(Hey, yo, in case you want to get caught up with The Adventures of The Great Willie Young, click here, go back a few pages and start from the beginning. You'll never be the same again. And, oh yeah . . . prepare to have your brain melted.)
Today’s tale of The Great Willie Young comes down to us from the mid-19th Century, where it would seem that The Great Willie Young once again made a surprising appearance in time. But since this tale comes down to us from the Medicine Men of the old Sioux tribes, passed down through the ages through word of mouth in sweat drenched tee-pees, their words given shape and texture by mountains of peyote, the details remain sketchy. But I will do my best to fill in the blanks of history, like all great historians do, men like Herodotus, Thucydides, L. Ron Hubbard and Larry Flynt. I can’t tell you exactly how I know the details of this great tale because frankly, that shit would blow your mind. Let’s just say I was visited in a dream by a coyote who walked upright and who wouldn’t leave me alone until I agreed to smoke his peace pipe. He then made me vow to be racially sensitive and to not rely on vicious stereotypes in my recounting of what he told me, but I told him “Hey man, no promises,” and then I dove through a wormhole back into my own consciousness. I awoke covered in sweat with the sound of drums beating in my ears, a thunderous echo rooted in a past untold until now, a past which is inextricably bound with the tale of The Great Willie Young, and a past which I knew, upon awakening, naked in a field, that I had to tell all of you. You’re welcome.
It would seem that a small band of Sioux – an offshoot of that great people who, pressed by the crushing weight of American expansionism, had decided to go in search of new, untouched pastures – found themselves roaming, far south of their native Black Hills. They were a heartbroken people, having abandoned that holy realm, but they were a desperate people and in their desperation they turned to conjuring spirits to protect them during their sojourn. Bereft of warriors, this rogue tribe, forgotten by history, was mostly comprised of old women, children and one ancient Medicine Man. Their husbands and sons had refused to abandon their homes in the Black Hills, determined to fight the encroachment of the white skinned devil on their home turf, but this clan’s ancient Medicine Man saw the future more clearly than any other and he knew that his people were doomed to a heartbreaking defeat. For years he spoke terrible truths that his people were unwilling to hear, and eventually he was cast out by the Sioux warriors, sent to roam into his own personal oblivion. But there were those that heard him, those who would not abandon him, and it was these ragged followers who accompanied him on their search for salvation in the Great Plains to the south.
As I said, this raggedy tribe had no warriors and in their desperation they turned to conjuring spirits, relying on dark, savage rituals lost for hundreds of years to their people. But this ancient Medicine Man was in possession of this forgotten knowledge, these abandoned dark rituals. No one knew how old he really was. All they knew was that he had been with them for as long as even the oldest of them could remember, and they remembered that he was ancient even when they were children. But even though this ancient Medicine Man knew the rituals, knew the words and the necessary sacrifices to call upon the spirits, he lacked the sheer human strength to make them work properly. After all, he could not call upon the strength of the collective body of his new people, for as I said they were old and sickly or young and soft. And so the result of these rituals were often terrible abominations – crippled humans with coyote heads who vomited black bile and promptly died or giant buffalo with the heads of babies, who wailed, covered in afterbirth, before they succumbed to madness and the horror of their own beings and then evaporated and were blown away in a foul wind, as if they had never existed at all – and the clan often found itself defenseless, left to be harassed by the never ending tide of pioneers and other assorted rednecks and white trash, as they were known at the time to the Sioux.
