As a veteran of over sixty novels, nobody could quibble when I label myself Ireland’s greatest ever fiction writer. That’s about fifty-five books more than James Joyce, who nestles immediately below me in the pecking order. Joyce’s mistake — a common pitfall for writers — was becoming overly concerned with quality as opposed to quantity.

I only wish I’d been there to throw an arm around him, steering him to shelve Ulysses in favour of twenty to thirty buddy cop thrillers, and a few dozen slushy romcoms. He could have been the Cecilia Aherne of his day. Instead, he fizzled out as a pre-Beckett Beckett.

Admittedly, the critics never cared for any of my books. But thankfully I don’t write for critics; I write for the fans. Now, granted, the fans never cared for the books either. But sure what would they know? They’re hardly professional critics.

You’ll also note that none of my books appear for sale on Amazon. Honestly, you fund one Tamil Tiger bloodbath on a Sri Lankan village, and suddenly you’re blackballed by all the major retailers. It was all a misunderstanding (I honestly thought I was donating money to a Big Cat sanctuary), but there’s no forgiveness in this cynical world.

And once the retailers disown you, it’s not long before your publisher stops answering the phone. I had to break into the house of Penguin’s CEO in the middle of the night just to get a straight answer on our business relationship. His wife was furious to awaken with me standing over their bed wearing a tuxedo (I’d come straight from a black-tie gala). The police also took a poor view on the whole episode.

Well, I’ll teach them. I’ll teach them all. I present now the first in a series of articles, each ruining a novel of mine by revealing the final page. Doing so obviously renders the novel worthless going forward. Some people would call this a monumental, childish strop. I’d counter that by calling those people smelly, speccy-four-eyed dorks. What I’m actually doing is making a protest, and historians of the future will recognise my stand against the fickle publishing/retailer cartels.

THE CATTLE RUSTLER AND THE KID

By

Flann O’Coonassa

Page 367 of 367

…all over my ass, with some kind of scrubbing brush,” said the rustler.
“How do you mean?” asked the kid, weeping.
“Ah, I’d rather not get into it,” answered the rustler, embarrassed to have brought it up.

The sherif nodded to the hangman, just as the steeple clock of Dry Gulch Creek struck noon. A noose looped around the rustler’s neck, drawing a rippling murmur from the hot, sweaty townsfolk.

“Any last words?” asked the preacher, loosening his collar with a bony index finger.
“Hah, you know me preacher,” replied the rustler, smiling.
“Not really,” replied the preacher.
“Well, can you take care of the kid for me?”
“Again, not really. I’m a preacher, not a crèche.”

The rustler looked down at the kid, whose cheeks, chin, neck and upper chest were drenched in snotty tears. His face looked tiny, like the hoof of a massive horse.

“Looks like you’ll be flying solo from now on, kid,” said the rustler.
“Please paw, don’t die.”
“I told you before, I ain’t your paw.”
“But maw said…”
“And I told you before, she ain’t your maw.”
“But granpaw says…”
“Look kid, we’ve been through all this. You can’t rely on nobody in this world but yourself. You gotta be strong now, you hear?”

The preacher leafed his bible, but the rustler declined the last rites.

“Best the kid doesn’t see this,” said the preacher, motioning the boy toward the gallows steps.
“Actually, I’d prefer he watched,” said the rustler.
“Fair enough. I guess a boy only becomes a man when he sees someone he loves being hung to death,” said the preacher with an uproarious belly laugh.
“What?” replied the rustler.
“Nothing,” said the preacher, already halfway down the gallows steps.

The kid threw his arms around the rustler.

“Don’t leave me,” he gurgled, his throat three-quarters full of snot and tears.
“You think I want this?” whined the rustler.
“I wish I could die with you,” gargled the kid.
“I wish it too. There’s something I need you to know before I die kid. It’s important. It’s about your real family.”
“My real family, what? What? Quick, tell me, tell me!” exclaimed the boy excitedly.
“Woah, slow down there champ. Let me get a word in edge-wise. Where was I? Ah yes, your real family. Bet you’re excited about this, eh? Well, you see it’s like this. Your real maw and paw live at the following address. I’ll tell you their names, after I give you the address. They live at…”

Suddenly, the trapdoor released and both the rustler and the kid fell earthward. The kid landed with a thud on the gravel. Dazed, he looked up to see the twitching feet of the rustler suspended above him. They twitched, and twitched, and then fell still. The kid didn’t cry. There were no tears left in him.

“Goodbye, my friend,” he said.

Turning into the midday sun, he motioned to walk away, but the rustler’s feet started twitching again. The kid waited for them to stop twitching. He went to walk away, but again the feet started twitching. This happened several more times. Eventually the boy, fighting back the tears, pretended he didn’t notice the feet were still twitching, and strode defiantly toward the horizon. He briefly came back for his hat, and then returned to where he had left off, striding defiantly toward the horizon. The rustler’s feet had stopped twitching permanently by then anyway.

THE END