Yellow Back Radio Broke-Down by Ishmael Reed

appeared.
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    How long have you been working for the Purple Bar-B, driver? Mustache Sal asked Drag’s hand, who sat next to her, whipping the horses.
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    The man’s senses reeled from the heavy perfume Sal wore imported from Gay Paree, “Hogcalls in Nocturne.” Her busts were about to break out of the top of her velvet dress as he could well see when he turned to answer her.
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    Duh, I been here for two years, mahm, I likes it swell.
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    Mustache Sal removed a cigar from her purse and began to moisten it with her tongue darting through her round beckoning lips. What’s his Dun & Bradstreet rating?
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    Duh, don’t know no fellers go by that handle working up here. Miss Sal you sure you haven’t gotten da Purple Bar-B mixed up with some other place? the driver said, an itchy feeling creeping about his groin.
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    What is your job here driver? Mustache Sal continued realizing that further probing of this hick would reveal him to be as simple as they come.
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    I’m da assistant to the wranglers. I pumps da spring water for da horses.
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    Mustache Sal removed her hat and lay her head in the driver’s lap. Her silky black hair hung between his knees.
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    What’s wrong Miss Sal you gettin sleepy? the driver asked straining to keep his eyes in front of him.
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    Can you pump good, driver man?
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    The driver felt the words become hot breath. Steam edged about his already inflamed lap.
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    Well I tries my best Miss Sal da hosses don’t complain.
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    Mustache Sal unzipped his pants and rubbed the bulb of his organ about her gums.
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    The horses went crazy and ran about the edge of a cliff.
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    The driver pulled them to a halt.
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    Whoa there whoa you fillies.
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    He smacked Sal’s hand.
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    Hey duh stop that you…you…female you I’m trying to keep my eyes in my teeth, I mean my nose has to be on da trail so that my ears won’t break da harness I mean…
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    Mustache Sal had expertly pulled off the man’s britches shoving him into the rear of the chuck wagon parked on the side of the road and soon that section of the vehicle began to yodel as if a hundred Memphis hillbilly bands had teamed up with a locomotive.
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    The moon smiled from crater to crater.
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    When they were inside the Big Black House of the ranch the cowpoke started bowlegged up the stairs. He reached the top, his hands weighed down with bags, his eyes downcast—too bad, because Drag appeared on the top landing. He scared the cowpoke so, he stumbled backwards. No wonder, because Drag was quite a sight. He wore a flat black hat with a string dividing his chin into two huge beery lumps, laced trousers, a red sash around his waist, tight-fitting shoes, and as he came down the stairs he began to snap some castanets together.
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    Mustache Sal raised her head and did a double take.
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    What have I gotten myself into this time? she thought.
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    A rose between his teeth, Drag continued down the stairs. When he reached the suitcase which had opened in the cowpoke’s fall, he slipped and rolled down the steps like a huge barrel.
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    The servants who had been peeking from behind the curtains broke up. Drag rose to his feet, an aging buffalo patriarch with ragged stumps for legs, and fired into the curtain. Sounds of little feet could be heard running down the hall.
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    The cowpoke edged out of the room leaving it to Drag and his prospective bride.
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    Hi sweet stuff, you must be the mail order bride, here let me see your teeth. He held Mustache Sal by the jaw and she complied by opening her mouth. Good, he said sitting across from the woman. I’m a big man in these parts, fish fill my full I mean full fish my swim.
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    Yeah Mac, Sal said, I read your scrawl in the newspaper.
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    Good then you know that I’m really what counts, Drag said sitting on a tack and bouncing up his hands holding the seat of his