El Dupree, Selected Works, Volume 5 Alf the Poet, Editor Andy Woodward, untitled: El Dupree finds a lost Venture Scout whilst thinking in the Tehachapi Mountains. It is 45 Celsius and the poor boy is near to death. Large pipes run in groups of six up the hillside and vanish into the shimmering haze. "Water, water!", he cries. "Yes, it is," replies El Dupree, "but not in a form which we understand." The scout is enlightened. Curtis Yarvin, untitled: Walking down the hot, dusty road to Mejave Mai, the Wide Warrior fondled the #19 headsack dangling from his floppy straw belt, blackened with a thousand blows of the corzappa and stinking of stale tortilla oil. "Eh, Pepito?" he muttered absently. "How jou doing now?" There was no reply. El Dupree kept walking, his thumb dancing over the hot vinyl, soft with Masa Harina, in the rhythmic yet explosive exercises of CamChata, the Devil Finger. Soon, he would hunt the Iguana. Soon. He must be ready. But the road to Mejave Mai is never kind; it turns upon a man when he least expects it. El Dupree had just executed the deadly Hormiga Snap three times in a row, with perfect form, upon the mushy skull of Pepito. His belly was large and his fingers were invincible. And then he came to the dead armadillo. He turned the beast over with the toe of his huarache. "Madre de Dios!" he exclaimed. "Manteca de avocado! Besa mi ayuyama!" Its back was broken, stamped with the ghastly but clear footprint of - La Toyota. La Toyota, the Demon Burro. Only one man rode La Toyota. El Dupree knew the foe he would have to face at the Iguana Derby. Tliltliltzlin! The Pudgy Pugilist sighed, and swung his corzappa idly through the torpid air. It struck the headsack with a dull thump. "Pepito," he whispered. "Pepito, I weel need jour help today..." Jason D. Corley, from El Dupree Comes to Tuscon: On entering the city, El Dupree finds there is no air conditioning. It is yet to be invented. He waits in a saloon, the dry air stinging his flaccid lungs. He looks up and a man stands before him, dressed all in white. "Howdy, pardner," the man says. "Buenos dias," says El Dupree into his cheap whiskey. "I am the Mythical Representation Of The Old West Personified," the man in white says, stroking his wide silver belt buckle. El Dupree says nothing. The Mythical Representation Of The Old West Personified says, "I can out-shoot, out-drink, and out-wit anyone on this here planet, and I knows it." The other denizens of the saloon, alone, nod their heads and mutter to each other. "But," El Dupree says, "you have something on your shirt." He points. "Where?" asks the Mythical Representation Of the Old West Personified. He looks down. The bartender reaches for the shotgun. He knows this joke and he knows there will be trouble. "No, sorry," El Dupree says, "I guess I was wrong." He gets up and leaves. The Mythical Representation Of The Old West Personified walks over to the bar and asks for a whiskey. The bartender sees a single smudged and grimy fingerprint on the shirt of the Mythical Representation Of the Old West Personified. The bartender is enlightened. Mike Bleyer, from El Dupree the Traveller: "If you look like a gentleman, like I do, then people will respect you!" roared the handsome merchant, leaning at the bar and wiping beer foam off his moustache. He relaxed, reassured by the affirmative grunts of the crowd he had invited for a generous round. The admiring look of Juanita was burning with more zest than the best peppers in Mexico, making him regret that he had to move on, unable to stay longer. "Is that so, muchacho?" El Dupree muttered to himself, a fresh guacamole stain, the only remains of his adventurous lunch, on his baggy shirt. He mindfully poked at the stain, so it would better mingle with the many more to form a new work of art on the crusted material. Sitting alone at his table, he downed his Tequila and let out a majestic burp with the whole devotion of a man at peace with himself and the world. Later, on his way to Mejave Mai, El Dupree passed the merchant's naked, dead body on the side of the dusty road, some thugs retreating to the distant hills. As the shadow of the great sombrero glided on in the afternoon sun, not a single emotion showed on our corpulent hero's face. Jason D Corley, from El Dupree Comes to Tuscon: El Dupree walks down the dusty street, rubbing his immense belly with his grimy hands. Behind him a scrawny dog follows him, in awe of his strange and alien smell. There is a prostitute standing on the corner, for it is dusk. She sees the Obese Obstreperous Obsession slouching towards her, under a sombrero as ludicrous as it is wide, which is very. She looks at him and performs her duty, "You lookin for a good time, mister?" El Dupree says, "Jou could not afford me." She laughs, and says "You couldn't afford me." Her face has not known a smile in many years, and the layered makeup cracks. A few shards drift slowly down to the boardwalk. El Dupree holds out his hand. She puts $50 in it. El Dupree, quick as a flash, slips a #4 headsack over her head. She squeals like Ned Beatty. El Dupree jams the $50 in his dirty imitation leather boots, pushes the stumbling prostitute towards the lamppost and walks nonchalantly away. The dog is enlightened. Jason D Corley, from El Dupree Comes to Tuscon: At night, El Dupree snores the loud snore of the whirlwind, collapsed drunkenly in an alley. Somewhere in the city, a tough gang of desperadoes plan their attack on the Sabino Bank. They wear dark clothes, black bandannas over their mouths, and no sombrero. The grey metal of their guns gleams in the moonlight. The night watchman is old, but he has a chin like a cinderblock. "Hold it right there." he says. He realizes that there is one too few, that the cold muzzle of a gun has just been pressed to the back of his head. Oh, God, he thinks, please don't let me die. Please God, where are you? And in that one sudden, still moment, they hear El Dupree snore loudly, phlegm-filled noise spattering across the desert night air. The desperado is overcome with disgust, and settles for smacking the watchman across the back of the head. As he sinks into the headsack that is the dirty street, the watchman is enlightened. Jason D Corley, from El Dupree Comes to Tuscon: CamChata bones in his fingers Corzappa jammed in his belt His head in the sombrero Fresh stains upon the felt Why does this man wander His belly brown with sun? He offers me a headsack Vinyl, twenty-one. It is cool inside the headsack He waddles into the light Eloy his newest village Miles away from sight It smells of avacadoes The drawstrings slip and tighten My head it rests on the roughshod brick Tell me, are you enlightened? Brad Fischer, from El Dupree, Still Going Strong!: Bill Halstead stood in the wasteland, looking at the receding tracks of El Dupree. The tracks were even deeper than usual, aided by the added weight of the many valuable items Bill Halstead had formerly been carrying. Bill Halstead's voice in the wilderness cried, "Help!" At that moment, Eric the Aardvaark (a mutant aardvark, who always leaned to the right and was frightened by anything which was new) wandered by and said, "Help is unavailable. You are responsible for your own situation and are not worthy of the efforts of others." At that moment Bill Halstead was enlightened.