John Wayne's Execution

Ford’s Bastard

You want me to beat the crap outta them? John Wayne asked, standing on a stage, peering down at a line of movie extras. His towering cowboy hat blocked out their sun as they looked up, staring at his high-mesa shoulders that added another butte to the Monument Valley skyline.

Yes, John Ford announced from the perch of his director’s chair. No more Westerns, romances, or war pictures. I’m going to deliver what the world wants. 

An’ what’s that? Wayne asked, digging his chubby pink thumbs into his belt.

To watch the Duke knock the hell out of a line of people.

I like the sound of that, Wayne grinned. Ah’ll smash ’em ta smithereens.

Shut your clam, Ford sneered. You’re wasting my daylight.

Wayne lowered his head like a scolded child.

Feeling the sun’s heat, Ford pulled down his ball cap embroidered with the name of his prized yacht, Araner. Under his thick Coke-bottle glasses, he wore a left eye patch that intimidated everyone. He glared at his film crew, judging them to be incompetent fools. All right, ladies, he yelled, look alive goddamn it!

The movie set sprang into action as everyone avoided Ford’s wrathful eye. Before yelling obscenities about their mothers, Ford spotted sheep cooling in the shade of a towering butte. Scouring the rest of the valley, he discovered another herd approaching his shot. George, front and center! he hollered.

A young man in sunglasses dashed forward. Yes, sir?

George, you have five minutes to get those goddamn sheep out of my goddamn shot or today’s your goddamn last.

Yes, sir.

Without any hesitation, George ran for his Hollywood life to the nearest pickup truck. He jumped in, revved the engine, and sped off in a cloud of dust. The truck blazed through the desert, snagging enough cacti and bushes on the front grill to start a botanical garden. Nearing his target, George punched the horn and frightened the bleating sheep into a slow stampede. A Navajo girl stood up from behind a boulder. She waved her middle finger at George and chased after her flock.

Ford chuckled until he felt the sun burning his pale arms. Give me some shade, he snapped, glancing at his assistant.

Yes, Mister Ford.

The assistant opened a Hawaiian-flower-print parasol and carefully covered his director.

All right, Duke, Ford said, pointing at the line of extras. These people are pissed and sore about your masculine aura. They detest your manliness. Your manhood. Your virility.

My what? Wayne winced.

Ford shook his head with disappointment. Needing to calm down, he pulled out a pipe, allowed his assistant to light it, and puffed away as he leaned back in his chair. Duke, Ford said, mingling smoke with words, these folks hate you for being the world’s toughest American.

Well, they outta after seein’ my pictures, Wayne grinned.

Ford nearly dropped his pipe. He could not believe the ingratitude of his celluloid child. He glared at his assistant and asked, Did that prairie-turd say what I think he said? 

Yes, Mister Ford.

Like clockwork, the assistant immediately replaced Ford’s pipe with a monogrammed handkerchief that had four Academy Awards embroidered on it.

Goddamn it, Ford muttered, gnawing on his Oscar hankie. I’m the one who transformed Marion Morrison of Iowa into the Duke of Hollywood, awarding him fame, fortune, and immortality. Ford simmered with rage until he burst out yelling, Marion!

Hearing his birth name, Wayne’s face contorted between humiliation and anger. In 1939, he had declared a Hollywood decree that forbids anyone from using his given name. He even enforced it on his mother, Judy.

That’s right, ma. From now on, ya call me John Wayne . . . or the Duke.

But . . . But Marion?

Nope, it’s John Wayne or the Duke.

But, Duke’s our dog’s name.

Shut your pie hole, ma.

As Wayne’s decree prevailed over Hollywood, Ford was immune to it. He had liberties to call his star whatever he pleased. When he was satisfied, he awarded Wayne with nurturing nicknames.

Duke.

Ringo Kid.

Paleface Stud.

Hollywood King.

But when Ford lost his temper, he nicknamed Wayne a variety of animal excrement, body parts, and foreign obscenities that rolled off his tongue like an Irish carny.

Prairie-turd.

Cockeyed cowboy.

Dingleberry.

Ostrich-ass-mongrel.

"Goddamn puffter."

After a verbal assault from Ford, Wayne always thanked god for being fathered by a pharmacist named Clyde. Sometimes he phoned him, asking a peculiar question that a son asks a father. Pa, what’s a dingleberry?

