Custard's Last Stand...
...in an alternate universe
Exciting new forensic evidence from the battlefield has revealed a somewhat different outcome in an alternate universe…
The Injuns
Chief Harmfish "Manny" Plentybone was somewhere between befuddled, consternated, and disgruntled. He could hear the fifes and drums of the 77th Cavalcade as they marched toward the Injun camp...
...although "camp" didn't exactly do justice to the size and portent of the gathering of tribes in which he and his band of Sue-Dey-Ayuss Injuns were ensconced. Near as he could figure, there must've been at least as many of them as the leaves on the trees, the blades of grass on the prairie, and the number of bison down at the Bisonic Temple on Toity-Toid street back in Noo Yawk, before Manny moved west to start a professional Injun band.
The befuddlement component of Chief Plentybone's tripartite conundrum was due to the apparent mind-numbing stupidity of the 77th Cavalcade troopers. "I mean, are these guys outa their friggin' gourds, or what?", he asked himself. Didn't these idiot white men know that there were enough Injuns gathered there to mash 'em into grease spots on the grass (figuratively speaking), if it came down to an actual battle? "And what's with the stoopid music?", he thought aloud. "Do they think they're sneakin' up on us with that racket goin' on?"
His consternation was natural, of course. Even though there was only one possible outcome of any battle these arrogant Bluecoat morons were likely to start—namely, their "total annihilation" by the Injuns, Chief Plentybone thought—it was still gonna be a royal pain in the ayuss to hafta whup these arrogant assclowns on short notice, foist thing in the morning.
Lastly, the Chief chalked up his disgruntlement to the fact that he didn't want to have to deal with any nonsense from anyone—least of all these paleface idiots—before he had his morning French Roast and bagel. Certainly, everyone in the neighboring tribe of Shy-Anne Injuns knew that. Hell, even the nearby clump of Ah...Rap A Ho' Injuns knew it. Nobody screwed with Manny Plentybone before he'd had his morning coffee.
"Well", he resigned himself, "I guess we'll just have to give 'em the ass whuppin' they're askin' for. Dickheads."
The Bluecoats
General Jorgé Armoire Custard-Stand wasn't the least bit dismayed as he ascended to the top of the ridge and looked down to find the largest gathering of Injuns ever seen by anyone. He was undaunted by the prospect of a contest with the Injun band that spread out as far as he could see. He was utterly convinced of his superiority, and his forthcoming victory.
The rest of the troop, however, was somewhat less confident, especially Trooper Philobyint ne’Zoogney. "Holy shit", he observed, "there must be about a billion o' them Injuns down there...maybe even thousands!" At least one of those estimates was accurate.
He didn't have time to brood. General Custard-Stand ordered his fife-and-drum corps to strike up a rousing version of his favorite martial music, Purple Hays, as the Cavalcade troop began their march. "Aw dammit to hell…not again!", commented Trooper ne’Zoogney. It always irritated him when they had to play Purple Hays, onna counta with only fifes and drums, they could never get it to sound like the record.
But General Custard-Stand was not to be deprived of each and every nuance that reinforced his delusions of glory, in which he imagined himself invincible. On they marched, the fifers desperately trying—and failing—to sound like fuzz guitar.
The Battle
Well, the rest is history, as they say. The band of Bluecoats met the band of Injuns on the field of the Battle of the Bands, General Custard-Stand obstinately insistent on Purple Hays, and the Injuns triumphantly blowing them away with the irresistible medley, Caravan (with a drum solo)+Don't Worry Be Happy+Let There Be Drums, all of which were perfect choices for their voice and drum instrumentation.
The judges were unanimous in their verdict. "Losers!", they proclaimed at the 77th Cavalcade. "Not even close to the record, you morons."
"I knew it", grumbled Trooper Philobyint ne’Zoogney. "I'm bailin' outa this band of losers and joinin' up with the Injuns."
The Victory Party
The Injuns partied all night, and lemmee tell ya…these guys knew how to party. Chief Manny had pretty good connections with the Michoacán tribe in Mexico, who cultivated a strain of weed so potent that you’d get a buzz off the stuff if you were downwind…and that was before you set fire to it.
Yes, a splendid time was guaranteed for all. Some of the more philosophically adventurous warriors broke out the peyote and penetrated the deeper mysteries of the cosmos. Ironically, unlike Trooper ne’Zoogney, they were actually fond of Purple Hays. One brave named “Rock That Rolls” (formerly Melvin Finkterberg of the Bronx) even had a copy of the original vinyl, autographed by Jimi “Dances With Stratocasters” Hendrix.
And so, as the iconic flatted 5th opening riff poured out of the stereo, one and all were irresistibly beckoned to join the victory party, and danced the night away.
The Part No One Thinks About
Anyhow, the Injun band moved on the next day with another victory under their belts, and the troopers of the 77th Cavalcade were stuck with the losers' task of picking up all the poop left behind by "about a billion o' them Injuns"...and the horses they rode in on.
See, nobody ever thinks about all the poop. I mean, they never show it in the movies. But anyone who's ever been in a band knows about it. Trust me on this. If yer gonna be in the music bizness, yer gonna hafta deal with an awful lotta poop.
I've been to my share of festivals. The aftermath is ugly indeed.
Dude.
You continue to channel DFW.
Reading this left me wondering if those durn Michoacános were setting up base camp around me.
Anyhow, my alternate title for this (not that I ever complain about custard) would be something like "At least billions o' them, maybe thousands!"
I have an inconsequential request: an absurdist tale, similar in tone to this, about an alternate universe battle between the Cartels and USAF.