After a period of several months spent wandering alone, suffering in this vast American wasteland, left to die by their own people, defenseless, these Sioux outcasts were set upon one day by a vicious band of outlaws, terrible white men with guns and hatred in their hearts, vile killers and rapists and thieves. These degenerates soon began to descend upon these outcasts almost daily, robbing them of their meager possessions and their dignity, and when even all of that had been taken away, their very lives. Day after day, the people suffered, terrified by these masked desperadoes. They didn’t know where they came from and couldn’t understand their wild shouts, their savage, almost bestial rough grunts and loud, coarse taunts. But slowly, the people began to perceive that this band of evil outlaws had a leader, a masked degenerate who the others called Romo, and they learned the name of these terrible fiends by listening to Romo, who after every raid would address his men as “Cowboys.” Yes, these Sioux outcasts began to fear the very word. They whispered it in their own hearts, spoke it to their gods, to the spirits of the earth who would not, could not, help them. And all the while the ancient Medicine Man reached further and further into the spirit world, threatening to shatter all that which was him. He faced the horrifying possibility that his own spirit would crumble and be lost to oblivion in the vain and desperate hope that he could will the spirits to his cause. But none listened. None came, not even those abominations which had come before, and the Medicine Man found himself crumbling, his very essence being torn from him, delivered into the hands of . . . of what? Nothing was too kind a word. No. What the Medicine Man felt tearing at his spirit was something darker, something far more terrible than mere nothingness. It was an oblivion devoid of though, devoid of reason, an oblivion in which his spirit would be forever sundered from his mind and his body, an oblivion in which there was no rest for his weary spirit, only a sort of clawing madness that he knew would last forever.
But it was on the edge of this oblivion, in the midst of utter despair, that the ancient Medicine Man heard a voice answering his cries to the spirit world. It was a faint voice, but it was a voice filled with great power. The ancient Medicine Man promptly fell into a deep sleep which lasted two whole weeks. During this time, his people did their best to guard his body, to ensure it wasn’t raped or destroyed by Romo and his vile band of Cowboys. Many died protecting him, defenseless old women and even babies not old enough to yet walk. It was horrific. But during that deep, mysterious sleep, the ancient Medicine Man dreamed, and what he dreamed of was a savior, a man of such strength and greatness that the Medicine Man knew his people could be saved. But the Medicine Man also learned through this dream that this great spirit could not come in body or in the fullness of its strength, for this spirit was engaged in many a battle throughout the world. But just before the ancient Medicine Man awoke, this noble and powerful spirit let it be known that he would relinquish a portion of his spirit for the protection of these people, and that he would arrive to them in a way that would connect him utterly to them and their fate.
When the ancient Medicine Man awoke, he staggered to his feet and, hunched and riddled with the pain of his advanced age, he almost crawled to the tee-pee of the tribe’s oldest women, a wizened old crone who had seen her son, her son’s son, and her son’s son son all fall in battle to the white devil before she accompanied the Medicine Man on his ill-fated journey. And when the ancient Medicine Man entered her tee-pee, out of breath and ragged, nearly beaten by the toll his body and spirit had taken, he smiled. And he smiled because he found her, wide eyed and terrified, her belly swollen, large with child, even though she had only moments before been nothing but bone and raggedy sinew. The ancient Medicine Man shuffled to her side and he whispered soothing words to her. By this time a crowd had gathered, and there, together, they witnessed a miracle, as only moments later, the ancient Medicine Man pulled a bawling baby from the old women.
The old women began to weep and the people shivered and began to mutter dark words, but before their very eyes, the baby suddenly began to grow until it was already a young toddler. The people stared, astonished as the toddler crawled from the arms of the ancient Medicine Man into the arms of his wizened old mother, who promptly ceased crying and held her miracle child tight. She looked into the child’s wide, dark eyes and she smiled as she received the truth of his being. She turned towards the people, and her voice suddenly flush with love and alive with the shared strength of her spirit child, she told them they she had been delivered of their savior.
The people were so desperate for something, anything, to save them from the vile acts of Romo and his Cowboys, that they immediately threw their whole hearts and minds into the raising of this miracle spirit child, and they were all astonished to seem him grow, day by day, as if each day were a year, each week a decade, and after only two weeks, they found themselves being led by a great warrior chieftain who called himself The Great Willie Young.
