The man was slowly brought, horseback, to the ominous dangling tree limb that was going to be his fate.  He had spent much of his adult life being a scallywag… a pain in the posterior of anyone he came in contact with, but he was, at heart, a good man.  He never thought that he would meet his maker at the end of a rope.

The posse led the horse into position, and looped the white rope around the sturdy branch.  The end was tightened around the trunk of the tree while the other, the noose, went around his thin neck.

“This is your last chance, Tomas James, to confess your sins before you face the final judgment.  What do you have to say for yourself, pardner?”

The words of the man were lost on Tomas.  What could he say? He was a troublemaker.  He was a rapscallion. But he just did not deserve to die like this.  This was reserved for the worst of the worst, and he just did not fit that bill.  So he stayed quiet.

“Very well,” said the leader of the posse, with a doff of his cowboy hat, “so be it.  May God have mercy on your soul.”

With a whack on the rear of the horse Tomas sat upon, the animal took off running.  Tomas closed his eyes. He did not know if he would suffocate or if his neck would break immediately when the slack left the rope, but neither result were what he hoped.  In his head, he said a silent goodbye to the world knowing that he would be joining his beloved sister in the afterlife. That was the one thing that he was thankful for. As he felt the horse leave beneath his body, he knew that gravity was about to take over and it would soon be over.

A shot rang out through the air and Tomas found himself hitting the ground.  The bullet had severed the hangman’s rope, and he landed hard in a puff of Western dust.  However, he was still very much alive.

As Tomas quickly tried to remove the noose, the rest of the posse turned to see what varmint had interrupted the cowboy justice.  There on the hill beyond the scene, with the slight morning sun shining over his shoulder, sat a stranger upon a white horse. The smoking gun was still in his right hand, but in his left, a golden tubular shaped cake.  He took a bite of the Twinkie as he slowly trotted the stallion over to the mob. Some of the creamy filling was left upon his chin, intermixing with his beard.

“There will be no hanging here today,” the stranger said, taking a second bite of the golden cake.  

“Mister, you just made a big mistake,” said the leader of the posse.  

“No… the big mistake has yet to be made,” he said, a smirk plastered on his face.  “Here is what is going to happen… you are going to dispatch your little mob, and return to your families, happy with the fact that you are able to do so under your own power.”

The leader looked to be ready to respond to the comment of the stranger, but before he could, the stranger continued.

“If you decide that you cannot live with that option,” he said, popping the final bite of Twinkie into his mouth, “then the real ‘big mistake’ is ready to happen.”

With that final bite swallowed, the stranger pulled out a second gun and proceeded to fire multiple shots through the air, piercing the belt buckles or suspenders of each of the men standing around Tomas.  The trousers of each man fell to the ground in unison, leaving them unharmed in all other way. The unbelievable display of marksmanship was really all the stranger needed to do. The mob froze in their spots, frightened at what this stranger could do.

“Now, this doesn’t have to be a bad moment for us all,” the stranger said, reaching into his backpack.  He tossed several packages at the feet of the men. “Here… Twinkies for everyone. See… it could have been much worse.”  Turning his attention to Tomas, the stranger said, “Get up.”

Tomas had watched this display with a confused terror.   “Do I know you?”

“You will,” said the stranger, extending a hand.  Tomas took the offered appendage and he found himself pulled up onto the horse behind the stranger.  The stranger looked to the intimidated mob and said, “Remember, even if the exterior is not what you want, there may be a sweet center.”

With those wise words, the stranger reared back on his horse, waving a Twinkie in his right hand.  The sound of the horse’s whinny cut through the Old West skyline. The sound faded as the horse galloped into the horizon.

“Who was that?” asked the leader of the mob.

“Doesn’t matter,” said one of the other men, who were down on his knees, scarfing down one of the cream-filled treasures.  “These things are good.”

The horse galloped at a remarkable speed, faster than Tomas had ever travelled in his life.  The wind smacked against his face and the smell of sugar across this stranger was strong. Tomas wrapped his arms around the man’s torso, wondering if he had exchanged one intolerable situation for another.  After what seemed like the longest ten minutes of his life, the horse slowed to a trot and the ride came to a halt. The stranger dropped Tomas to the ground, indelicately. For the second time in the last hour, Tomas landed hard on his own patootie.  Rubbing his backside as he stood to his feet, Tomas looked up at the stranger.

