High Noon in Debt Valley

The harsh sun beat down on the low desert. Nearby, a high-horse snorted, and somewhere, a blue-dog barked. Two sand-whipped saloon doors grudgingly creaked open, and eight stock actors dressed as cowboys filed out. They clattered on to the porch and hit their marks.

Next door to the saloon, in a unique high-backed rocker, sat an odd and oddly-grinning woman. It was Dotty Speaker, the Madame at that accommodating parlor known as the People's House. Dotty rocked left, then farther left, then back to the left again, taking it all in, slowly twirling the talon-scarred gavel she wore round her neck. Behind her, 434 prostitutes peered out through the windows of the People's House, endlessly jostling each other for visibility.

The saloon doors swung wide once more, and out stepped the new Sheriff.

Klieg lights blazed and spotlights sheared in, wrapping the attractive leader in a corona of confidence. Switches were flicked, and the easy, loping music of a fiddle filled the dusty street. The Sheriff positioned himself midway between two tactical tumbleweeds.

Dotty leapt to her feet and applauded. The Sheriff looked her way and touched the brim of his hat.

"Madame Speaker."

The Sheriff then nodded to the Mayor, Harry Screed, and his sidekick, Cap'n Trade. Out of sight, a guitar was strummed, slowly, just once.

Right on cue, a muddied scream spilled into the street from the town's troubled bank, the Beltway Gulch Imaginary Savings & Eventual Loan. Debt Valley's mortally-bloated addict, Fannie Mae, waddled out the bank's door, pitiful and terrified, howling for her very life. Close on her heels came that dastard, Billy Wrights, guaranteed-access guns blazing. Smoldering shreds of ACLU position papers peppered his thick beard.

All eight prop cowboys simultaneously reached for their holsters, but the Sheriff calmly raised his hand, coolly shook his head.

Fannie Mae managed to make the street. She staggered across and crumpled, clinging to the Sheriff's leg, carefully avoiding his chronic tendinitis. Billy stepped out of the bank's long shadow and eased to the right, his trigger finger twitching.

The Sheriff's eyes narrowed. An audio tech nudged a knob, and the mournful fiddle was joined by the slow heartbeat of a tympani.

"Still here, are ya," grinned Billy. "Well, I don't reckon Debt Valley's big enough for the both of us."

The Sheriff ripped off his nicotine patch and ground it out with his free foot. In a flash, he whipped out several ink pens and a piece of parchment, scribbled his name one letter at a time, and Billy Wrights vanished in a hail of regulation and diverted funds.

Linseed Graham, the town barber, was furious. "Hey! That ain't right! He never stood a chance!"

"Nope," drawled the Sheriff, reading from a tumbleweed. "He weren't never meant to."

"See?" Screed poked Cap'n Trade. "Accent or no accent. Like a faucet."

The Sheriff stepped up to a small cactus, adjusted the volume, and then began to speak:

"It's great to virtually be here. Before I get started, I wanna recognize a few faces in the crowd. I see our local party co-chairs, Juan and Janet Evening. Y'all know them. Nobody's worked harder on this bill than Juan and Janet."

All eight cowboys grinned and clapped. Dotty Speaker blew Juan a kiss, but her elbow got caught in her teeth.

"And I understand your Governor, Mike Offers, is in the house. Where's Mike? Nobody's worked harder on this bill than Mike," read the Sheriff. "Y'all give it up for Mike Offers. Pause knowingly. Raise chin. And way in the ba ... oops."

Two of the less bright prop cowboys raised their chins. One tried to pause knowingly.

"And way in the back, there's my buddy, cattle rancher Needham Swettin. Needham hasn't worked a lick on this bill - heck, Needham's the kinda guy who wouldn't cross the street to spit on a man who was on fire. But he's got sacks of money, and we're all hopin' he'll make a nice contribution to Mike Offers."

Screed's eyes lit up. He pulled out some comp plane tickets and sidled over towards Mike.

The Sheriff switched tumbleweeds and subtly adjusted his pose.

"Okay. Let's talk seriously about our cattle problem. Here in my hand, I have a let ... here in my hand, I have a let ... here in my hand, I have a let ..."

A crouched technician spidered on to the street, jiggled one of the tumbleweeds, and dashed off.

"Here in my hand, I have a letter from a rancher who lost all his cattle to a low-down rustler. The rancher's insurance company refused to reimburse him, claiming the rustler's low-down-ed-ness was a pre-existing condition."

The Sheriff paused, allowing the street to see his profile. He checked the tumbleweed, squinted, and then continued:

"Now, according to polls, we got millions of cows, right here in America, although 14% of those polled have no opinion. And each cow has several legs. Cows have had multiple legs ever since Al Gore invented cows. And as you can see, there are real cowboys standing behind me, who all agree that we got tons of cows, and almost every one of 'em's got four legs. These aren't just my numbers."

On cue, the cowboys collectively thumb-groomed their moustaches and scratched themselves, in a bipartisan, colloquial, cowboy-like way.

The Sheriff stretched out his arms.

"Now, I didn't want to do this. I inherited this mess. True, I inherited the mess a really long time ago, but forget that - just stare at my profile and look at my outstretched arms. Make no mistake. We have to act, and we have to act now. We have a serious crisis that has saved or created millions of speeches."

"Zoom and rack," whispered the director. "Cue the chorus!"

The Sheriff raised his arms.

"Doing nothing is not an option. And it's too late to start over, 'cause all over America, as I've always said, cows already have feet. There are just too many cows, with too many feet. And that's why we will pass Universal Hoof Care this year. Thank you, and I bless America."

Madame Speaker leapt to her feet, begging for an ink pen. The cowboys broke into wild synchronized applause, except for one who was texting his agent. Arm in arm, Screed and Mike slipped into the bank. Across the land, the light dimmed in America.

And the Sheriff rode off as the Bush tax cuts began to sunset.