Now, because The Great Willie Young had willingly split his spirit, he allowed himself to be born to the Sioux people as one of them. He didn’t quite look like them – he was darker, larger, and debonair as hell – but in sundering his spirit, he also sundered himself from his own memories. All he was left with was the surety of his name and an implacable belief in his own abilities and purpose. All that he knew was a great thirst for vengeance, a need to protect his new tribe and to return them to their proper glory.
While he grew and matured, his people protected him from Romo and his vile Cowboys, afraid that if they got to him before he reached the fullness of his manhood, they would slaughter him, chop off the symbol of that manhood and take it for a trophy. Such a thought spurred the old women of the tribe to near madness and in that madness they managed, for the first time, to slay one of Romo’s Cowboys via the tenacity of their own gnarled hands. Indeed. Those old crones managed to drag down a young Cowboy by the name of Kitna, a hairless freak who had been known to recite passages from the Bible even as he slaughtered their people. And after they dragged him down, they tore him to pieces, shrieking. Romo and the rest of his Cowboys fled like cowards, but the Sioux people knew that they would be back and when they came, they would be coming with vengeance and hatred in their dark, rotten hearts.
And so the Sioux outcasts had no choice but to turn The Great Willie Young loose, hoping that he was now strong enough to defeat Romo and his Cowboys. Thankfully, on that day, The Great Willie Young had come to the fullness of his manhood and after seducing the youngest of the old crones – a still hale slightly post-menopausal woman with big hips and that fat ass he liked – he set out from their camp with a smile on his face and thunder in his heart.
On that first day, The Great Willie Young came upon a pair of Cowboy outriders, vicious thugs who shot him in the kneecap with their guns. But these bastards were shocked to see their bullets bounce harmlessly off of The Great Willie Young, and before they could flee in their terror, piss dribbling shamefully down their legs, The Great Willie Young lashed out with a giant sword - a sword that had one day just mysteriously appeared by his side, adorned with feathers and slick with what the ancient Medicine Man told him was the spirit blood of all of the fallen warriors of the Sioux – and he immediately disemboweled the outriders. Blood sprayed and their intestines spilled out like slimy snakes. The pair fell to their knees and swinging the sword around his head like the mighty warrior he instinctively knew he was, The Great Willie Young let them know the terror of their end before he brought the sword down with one final, terrible swipe and when he was finished, their heads lay on the ground before his feet. The Great Willie Young then took their scalps with a knife made from bone, blessed by the kiss of his old crone of a mother, and attached them to his belt.
The next day, The Great Willie Young came upon a larger squad of these Cowboys, these ones led by a wild and ferocious fiend by the name of DeMarcus, a giant who The Great Willie Young knew from the terrified whispers of the old ladies who guarded him while he matured. Driven mad by anger, The Great Willie Young lifted his giant sword and with a terrible howl that was heard hundreds of miles away, even by the Medicine Men of the Black Hills, whose souls lurched and drove them to their knees when they heard it, he ran at DeMarcus. But DeMarcus just laughed and sent his men to intercept his attacker. After all, his men were on horseback and his attacker was just on foot. But at the sound of The Great Willie Young’s war cry, the Cowboys’ horses chests exploded and they fell dead to the earth. The Cowboys, terrified, tried to scramble to their feet but they were chopped down by a wild blur, moving faster than their eyes could see. Blood sprayed everywhere and after a moment of utter chaos, the blur came to a sudden stop. It was covered in the blood and gore of the fallen Cowboys and it smiled a deadly smile in the direction of DeMarcus, whose horse alone amongst the Cowboys steeds had managed to survive The Great Willie Young’s scream.
