Brokenhearted in Bakersfield

 

83 - A POW-WOW

Broken Heart Park is where dreams can happen even after you pass out.

I was occupied pulling artifactual clay pieces sticking from my rear when a black Escalade full of Kachingas pulled up.  Young male braves immediately jumped out and confronted me in front of my managerial double-wide.  Then the passenger door opened and out stepped this hot babe shaking her long black hair and tugging at the backside of the tightest jeans outside the basement of The Fancy Pants.  Oh, yeah.  Behind her crawled out a hideously wrinkled and skinny old Indian man wearing a full feather headdress and a bear claw around his neck.  His loincloth rode low to his ankles.  They exchanged a glance and strolled up to me.

The babe looked real serious and businesslike as she spoke, “They tell me you’re the representative for Broken Heart Park, Inc., a subsidiary of the RobbinsYUZ Corporation.  Is this true?”

“S’pose so,” I hedged my bets carefully.

Out from under her suede jacket she pulled a large envelope.  (How that got in there I’ll never know.)  “Let me introduce myself.  I am Sashimi Luckyfeather, legal counsel for the Kachinga Nation.”  She turned and gestured toward the old dude on her right.  “And this is our big chief, Like-A-Horse.  I wish to officially present to you this Notification of Eviction.  We have persuaded the Federal Bureau of Indian Stuff that this land must be set aside as a center for the study of Kachinga culture and history.  You have 14 days.”

I turned to Maggie for help when, from behind me, I heard Ms. Luckyfeather say, “Excuse me, I believe this belongs to us.”  I felt the sharp removal of a piece of clay pot from my posterior region, reminding me of my trauma with Edna’s table leg.

She proclaimed:  “No one but Kachinga shall be allowed to remove pots, pot chips, pot shards, pot splinters, pot debris, pot pieces, or pot dust.  All pot-related parts are ours.  No one but Kachinga shall be allowed to excavate.  No one but Kachinga shall be allowed to hunt.  No one but Kachinga shall be allowed to kill.  No one but Kachinga shall be allowed to cook over campfires.  No one but Kachinga shall be allowed to have a deck of cards.  Everyone else will be allowed to pack up and haul out of here before 14 moons.”

I looked down at the envelope I was holding in my hands.  “But I thought Broken Heart Park would be my home as long as the interstate ran and the piss-lizard smiled,” I frowned.

“Guess not,” she snapped.

Miss Luckyfeather turned to one of the Kachingas, “Rolling Bones, get Whitey.”

I threw myself to the ground.  “Don’t kill me!” I begged.  I thought I was a goner.  Then I heard laughter all around, so I peeked between the safety of my fingers.

“What’s your problem?” Ms. Luckyfeather asked after she caught her breath from laugh’n.

“I thought you ordered some dude to get me,” I defended myself.

“For your information,” Ms. Luckyfeather spoke real slow and deliberate, wiping tears from her eyes, “Whitey is Sheriff Humboldt’s deputy.  We meant you no bodily harm.  Do you understand?”  She broke out laugh’n out loud again.  “You don’t get out much, do you?”

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