The Cowgirl Bible knew that establishing herself in the USA was a task for talking machines. Satan’s powers were like those of Corona beer: It was unfazed by borders. Or perhaps as potent as the services offered by UPS (which was suddenly shit too). Evil depends on express delivery. So as not to continue her avoidance, The Cowgirl Bible didn’t move; whatever happened, she would confront her rival. The power of the highest high is the power of the highest high. Here, there, over here or over there, or a little more over here, right here, right right here; there you go, right there. There it was. A perfect place for an altar.
At midnight, she entered the bar with the epic all-encompassing patience of an à la carte menu before it’s even been read. But there was no sign of the devil, not even his gleaming sandals. He was flying the colors of the Mexican All-Stars at a game against Panama in Houston. In his place, and to go on with the show, the devil had sent his top doggest of top dogdom: Steve Vai, who, in less time than it takes to fill a fried-chicken order, challenged The Cowgirl Bible to a razor duel. She knew she couldn’t turn it down. To refuse a dignified death meant, in times of Reformation, to spend all of eternity wandering the Juárez market bathrooms.
For the contest, they brought in two of the hairiest pubises in all of history: those of Tongolele and María Victoria (the one who sings really slowly… really, really slowly). The solos began. For eight minutes of strenuous improvisation, not a hair was seen on the blades. It was only when the music began to play, indicating that the participants had gone over time and it was time to go to commercial, that the competitors stopped. The jury’s decision was this:
The Cowgirl Bible’s performance is well structured, and keeps an adequate razor beat as it subscribes to an innovative meta-language. It’s a modern approach, and without skimping on its virtues, bold.
When shaving, Steve Vai connected with a stale tradition and was able to liven it up. The rich razor mix keeps his score up. There’s no need to divorce the anethaeum of the carpa.
And that, my dear friends, was the last time anyone laid eyes on The Cowgirl Bible Parker. That was just a few minutes ago, since the final duel with Steve Vai was recorded on a cellphone and uploaded to YouTube. We don’t know what happened next. The video cuts off. There’s a crazy theory that it was all a setup, that The Cowgirl Bible isn’t dead. That she faked her own death because she’d had it up to here with so much fame. Some loyal fans swear they’ve seen her buying fried chicken at several Henry’s franchises. Others are sure she’s living in India and using an English colonizer name. It doesn’t matter. We have The Cowgirl Bible on YouTube, to watch as often as we desire.
In a little while, when the battle against global warming is lost, it will only be possible to watch the real Cowgirl Bible on YouTube. The devil will only be invoked through the worldwide web. If you want to keep her life from ending, just send a donation to 1-800-YouTube. With your contribution, we can guarantee that, even if it’s just on a screen, the real Cowgirl Bible will go on and on thanks to the internet.
For more information, search for the guitar duel with Steve Vai on YouTube.
* Kevin Ayers, who was in the audience, remembers with certain incredulity: All the stars were there and I heard all the important terms, like, you know, shit, Jesus, damn, and other, worse words.
† Unfinished Ballet in Two Tableau: 1. Ritual Dance of Child-Killer. Il Nullis Petti (no commercial potential) is what freaks sound like when you turn them loose in a recording studio at one o’clock in the morning with five hundred dollars’ worth of rented percussion equipment. A bright snappy number. Hotcha!
‡ Please note that the Devil is sometimes in lower case and other times in upper case. The reason is that sometimes there isn’t enough respect to hit the upper case (a tardy infomercial from the intratranslator).
Neither Fiction nor Non-fiction
The Post-Norteño Condition
I was born norteño to the extreme.
1
And:
— My boots.
— Huh?
— Have you seen my lice-skin boots, my dear? You remember that pair, right?
— Yes.
— Yes, what?
— Oh, Paulino, you’ve lost it. Those were Cowboy Bible boots. You’ve never had lice-skin boots.
— Those very ones. Find them for me. I wanna strap ’em on.
— You wore them out. Don’t you remember? You wouldn’t take them off, not even to climb the mezquite tree.
— It’s just that those were real boots and not these thankless stilts that make each step such a misfortune.
— Take them off. They’re just a burden. Let your feet air out.
— Later. How else am I gonna walk out of here?
— Put on some other ones.
— Which ones?
— You’re like a woman. You have a closet full of boxes of boots but you can’t make up your mind. Don’t you have a pair that’ll go with your pants?
— Well, it’s just that all those mules are just as lame as these.
— Try some new ones. Open up a box and even if they’re a little rough at first, you can break them in.
— No, it’s better if I just buy a new pair.
— Oh no, Paulino. More boots? There’s no room for more in the closet. Where am I gonna put my shoes and dresses?
— Don’t you worry, my love. We’ll make sure there’s a secret drawer so you can stow away all your footwear and costumes. We’ll make it just like on those pot-smuggling trucks.
2
In the meantime, Old Man Paulino, free of his lady’s demands, showed up all tired and tanned at the small Botas Roca shop. Since the Old Man was a distinguished citizen of San Pedrosburgo, he was attended to by a clerk who was a walking encyclopedia on norteño style boots.
— Don Paulino, what brings you here?
— Oh, why are you so simple? I came to get some boots, dummy.
— I just received a shipment of contraband. All new, Don Paulino, all new.
— Bring them all out. I wanna see them all, even the exotic ones.
— Look how beautiful this is: blue-whale loin, and certified authentic. Let me know what caliber you want. Or these, just look at this authentic Nosferatu zeal. Try them on. I also have some Komodo dragon ones. See how gorgeous they are.
— You’re silly, boy. Those look like wrestler boots.
— I’m gonna show you the river dolphin ones.
— Stop, stop. I’m looking for a pair of Cowboy Bible boots.
— Oh, Don Paulino. You’ve lost it, you’re off-key. They don’t make those anymore. They’re off the market because they hurt the ozone layer.
3
— I told you, Paulino. But you just keep forgetting. There are no Cowboy Bible-skin boots left in this world.
— You’re so right, my love. These two stones were meant for the same bird: I could neither get the boots I wanted nor find any that would bring me comfort.
— Paulino, don’t be so stoic. Use any of the boots in the closet. That’s what they’re there for.
— No, my love. Those shall remain unworn.
— Then why did you buy them?
— Oh, my dear wife. The value of certain boots is precisely in keeping them intact, just like that. As soon as I put them on, I would take away all their charm.
— Hey, Paulino, if they don’t make those boots in factories anymore, what about having them handmade?