DeMarcus spurred his horse towards The Great Willie Young, his own sword drawn and he rode with deadly speed. But The Great Willie Young just stood, frozen, like a terrible blood covered statue, awaiting DeMarcus and his fury. DeMarcus smiled a cruel smile but just before he brought his sword down on the bloody statue’s head, the bloody statue came to life, seeming to grow in stature and glory right before DeMarcus’ suddenly terrified eyes. The bloody statue whirled and drew its sword once more and in that moment the now giant statue and its sword seemed to glow with an inner light that was more powerful and more glorious than anything DeMarcus had ever seen before. Demarcus’ horse whinnied in terror and then drew back on its hind legs, throwing DeMarcus to the ground. When DeMarcus looked up, he saw that his horse had been decapitated and his attacker loomed over him like a conquering god. DeMarcus’ jaw went slack as he stared at The Great Willie Young and in his heart he knew that he was already dead. But The Great Willie Young just stood there over top of him, his sword once again sheathed. DeMarcus took a deep breath and then he realized, too late, that his fate had already been decided for him. Suddenly, hands began to dig from the earth, hands which clamped him in a grip like a vise, hands that then began dragging his still living form down to hell with them. Yes, it would seem that The Great Willie Young had instinctively called upon forgotten spirits, spirits of those many fallen whom he had personally slain over the centuries. They had now taken him for their god, and so on behalf of their god they came to drag DeMarcus with them back to the hell to which their god had sent them.
The Great Willie Young stood and watched and listened as DeMarcus howled with terror. Even this was too merciful a fate for that scoundrel. But The Great Willie Young was a spirit of light and he therefore took it upon himself to grant DeMarcus one small favor before his spirit was taken to hell. The Great Willie Young stared at DeMarcus with great interest and concentrated his energies on the man’s skull and after a moment, DeMarcus’ head exploded like a pumpkin stuffed with dynamite, spraying brains and gore all over the Plains.
The Great Willie Young stood and watched while the hell hands dragged DeMarcus’ corpse down with them and after they were finished he turned to face a setting sun and knew that when it rose again, he would finally face that animal his people called Romo.
The next morning, The Great Willie Young rose from a bed of simple grass and dirt to take his people’s final vengeance. He sniffed the air and was soon overcome by a foul stench from the southwest. The Great Willie Young knew at once that this meant that Romo and his Cowboys were near. Breaking into a brisk trot which soon became a sprint, a deadly run fueled by wild rage, The Great Willie Young exploded onto the horizon, arriving with the dawn of a new sun just as Romo and his Cowboys were awakening from a night filled with terrible debauchery. Hung over, the Cowboys just stared in slackjawed stupid wonder as The Great Willie Young flew into their camp. His giant sword flew once again, slashing and cutting and hacking. Sinew snapped, bones crunched and the screams of the dead and the dying seemed to fill all the world. For his part, Romo hid like a coward in his own tent, piss running down his legs, the whore he had defiled the night before trembling in the corner, disgusted with herself for allowing that pig to plant his demon seed inside of her.
Romo turned to the whore, fear on his face, and unfeeling, watched her gut herself with a Bowie knife rather than risk the possibility that she was carrying his bastard heir. Romo then vomited on himself and forced his body to crawl like a dog out of his tent. When he emerged, covered in piss and vomit, he found The Great Willie Young standing before him, both a god and a man at the same time, and Romo immediately began to weep and beg for mercy. The Great Willie Young merely sneered, lashed out with his sword and sliced off Romo’s now praying hands at the wrists. Blood spurted and Romo screamed in terrible pain, but The Great Willie Young merely stood before him, a deadly scowl on his ebon face.
Romo screamed and then began to sob and through those sobs, The Great Willie Young heard him whimper “Please . . . please, just . . . finish . . . it,” but The Great Willie Young was not finished meting out justice for his people. He pushed Romo onto his back with a vicious kick and then brought his sword down once more in a vicious slicing arc which took Romo’s feet off at the ankles. Romo howled once again as blood spurted. He then passed out from the terrible pain.