The stranger was decked out in a bright yellow shirt and white pants.  His white cowboy hat sat atop a long mane of blonde hair. His beard had been patiently manicured as each hair looked perfect, despite the touches of sugar that clumped throughout.   One would wonder why someone who was as meticulous with his beard as this stranger clearly was would allow sticky sugar to mar the appearance.  

“Um…thank you,” said Tomas, uncertain why this man had helped him.  “Who…are …you?”

“Who I am is not important,” he said, “Here…you must keep up your strength for the trip ahead of us.”  He tossed Tomas a Twinkie, the wrapper crinkled as the confused scallywag caught it.  

“No thanks,” said Tomas, “I have never liked these things.”

The stranger turned an eye to Tomas with such a scowl that Tomas was not sure if the stranger was going to let him live after that comment.  After a few tense seconds, the stranger smiled.

“You do not know what you are missing, my friend,” he said, with a hearty laugh.  Tomas tossed the packaged snack cake back to the stranger, who hungrily tore open the packaging with his teeth.  “God knew what he was doing on the day he created this tempting morsel.”

“Don’t you worry about the preservatives in that thing?” Tomas asked.

“Do I look worried?” he asked, opening his shirt and displaying his washboard abs.  “These are the secret to life.”

“If I could change the subject,” said Tomas, realizing that this was a topic that he simply wasn’t going to win, “why did you save me?”

“Hm?”

“I mean… don’t misunderstand me.  I appreciate the save. I really do.  But I do not know you from Adam. Why did you put yourself on the line for me?”

“I would hardly say that I ‘put myself on the line.’  That carnival of clowns was never a threat to me,” he said, making the ridiculously arrogant comment sound quite mild. 

“Okay, that may be true, but even still… you could be looked at as a criminal.  A rogue who is opposed to justice.”

“Did you deserve to be hanged?”

“No… but,”

“No buts about it, Tomas.  I know an injustice when I see it,” said the stranger.

“Wait… how did you know my name?” Tomas asked.  

“My appearance at your lynching was not an accident, Tomas James.  I was hired to find you and my investigation led me to your unfortunate circumstance.  It is very lucky that I found you when I did or else my employer would be very disappointed.”

“Your employer?  Who hired you?” Tomas asked, feeling that maybe he went from one fire to another.  Who wanted him badly enough to send this Twinkie warrior from out of the mysterious West to save him from frontier justice?  

“It was me, Tomas,” a feminine voice said, a voice that Tomas had known.  A voice that he had known all of his life. A voice that he did not believe he would ever hear again.  

It was his sister.

The sister that he believed was dead.

“Marjorie?” Tomas said.

There she stood.  His older sister, the one who practically raised him when their parents had been killed in a stagecoach wreck, Marjorie.  She had died when she was twenty-one years old, leaving poor sixteen year old Tomas to fend for himself. He was at her funeral.  How was this possible?

“It cannot be.  I was at your side when you died.  How is this possible? How are you not dead?”

The beautiful woman strode across the ground to stand in front of her brother, softly caressing his age worn face.  The gruffly whiskers were sharp to her touch. A tender tear rolled down her cheek. The touch told Tomas the real truth.

“I am dead,” she said.  

Before he knew it, Tomas was crying, embracing the phantom as tightly as he had ever embraced anyone.  He had never thought that he would see her again. Now she was here…and he didn’t know for how long.  

Marjorie pointed at the stranger.  “I contacted him for help when it was clear that your choices were going to lead to you ending your life early.  Your troublemaking…. It is leading you to an early grave. Believe me when I say that you do not want that.”

“What can I do?”

“Ride with him,” she said, still pointing at the stranger.  “Help him. Help others. Become more than what you are. Do not waste this opportunity.  The next time, you may not be so lucky.”

And with those words, she was gone.

Tomas fell to his knees, sobbing…his tears watering the dusty ground.   A packaged Twinkie landed at his knees. Tomas looked back to the stranger, still mounted on his white horse.

“If you’re going to ride with me, you’ll need to acquire a taste for these,” he said smiling.  

Tomas opened the package.

The Stranger and his Twinkies

By Kevin Fuss

“Welcome everyone to the ‘Galaxy’s Most Famous Arena,’ Martian Square Gardens for the running of the 10th Annual Epic Race on Mars.  I am Nick Soapdish and welcome to the most exciting two minutes in the Universe.  As always, I am with the lovely and talented Becki Binary. Hello Becki.”

