Paul Kilzer posted:

        As the last breath rattled out of the rag wrapped lipidinous heap
of flesh and bones lying on the snow bank two things happened; One usual, 
one a little less usual.

The more usual thing was the parting of ways of body and
soul of a man known to many as "The Dishwasher", but who thought of himself 
most often as simply "The Drifter." The Drifter's Spirit Guide it seems, with 
his affinity for Tequila, Guacamole and foolish acts of bravery had left The 
Drifter unprepared for the illusion of warm comfort that comes with death by
freezing. As the snow bank sucked the life from The Drifter's body he lay
quietly dreaming of Juanita's sweet embrace and his belly rumbling around 
the food and drink he had just taken in the cantina downstairs.

The less usual thing was the departure from the world of the living
of the very last True Worshiper of the Spirit of the Western Plains. El Dupree
was in an unusual place for a minor diety of his sort - without believers. 
It was also an uncomfortable place for a minor diety of his sort, although 
not without its advantages. El Dupree had only a limited time to find new 
believers. After all, the death of a single follower packs only so much punch.
After that a God needs a little more faith to keep him going. 

Within that limited time, however, El Dupree had the luxury of being able to
change his image however he wanted. He could do whatever it took to gain
believers. How else could they achieve evolution amoungst the immortals?

El Dupree took a look at the world, trying to find a niche in the realm of
human endevor where he could survive. Serving the spiritual needs of humanity 
while humanity served the needs of his spirit. With the minor omniscience
of a minor diety, El Dupree knew his limits. He knew he could not surrender
his love of rich food and strong drink. He knew he could not surrender to 
the indignity of modern bathing practices. He knew he would always yearn
to retain the corzappa from the ever grasping fingers of Pepito, that
cam chata would always occupy his days. He must find a people who were
already free, yet longed to be freer.

Casting about, El Dupree noticed the work of a fellow minor diety. 
Bowelz-A-Bubble was the minor diety in charge of Taco Hell. 
Bowelz-A-Bubble's mortal arm, his main fund raising effort, was a Mexican 
fast food chain whose current advertising slogan was "Get the runs from 
your order!"

One of Bowelz-A-Bubble's minions appeared with a poof and a whiff of 
brimstone upon the left shoulder of a Senior Technical-Whiz-Bang-Whacker 
(TWBW) who was so engrossed in the work at hand that he had no idea he 
was about to faint from low blood sugar.

The Senior TWBW wrinkled his nose. "Oh Ghod", he thought
"Did that come from Me?!?" He shook his head. The scent cleared. 
Taking  a break from the work at hand he checked in with his body. He hadn't
just farted. He didn't feel the need to void himself in the near future. He
did feel rather empty. "I'm hungry", he noted aloud, "Man, I am REALLY 
hungry." He wanted food. Something in his nose reminded him of beans and 
cheese and beef. He wanted something grounding yet stimulating. He wanted
it NOW.

The minion sang under his breath into the Senior TWBW's ear. Just a
snatch from a radio jingle played during morning drive time. Guy, the Senior 
TWBW, picked up the tune. He contemplated the various food options
available at 10 PM. The Taco Hell drive-through four blocks away was the 
easiest by far.

Guy popped his head into the cubicle of the  Junior
Technical-Whizz-Bang-Explainer (TWBE) next door. "Hey Chas, you want anything 
>from  Taco Hell?"

With a liquid farting sound and a whiff of what can only be called the 
vibrant putrescence of the Truely Unwashed, El Dupree manifested an avatar
on the Junior TWBE's left shoulder. As Chas broke himself free from the work
at hand, the existance of Guy's question entering his awareness, El Dupree
began speaking a litany into Chas's ear. "Guacamole gives a man the 
strength of a bull."

"What was that?" Chas asked Guy.

"Tortillas are the Staff of Life", recited El Dupree.

"Do you want anything from Taco Hell?" replied Guy.

"Chicken is Bitchen," continued the avatar.

"Yeah, get me three soft chicken tacos with guacamole on 'em", said Chas.

