Genre Challenge
by  CC

In response to the challenge to write a snippet in various genres.



The blonde woman punched the Senora in the jaw, sending her flopping down the slope to the water's edge, but the Mexican pulled her skirts from the water, and holding them high, charged back up the hill to smash her fist in the first woman's face.

"You ought to be ashamed! Mothers, fighting!" Teresa wished Maria and Catherine had never turned up alive and returned to Lancer.



Wanted: Arms, legs, and guts. Top prices paid. Contact Lancer Ranch & Rendering.



Murdoch watched his son a little longer, his heart pulled in half.  A real man would snatch his son up. A real man wouldn't be intimidated by the old coot's threats. Clenching his fists, he bowed his head and slunk out the door, his feet dragging. A real man wouldn't have a son who acted like that prissy sissy he'd seen in there.



"What caliber did you say this was?" He pulled the weapon from where it had been stuck in the rock.

The other man looked at him quizzically. "Why, it's an Excaliber, Sir Lancerlot."



Born in 1835, spent much of his life as a teacher, with a special interest in helping orphans learn a trade. Gunned down in an ambush in 1870 after being betrayed by one of his former pupils, while trying to regain control of a stolen ranch. Survived by a granddaughter, Eve (Pardee) Madrid.



"Now's our chance." Johnny pointed to the side of the world where the giants lived. "We shoot our way through, break the glass, jump out, steal the magic wand."  But his bullets bounced off, hitting the ground with a thud.

And now the gods were back, leaning forward to stare at them, holding the wand toward them. "Maybe they'll point it, put us in the dark," Scott said, but the hope in his voice was false.

"Oh good, Lancer's on," said one of the monstrous she-gods, her booming voice echoing through the glass as her eyes glinted with anticipation of the bloodsport to come.

"Shit, I wonder which one of us is going to get hurt this time."



The chalk outline on the hacienda's floor remained a stark reminder of Detective Scott Lancer's failure as he searched again for a clue to the perp's ID--- a clue that finally presented itself in the form of a piece of chalk hidden in Teresa's jewelry box.



Johnny's eyes narrowed. "I thought you said it was a riding and ramrod job." Damn, looked like he'd come up to these freezing mountains for nothing. He disgustedly pushed the sheep out of his way.

"Oh, it is, it is," replied the cowboy with a friendly smile, throwing one arm around him and pointing with the other. "Up there on Brokeback Mountain."



"Jelly sure is good," Johnny mumbled, his mouth half full. It was only when he swallowed and looked around for more that he realized Teresa was still staring at her snow-covered knife, tears frozen high on their course down her cheeks. "Come on, Teresa, it was his idea for us to cross Donner Pass in winter."


21 June 1871: Today I was best man at Johnny and Teresa's wedding. Murdoch would have been proud of our frugality, as we were able to use the same flowers we'd had for his funeral following his sudden demise from apoplexy when he found out he was to be a grandfather.


He held his breath as he met the rich rancher. There was no way the man could possibly know he was an imposter, yet, the sweat ran down his neck. He held back his sigh of relief as the man turned to him and said, "You have your mother's..."


Fable/Fairy Tale

"Fee, fie, foe, son, I smell the blood of a Bostonian!" Scott gulped. His father really was a giant.


"You have your mother's temper...and you have your mother's eyes." Damn, this necromancing was harder than it looked. He was trying for his former wives' far more sexually exciting parts. Referring again to the spell, he realized what he was missing from the recipe: arms, legs, and guts. Maybe this wasn't such a loss after all. 


Capricorn (Dec 22 Jan 19) : You will find yourself uncomfortable as the center of attention, but a stranger will present an alternate opportunity for financial gain and a new start.


Johnny's throat clamped tight. He had a bad feeling about this. Sure, he could shoot his way out of most situations, but there were still some things on this earth so horrific they were beyond mortal laws.

"Oh come on, how bad could it be?' Scott asked, holding up the flier for the Little Darling of the Sierras.


"Knock, knock."

"Who's there?"


"Johnny who?

"That's what I'm trying to figure out."



Johnny gritted his teeth as he jabbed the knife in his side, deep enough to bleed, but not deep enough to hit anything vital. He didn't have to fake his pain as Murdoch discovered him, but he did have to fake it when he said not to bother, that he hated being babied.

1970, while preparing for a trip to Bowie, Lancer, television western, aged two years; suddenly, after failed lifeline.


There once was a ward so adoring,

Who found life at Lancer too boring,

She went into town,

Took off her gown,

And made a small fortune at whoring


It is, I acknowledge, unseemly for a gentleman to lust after his own brother's true love, but I cannot wrench my thoughts away when I spy them together, and it is even more difficult a challenge to hold myself back when I chance upon his beloved one alone in the barn, or unescorted in the outdoors, at which times I ache to claim what I know in my heart should be mine, to mount the golden body and ride the palomino until we are both exhausted.



Blue eyes met blue eyes, emotionless and cold; fingers twitched, hands blurred, and shots rang out as one. The men thudded to the dirt at the same time, their hearts taking their final beats in unison, ripped apart with identical shots through them---the last of the Madrid clones, a singularly short-lived model.



Murdoch felt himself harden as he buried his face in her bush, his mouth sucking at the wet fruit of his mistress. She had cost him his wives and sons, but his lust for her had grown only stronger. He raised his head to take in her swells and valleys, her trees and streams, her bushes and fruits---his Lancer.



"Iron horse, huh?" Johnny studied the behemoth as it billowed smoke and steam. He didn't like the looks of it, but Scott had challenged him, so he leaped aboard before he could have second thoughts---and leaped off even faster, clutching at his seat in pain.

 "Not bareback! That's where the furnace is!" Scott said, shaking his head and pointing at the door bolted along the metal beast's ribcage as it clattered a few steps, more steam pouring from its nostrils.



He'd wanted her, and she'd wanted him, but she was Murdoch's wife, and he was Murdoch's friend, and in the end, she'd left, along with his own wife, Angel, simply because he and Murdoch had suggested the wife-swapping that would have solved everything.



The bossy girl barged into the dressing room. The blond threw his boot up in exasperation. "Doesn't anybody knock around here?"

She just eyed him critically. "We're going to have to get you some new clothes."

"What's wrong with my clothes?"

"Well, if you're going to be in a Western, plaid just ain't the style," said his so-called brother.

So that explained it---the stage, the horses, the guns---he'd thought he was supposed to be playing a Scot! With luck, no one would discover the kilt he'd planned on auditioning in.






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