“Hi there, Nick.  It must be a pleasure for you to talk to me…*giggle*”

“As always, Becki.  This anniversary race will be one for the record books.”  

“For sure!”

“Do you know why, Becki?”

“I do.”

*Nick pauses to see if Becki would expound on her answer*

“So….?” said Nick.

“Huh?” Becki said.

“As everyone knows, “Nick said continuing on,  straightening his blue blazer jacket, “The Epic Race on Mars began after the Intergalactic Wars, as a symbol of peace and prosperity across the entire galaxy.  We have hosted the event since the President of the Galaxy, Rjimm J’Frthzi proclaimed it so. And the 10th annual event has something extra special.  It has an appearance by the one and only celebrity, Brock Brawn.”

*sigh* Becki began fanning herself with papers that had been sitting on the desk in front of them.  “Ah…I loooooooooooooooooooooooooove him!” Becki leans back in her chair, continuing to fan herself.

“Brock is here to be our official starter,” Nick said.

“He can get me started any time,” said Becki, wiping the beads of sweat from her forehead.  

“Remember Becki…we can’t have a repeat of the incident from three years ago.  Our censors’ heads nearly exploded that day.”

“Whatever,” she said, making a disappointed face.

“For more on the race itself, we will send it down to our race side reporter, Chadwick Bumblefield,” said Nick.  “Chad.”

“Thank you Nick,” said Chad, “and I am excited to be here today.  We have an exciting field of competitors today, Nick and Becki, but by far the favorite is the Wampa Lampa from the Xanxes System.  He is being ridden by the horse Solomon.”

“Chad,” interrupted Nick, “but, for our new viewers, can you explain why a horse is riding a Wampa Lampa?”

“Of course, Nick,” said Chadwick.  “For the history of the Epic Race on Mars, our jockeys on the individual creatures involved in the race have been Horses from the planet of Stallion, the home planet of President J’Frthzi.   As we all know, the horse people of Stallion are the greatest riders in the universe and President J’Frthzi wanted to display his planet mates. “

“If so, how did this event come to be held on Mars?” asked Nick.

“Union dues,” said Chadwick.

“Ah,” said Nick.

“Plus, the red tint of the planet made the horses’ manes stand out more…creating a pleasing visual image for the intergalactic television audience…and we know how important those ratings are.”

“No doubt,” replied Nick.

“Chadwick, this is Becki,” Becki said, pausing to brush her dangling red hair behind her left ear in her best Jennifer Aniston imitation.

Chadwick waited for a question from the redheaded beauty.  The camera zoomed in to Chadwick as he continued to wait.

“Um… Becki… do you have a question?” asked Chadwick.

“No,” she said.  “Why?”

Chadwick’s eyes bulged from his skull and he face palmed himself.  He expected it from her, but every time he finds himself frustratingly frustrated.  

“Thanks for that report, Chadwick,” said Nick, breaking back into the broadcast.  “Now, a word from our sponsor.”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

William Shatner appeared on the screen.  He was dressed up in his Captain Kirk costume, though his ample frame has stretched the seams a bit.  Shatner smiles his best cheesy smile at the camera.

“I have voyaged to every corner of the Final Frontier, but never have I come across a drink better than this,” he said, holding up a green bottle.  “Supernova, the ale with a real Big Bang. Take it from me, I have been all over the galaxy…and I am a really big lush… so I have tried every drink imaginable.  I have downed a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster without blinking an eye. The Moloko Plus was like mother’s milk. And the Glingue, the favorite drink of the Shingouz, no matter how toxic, cannot match the Supernova.”

He takes a deep swig of the green bottle, staggers a little bit, his eyes crossing.

“Oh…that really hits the spot.  It is like an explosion in the old digestive system.  After a six pack of these, you are really seeing stars…or at least the remnants of them.”

Taking another deep swig, Shatner falls backwards.  After a few seconds, he stands back to his feet.

“But if you do not believe me, listen to my furry friend.”

Chewbacca walks over and stands beside Shatner.  

“Huwaa muaa mumwa?” asked Shatner in Shyriiwook, the language of the Wookies.  {TRANSLATED: CAN I BUY YOU A DRINK?}

Shatner hands him a second green bottle of Supernova.  Chewbacca pumps his arms up in the air. Chewbacca downs the entire bottle in one fell drink.

“Rhawk-Arrgh, rrrooaarrgghh!” exclaimed Chewbacca.  {TRANSLATED: MAY THE FORCES BE WITH YOU}

“Live long and prosper,” said Shatner.  Behind him, Leonard Nemoy appeared as if beamed in from the Transporter Room.