Well, Marion . . . Sorry, I mean, Duke . . . A dingleberry is small speck of excrement that clings to the hairs around your anus. They can be quite discomforting and even painful to rip out. So if you find yourself in such a predicament, I can send you some ointments, tweezers, rubber gloves.

Nope, there ain’t any predicament here, pa.

Besides his birth name, Wayne had another Achilles’ heel; he had never served in the military. This fact was severely painful to him when it was mentioned by Ford, who had experienced combat during World War II and retired as a rear admiral. Since Wayne had played so many different roles as a soldier, people just believed he was a real war veteran like Jimmy Stewart, Clark Gable, and Lee Marvin.

Marion, you yellow-bellied civilian, Ford scowled.

The crewmembers snickered as Wayne looked on in horror.

Now, let’s get this straight, Marion, Ford smiled devilishly. For this scene, I want you to imagine you’re a blabbering little girl, and the extras are stealing your dolls, which causes you a hissy fit. So whoever comes on stage, scratch ’em, slap ’em, do whatever it takes to knock ’em down. Do you understand me, Marion?

Wayne nodded, sulking in the shade under the brim of his cowboy hat.

Okay, people, Ford hollered, let’s get this in the can before lunch! Ford tossed his Oscar hankie to his assistant who frantically caught it before it touched the ground. Dirt on this holy handkerchief was a great sin in the Ford camp. Signaling he was ready to shoot, Ford raised his arm. Sound?! he yelled.

A man in earphones switched on the audio recorder. Speed! he replied.

Camera?! Ford cued.

A cameraman waved a fly from his burnt face and pressed the trigger. Rollin’! he answered.

Slate?!

Stepping into the shot, a man in a Dodgers ball cap announced, "John Ford’s Bastard, scene one, take one." He clapped the slate and disappeared off frame.

Annnnnn’ action! Ford hollered, dropping his arm.

Wayne brewed intimidation at the extras by tilting his head and tightening his cantankerous blue eyes.

Cut! Cut! Cut! Ford yelled. Duke, I need more of a bullish physique. Take off your top.

Without any hesitation, Wayne ripped open and chucked his Western shirt. He was happy to hear his Hollywood father call him Duke again. Looking down at his pale skin, he spotted a stomach roll spilling over his trousers. The protruding gut scared him. He feared Ford might order him to diet or even exercise. To hide his fat, he inhaled deeply and covered his waist with his big hands.

The paleness of his star caught Ford’s attention. He always preferred the bronze skin Wayne had worn on Ford’s yacht, Araner, soaking under the Acapulco sun. Makeup, grease the Duke, he ordered.

A woman in coveralls ran frantically to the catering truck, grabbed a plastic tub, and sprinted to the stage. She ripped off the lid and rolled up her sleeves like Rosie the Riveter.

Mmm, honey butter, Wayne murmured, closing his eyes, and swaying to the rubdown.

Amused by his star’s greasing, Ford decided to film it. Sound?! he called out.

Speed! replied the audio tech.

Camera?!

The cameraman pulled the trigger. We’re rollin’!

Slate?!

The Dodgers fan appeared before the lens. "John Ford’s Bastard, scene one, take two." He clapped the slate and walked off.

Makeup, stay in the scene, Ford ordered. Annnn’ action!

The first cowboy extra stepped onto the stage. He stood in shock, watching Wayne being buttered as the other extras joked about frying bacon and eggs on the Duke’s body.

Shut your goddamn traps, Wayne sneered, or ah’ll eat ya for breakfast an’ crap ya out in a ditch. 

Terror silenced everyone. Ford loved it. 

Wayne stepped forward, flexing his shiny-flabby arms like a boxer preparing to strike. Wipe that grin off your face, he glared.

Oh, Jesus, the extra murmured. He had seen the Quiet Man six times; a film of Wayne playing Trooper Thorn, a boxer who kills his opponent in the ring.

Wayne leaned in, tightening his squint until his eyes were almost shut. So, you’re here ta . . . kick my ass?

The aroma of honey butter and Wayne’s sweaty armpits reminded the extra of his mother’s meatloaf. He felt nauseated by it. No, sir, he blurted out, I’m only here to sing.

. . . Sing?

"Yes, sir. My agent said this was a musical like Oklahoma."

Well, don’t worry, mister. You’ll be singin’ alright.

I will?