The Great Willie Young just stared down at Romo for a moment, that vile fiend who had done so much terrible harm to his people, and he knew that he wasn’t finished. He was not a violent man, and on one level he abhorred violence, but on another level he knew that he had been born with one singular purpose, and that was to avenge his people. Sure, The Great Willie Young knew, in some part of his soul, that they were never really his people, but there was something inside of him that reminded him that all men were his people, that he was in many ways the father, the brother, the son, the lover, the friend, that all mankind begged for in their hearts, in their wildest prayers. And so he knew that he belonged to those Sioux outcasts and they to him and he knew that Romo had not yet sufficiently paid for his terrible crimes.
The Great Willie Young then took out his sword and he stepped towards the embers of a smoldering campfire. He dipped his sword into the embers until it glowed with the white hot heat of that fire and then he walked back towards Romo and with a hiss he both cauterized Romo’s flowing wounds and woke him screaming in pain from the mercy of his unconsciousness. Crippled, handless, footless, Romo began to wail hysterically, but The Great Willie Young would not listen. The man had done unspeakable things to his people and for the goodness of their souls, The Great Willie Young knew he had to answer those acts a thousand fold, both for the sake of justice and so his people would not have to suffer the guilt and horror which with that justice would otherwise consume their souls. It was what he had been born in this form for and he knew, instinctively, that when this fraction of his spirit returned to the whole of his self, to his body which currently rested on a throne of skulls in the Louisiana Bayou, fishing for catfish, the terrible memories of this moment would be forgotten, subsumed by the whole, eaten by the very goodness of the vast unknowable soul which lived in that body.
It was with this in mind that The Great Willie Young picked up one of Romo’s severed hands and began slapping the man in the face with it. It didn’t cause any pain – Romo was too far gone to feel much of anything – but the sheer brutality and horror of the act accomplished the terrible goal The Great Willie Young knew he had to achieve before he continued on. It broke what was left of Romo’s mind, shattering the last strands of sanity tethering him both to himself and to the world. The Great Willie Young ceased slapping Romo with his own severed hand and left the man a gibbering mess. And then he blinded him with the tip of his sword, popping his eyeballs like two monstrous puss filled zits, and then he walked away, leaving him there to eventually die of his wounds, but not before his soul was shriveled and ruined for all eternity by the stark terror of his own madness. There would be no peace for Romo in the afterlife. That was The Great Willie Young’s final measure of justice.
And with that, The Great Willie Young returned to his people’s camp, where he was received with great awe and reverence. Without a word, The Great Willie Young allowed a group of old women to lead him to a spring, where they gently bathed him, washing all of the terrible blood and bone and gore from his body and from his soul. Afterward he made love to the old woman with the fat ass again and then took a long nap. When he awoke, he was met by the ancient Medicine Man. The old man handed him a pipe and told him to smoke it. The Great Willie Young was suddenly struck by a memory and he told the old man he must decline since he had a game coming up and didn’t want to get busted by Sheriff Goodell for smoking weed.
The old man laughed and told The Great Willie Young that this pipe was filled with an untraceable and powerful sacrament, one which would elude the henchman of Sheriff Goodell. The Great Willie Young smiled and took the pipe.
Days later, The Great Willie Young awoke on his throne in the Bayou. He had no memory of where he had been but it was recorded that he told his Creole followers “Goddamn, y’all would not believe the motherfucking dream I just had.” He then told them some of the details and indeed they did not believe him. But that is their problem. For deep in his soul, in a place unknowable even to him, The Great Willie Young knew that this was no dream and that somehow, someway, he had once again saved a people from their enemies and from the darkness itself. He smiled to his Creoles, shook the memory from his head and in that moment, just like he knew that it would back on the Plains, the goodness of his spirit took the memory and cleansed it of its darkness and once again the miracle of The Great Willie Young found harmony with the rest of the natural world and he was free to spend his days hunting crawfish in the Bayou and fishing with his friends.
And so ends another tale of The Great Willie Young.