"Tequila gives a man invicible courage", tried El Dupree's minion.

"And a large Mountain Dew", finished Chas.

"Not bad for a first try", thought El Dupree to himself.

"You got it", called Guy on his way out the door.

For the next fifteen minutes Chas tried to return to the work at hand, but
was tormented by visions of the southwestern states and the men and women 
who once lived there. The idea of no snow entranced him. He yearned for 
the freedom they knew. If a man felt like punching some jerk in the mouth,
well let him. And if he punched the wrong jerk, then let him take his licks
for it. And if a man cared to take his pleasures in a particular way that
noone else thought of, well let him. Just so long as a man didn't bother
anyone, he could do whatever he wanted. Whatever he wanted.

The thoughts felt round and langid in Chas's imagination. So much more 
comfortable than the hard, sharp edged bulky ideas of the explanation he
was currently working on. Chas fell into a reverie.

When Guy returned with food they both fell upon it like the famished. In his
enthusiasm Chas spilled a dollop of guacamole on his shirt. The Taco Hell
Avatar waited for Guy to try quietly sneaking out a fart. With an audible
poot and an even stronger whiff of brimstone the Avatar disapeared. 

El Dupree's minion held his ground on Chas's shoulder. When he had 
finished eating and was just sitting there, digesting, Chas noticed the 
spill. He idlly scooped the guacamole up with his finger and into his mouth,
savoring this last reminder of a filling meal. He didn't bother to wipe
the stain.

After they ate, something moved Chas to sneak the one-shot airline bottle 
of tequila he had in his drawer. Guy was down the hall in the can when 
Chas whipped out the bottle, tore off the cap, poured it into his mouth 
and swallowed. He chased it with a swig of Mountain Dew and stashed the 
evidence in the back of his drawer.

Week after week of overtime combined with thick greasy food and a shot
of tequila had their effect on Chas. Chas fell asleep while reading a
manual. While he slept, Chas had the most increadibly vivid dreams.

His body was bloated. His odor was almost entierly overwhelming. A lesser
man would have been felled by his own loathsome state. To him it brought 
strength. It seemed to protect him from the horrors he witnessed. And
horrors he saw. He saw the horror of surviving a cholera epidemic.
He saw the inhumanity of man's violence against man. He witnessed the 
impersonal horror of nature's violence against life. He saw the ease with 
which brother could kill brother when there was only room for one to survive.
He saw the inevitability of death. And somehow, he also saw the 
irresistability of life. he knew he would always surrender to the urge to 
live on.

In his dream Chas saw the fierce violence of the competition to survive. He
knew that the only way to avoid defeat was to practice against an absolute.
He saw the virtue of Cam Chata; He learned to play "Devil Fingers". He 
learned that even with only the sun and the lizard to witness his actions, he
must be honest nonetheless if he were to gain anything from his practice.
And with his greater size and intelligence, there was no use outwitting 
the poor lizard. Only by forcing himself to be faster, to endure all the
heat and pain and thirst he could, only then would he be improved by the 
game. The trick, Chas found, was to protect the lizard while defeating him.
If the lizard collapsed first, then man was the loser.

The red yarn spread before him. The rocks poised to count the score, because 
he was of No Mind for counting, Chas as El Dupree sat in the heat and sun 
and waited with fingers a bloody pulp for the lizard to make his move.

Chas awoke with a start. He felt his hands. They felt alright. His wrist was
a little sore from all the typing he did, but that was normal. Chas took a 
look at himself. With the exception of a single guacamole stain, he was as 
clean and slender as ever. What a relief.

Chas looked at the work at hand and his spirits sank. All those years of
studying foreign languages and cultures so he could explain Technical-Whizz-
Bangs in English. Not that Chas had anything against Technical-Whizz-Bangs
or the English language. He just felt a little spirit death to know his
efforts were so limited in scope. He thought of the dream he had just had. 
He thought of sharing its breadth and vision with the entire world over the 
internet.

Chas commenced to writing all he knew about El Dupree. The rest is archives.

With the help of Chas, El Dupree lives on.