Wayne pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a match across his boot. Yep, he grinned in a cloud of smoke. You’ll be singin’ ‘Oh, What an Awful Morning’ written by my two fists. Wayne viciously flicked his cigarette, bursting the man into sparks.

Oh, Jesus! the man cried, patting off the embers and leaping from the stage. He dashed into the latrine with all eyes following his demise. A crewmember peeked in. He signaled thumbs up for vomiting.

Pleased by his performance, Wayne unleashed a devilish chuckle that echoed through Monument Valley and rippled across America.

Children cried.

Women swooned.

Men cowered.

My bastard, Ford triumphed.

Jack West

Jack West, an old World War II vet, sat in his kitchen, watching television as clippers buzzed his silver flattop. The barber was his 18-year-old grandson, Gabriel, who had moved in after high school. If ya don’t give me a fine cut, Jack said, rolling his toothpick between his lips, you’re sleepin’ with the coyotes tonight.

Gabriel shook his head trying not to laugh. His grandfather’s verbal abuse always amused him. The day he had moved in, he found Jack living in a house from the 1940s that had linoleum tiles, urine stained bathtubs, and a bullet-riddled couch. In exchange for free rent, Gabriel completed weekly chores and crew cuts. As he buzzed his grandfather’s hair, a local TV commercial blared into their lives.

All horse supplements are now on sale, a cowgirl announced, shuffling in boots, and whirling a lasso in the middle of a feed store. We got hoof starters, muscle aids, coat supplements, an’ dewormers.

Dewormers, Jack chuckled. What that gal needs is a horse tranquilizer.

Gabriel switched off the antique clippers. You say something, gramps?

Yeah, no sideburns. I ain’t Elvis.

Adjusting the blade, Gabriel flipped the switch and shaved off the last remnants of Presley.

That’s good, Jack said. I need to look sharp today. 

What you gotta date, Gabriel joked.

Jack glared back at his grandson with a cold face reserved for solicitors and unwelcomed guests. He has not dated since his wife, Carol, had died 17 years ago.

Gabriel nervously tucked his unruly hair behind his ears and prepared for the worst.

Before Jack started yelling, the theme music of the morning news invaded his home and redirected his attention. On the television, a news anchorwoman smiled a mouth full of white pearls. Rising to the challenge, Jack revealed his own choppers as if it was some kind of teeth-off. He prided himself in still having a full set, which he credits his home dental plan of packing five toothpicks in his back pocket. 

The top news story was about China’s first lunar astronauts called taikonauts. Their mission was considered insignificant to the first U.S. landing in 1969, but the Americans never allowed a woman to step on the moon, so China sent three: Sufang Wu, Sheng Fang, and Xian Sung. When their rocket launched, they became an overnight media sensation that launched them into the celebrity stratosphere.

Jack leaned in closer to the television, examining the women in their space capsule of flickering lights. He thought they looked like sardines in a can. Jeezus H Christ, he blurted out. We got Chinese dames in outer space. Gabriel remained silent, giving his grandfather’s anger some room. This is Bob Hope’s FUBAR, Jack muttered. He should’ve never visited the damn commies. Jack had never defrosted from the Cold War; communism still scared him. He flicked his toothpick at the taikonauts and limped off to the bathroom.

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~ Sherwood ~

Jack had lived his entire life in Sherwood, a large town nestled in the northern pinelands of Arizona. The local economy survived by siphoning off Grand Canyon tourists who stopped for meals, refreshments, hotel rooms, and souvenirs. The popular mementos were Grand Canyon playing cards, shot glasses, and behind-the-counter calendar porn like Sex in the Canyon, Dudes in a Hole, The Grand Vagina, and Topless Trails. Besides the tourists, Sherwood had a large number of desert dwellers from Phoenix and Las Vegas who visited for the cool summers and clean air.

For Jack’s livelihood, he had owned an auto repair shop until he handed it over to his son, Elias. In retirement, Jack remained in excellent health with a daily regimen of pushups and curling water jugs. He exercised mostly in front of the television. Many times he got personally involved with the daytime soaps. Leave his sorry-ass, Blair. Don’t be a fool. He’s a lollygagger. He doesn’t wanna have your baby.

Jack stayed on his feet in his old age by walking to the local American Legion Post. At the bar, he always ordered a shot of pomegranate juice. It became his favorite drink after an older vet had told him, "It’s