Der Untergang des Abendlandesmenschen
THEY RODE THROUGH THE FLICKERING LANDSCAPE to the tune of organ music.
Bronco Billy, short like an old sailor, and William S., tall and rangy as a windblown pine. Their faces, their horses, the landscape all darkened and became light; were at first indistinct, then sharp and clear as they rode across one ridge and down into the valley beyond.
Ahead of them, in much darker shades, was the city of Bremen, Germany.
* * *
Except for the organ and piano music, it was quiet in most of Europe.
In the vaults below the Opera, in the City of Lights, Erik the phantom played the Toccata and Fugue while the sewers ran blackly by.
In Berlin, Cesare the somnambulist slept. His mentor Caligari lectured at the University, and waited for his chance to send the monster through the streets.
Also in Berlin, Dr. Mabuse was dead and could no longer control the underworld.
But in Bremen . . .
In Bremen, something walked the night.
* * *
To the cities of china eggs and dolls, in the time of sawdust bread and the price of six million marks for a postage stamp, came Bronco Billy and William S. They had ridden hard for two days and nights, and the horses were heavily lathered.
They reined in, and tied their mounts to a streetlamp on the Wilhelmstrasse.
“What say we get a drink, William S.?” asked the shorter cowboy. “All this damn flickering gives me a headache.”
William S. struck a pose three feet away from him, turned his head left and right, and stepped up to the doors of the Gasthaus before them.
With his high-pointed hat and checked shirt, William S. looked like a weatherbeaten scarecrow, or a child’s version of Abraham Lincoln before the beard. His eyes were like shiny glass, through which some inner hellfires shone.
Bronco Billy hitched up his pants. He wore Levis, which on him looked too large, a dark vest, lighter shirt, big leather chaps with three tassels at hip, knee, and calf. His hat seemed three sizes too big.
Inside the tavern, things were murky gray, black, and stark white. And always, the flickering.
They sat down at a table and watched the clientele. Ex-soldiers, in the remnants of uniforms, seven years after the Great War had ended. The unemployed, spending their last few coins on beer. The air was thick with gray smoke from pipes and cheap cigarettes.
Not too many people had noticed the entrance of William S. and Bronco Billy.
Two had.
* * *
“Quirt!” said an American captain, his hand on his drinking buddy, a sergeant.
“What?” asked the sergeant, his hand on the barmaid.
“Look who’s here!”
The sergeant peered toward the haze of flickering gray smoke where the cowboys sat.
“Damn!” he said.
“Want to go over and chat with ’em?” asked the captain.
“&%#*$ no!” cursed the sergeant. “This ain’t our #%&*!*ing picture.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said the captain, and returned to his wine.
* * *
“You must remember, my friend,” said William S. after the waiter brought them beer, “that there can be no rest in the pursuit of evil.”
“Yeah, but hell, William S., this is a long way from home.”
William S. lit a match, put it to a briar pipe containing his favorite shag tobacco. He puffed on it a few moments, then regarded his companion across his tankard.
“My dear Bronco Billy,” he said. “No place is too far to go in order to thwart the forces of darkness. This is something Dr. Helioglabulus could not handle by himself, else he should not have summoned us.”
“Yeah, but William S., my butt’s sore as a rizen after two days in the saddle. I think we should bunk down before we see this doctor fellow.”
“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, my friend,” said the tall, hawk-nosed cowboy. “Evil never sleeps. Men must.”
“Well, I’m a man,” said Bronco Billy. “I say let’s sleep.”
Just then, Dr. Helioglabulus entered the tavern.
* * *
END OF SAMPLE
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