Rowdi Bonebender eyed the goings-on with that wily smile of hers. Things looked normal out by the Diamond DC corral. Noisy was all.
Roomfulla Grones fragmented yet another beer can with precision hits from a handcrafted Mongol bow. The office Amazon reveled in her skills at horde warfare, delving into everything there was on the Khan, barbarian family values, and continental invasion, particularly that neighborhood genocide stuff.
Already one scary bowperson, Roomfulla had recently mastered the dark Mongol bludgeoning arts as well, which explained the blood-soaked hambone dangling from her waist chain. Too, the office Amazon’s knowledge of 12th century steppe table manners helped liven meals up when the girls were out on the trail.
Uzi, off a two-fisted quick draw out of twin Gucci holsters strapped to her chaps, pulled on those shiny pearl-handled irons of hers, plugging alcoholic beverage container fragments sky high. Shiny bits sprayed everywhere, twirling through the morning air. Rowdi’s life sidekick wasn’t into the Genghis thing so much.
Uzi just liked kicking a$$.
As for the trail boss herself, America’s favorite chiropractic healer had heard the stock market might not get a Santa Claus Rally this year, and that didn’t set well with Rowdi Bonebender. The Musculoskeletal Doc knew all about short-selling sidewinders from her subscription to The MacDougal Post, and figured this had something to do with them. Up yonder in the badlands folks call New York City, things had gotten way out of hand, taking Ireland down and all, menacing the Portuguese, but messing with Santy was a tad beyond tolerable. The cowgirl had told the gunslingers and Roomfulla, and all the girls agreed, and the healer and her posse were itching to ride on into Hellhole Town and settle the score, if the jolly old man didn‘t get his year-end bounce this go-around.
Head-‘em-up was starting the moment the Dow-Jones Industrial Average turned down, ride-’em-out to follow soon as the hoss trailer could get offloaded at their Holland Tunnel base camp.
Then it'd be shoot-’em-up time.
“Hold on, Cowgirl.” That would be yours truly. We had a situation on our hands. “Santa Claus Rally don’t go up every day.”
“It don’t.” Healer sounded real disappointed at that news.
“Nope. Goes up some, then down some, but not as much. At the end your Dow Industrials are ahead pretty good.”
“Shucks.”
“Gotta take a wait-and-see, Cowgirl. Give it to the end of the month.”
“Well, if you say so.” Crestfallen, the healer holstered her .44 Magnum with a great big sigh.
“Sorry.”
“Aw, that’s all right, Hoss. Month ain’t long to wait. We got plenty of ammunition.”
“Bye.”
“Bye. Come on, girls. We gotta throw down. Corral’s gonna be running outta empties soon.”
God help us, the Dow don’t end this month higher than she starts today, and it’s gonna be a different kind of New Year‘s Eve up there in New York City.
Might think about avoiding Times Square for sure. 42nd Street hoedown sounds like a party magnet for the Bonebender Bunch. Probably be popping that poor balloon to the ground with slugs from them old .44’s. And that’s just for starters.
Nope, I wouldn’t want to be anywheres near them badlands, rally don’t rally this year. Messing with Santy.
That just ain’t right.