“You using my catch phrase is sell liquor is illogical, Captain,” he said, jumping right into the Mr. Spock character.

“Supernova!” said Shatner.  “A real BOOM!”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Welcome back to the 10th Annual Epic Race on Mars.  I’m Nick Soapdish. This broadcast is being beamed to all corners of the cosmos, with the expectation that this will be the most viewed race in the history of universal coverage, surpassing the classic Ultimate Quidditch Match of 2035.  I am here with Becki Binary.”

“’Sup,” Becki said, holding her fingers in a peace sign.

“Becki, what is your favorite part of the Epic Race on Mars?” asked Nick.

“Hm…. Probably the catering,” she said.  “I always eat until I am just bloated. Love those mini-corn dogs.”

“We are mere moments away from this year’s race.”

“Shouldn’t that be this light year’s race?” said Becki.

“Actually Becki,” said Nick, “a light year is a measurement of distance, not time.”

“Huh?  But the word year is in it.”

“That’s true, but in this case, it is referring to distance not time,” Nick repeated.

“Really?  That doesn’t sound right.  Should I look it up in my Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy?” she asked.

“I don’t think that you’ll find it in there,” he said.  “Just trust me.”

AAAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOGGGGGGGGGGGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

“That’s the horn for the three minute warning.  Three minutes for all the riders to report to the starting line and prepare themselves for the longest two minutes in sports history,” said Nick.

“Is that hyperbole?” said Becki.

“Perhaps,” said Nick, pointing down to the track from his vantage point.  “There is Brock Brawn walking out to start the race.”

“Brock Brawn… baby… burly and buff… Brock’s bulging biceps belongs beside bathing beauties and berating bullies.  As the Backstreet Boys said, ‘Bye, Bye, Bye’!”

“Nice use of alliteration, Becki,” said Nick.

“Hey,” she said, glaring angrily at Nick, “my parents were married!”

Nick’s head drops, shaking back and forth.

“Words sometimes do not you justice, Becki,” said Nick.

“What do you mean…sometimes,” she said with a wag of her head.  

Turning back to the race, Nick continued, “Here comes the racers now.  There is Wampa Lampa with Solomon on its back. What a majestic looking horse he is.  His picturesque amber mane is flowing in the breeze as they trot to the starting gate.  Next up, there is Mr. Edward riding on the Creature from the Black de Moon. Mr. Edward is coming into the race hot, after winning the Saturn Ring 500 in under 13 parsecs.”

“Is parsec a measurement of time, too?” asked Becki.

“Well…..” said Nick, looking to change the subject.  “And there is the oldest Horse in our race. Secretary-Et has been in every Epic Races on Mars events, today riding a Tauntaun from the planet Hoth.”

“Little known fact, Nick, the Tauntaun runs better in the warm temperature than it does on the frozen planet of Hoth.”

“That is correct, Becki.  And there is B.B. B.B. is riding the original hound of hell, Cerberus,” said Nick.

“I have heard that they are considered quite the underdog,” said Becki.

“Ha Ha Ha…real cute, Becki,” said Nick.

“I know I am,’ she said as a big smile flashed across her face.

“All of the other participants are coming up to the starter’s line now as well and we are just mere moments away from the beginning of the race.  You can cut the tension in the air with a knife as the packed house of thousands of spectators and a galaxy full of onlookers wait with baited breath for the start of the Epic Race on Mars.  I think I have goose bumps,” Nick said, rubbing his arm. “There is Brock with the starter’s pistol.”

“Mmmmmmmmmm, Brock,” said Becki.

Brock raised the pistol and pulled the trigger.

“And they are off!” Nick shouted.  “Look at them go. It is a real dogfight here.  I mean…literally as Cerberus has attacked the Tauntaun. “

“Who saw that coming?” Becki said.

“Well, three-headed hell hounds are tough to handle,” said Nick.  

“Yeah,” said Becki.

“And now Cerberus seems to be consuming the Tauntaun.  I have never seen anything quite like this.”

“Oh the humanity!” yelled Becki.

   “And the race is continuing.”  Nick pauses, mouth agape at what he sees in front of him.  “OH MY GOODNESS!!!! That is the most incredible thing I have ever seen.  Quick get a shot of that before it is too late. Just loo-“

Technical Difficulties.

The Epic Race on Mars

By Kevin Fuss