about an armadillo? I’ve heard they taste like chicken...”
“There’s a Taco Bell down at the border, Robespierre,” Warble says. “We need to go back there, anyway, just to make sure Santa Anna isn’t trying to sneak back over the imaginary line and get revenge before his time.
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Blackbird Crow Raven’s “the Zany Time Travels of Warble McGorkle” is being serialized in this space each Sunday and Thursday; it is also available in its entirety from here.
You can listen to the recording of this excerpt, by the author’s alter ego, here: