El Dupree, Selected Works, Volume 1 Alf the Poet, Editor Preface The legend of El Dupree is one of those little known but crucial elements of the history of religion and beer-drinking. While authorities differ on whether El Dupree was a Zen Master, a ruthless killer, or just a disgusting slob, all agree that no study of Eastern thought in the West is complete without at least passing reference to the many and varied exploits of His Bulbousness, as he is affectionately known by his followers. The present work is an attempt to capture the essence of El Dupree, if that is possible without sophisticated digital olfactory simulation, and to invite the reader to closer study of (though not closer proximity to) the Drifter of the Western Plains. Most of the originals from which these collected works were taken reside in the Incinerator Room of La Biblioteca Publica de Los Garbanzos (Green Bay Branch), and it is feared that, despite sporadic attempts to save them, they will soon deteriorate in one way or another. Thus thanks are due to the many diligent researchers who have nothing better to do than transcribe the soggy, stained Job rolling papers upon which the vast majority of these words were found. Upon first encountering El Dupree, many have asked, "What's a headsack?" Perhaps no question better symbolizes the mystery, the intrigue, the absolute foulness of the Wide One. There are a number of references to headsacks scattered throughout the known writings concerning El Dupree's dim past. It is rumored that Our Fabled Hero's exploits were recorded in full, though the name of the biographer (who apparently was able to travel with El Dupree on numerous occasions, due to his lack of a sense of smell) is unknown to us. It is often asked what determines the gauge of a headsack, and why they are made of vinyl. This knowledge, I fear, may be lost to history. I believe that each of us carries our own headsack. It is the headsack of misconceptions, of ego, of the blinding heat of the desert at noon. Your headsack traps you, tricks you, ultimately damns you. Jesus said something like, "Pick up your headsack and follow me." El Dupree says, "Hot in there? Heh, heh. Bof!" Break free, lunge for the light. But don't slip on the way out... Alf the Poet, Editor Notes on the Text In each of the selections that follow, the researcher who is credited with discovering the work is named, and the title of the larger work from which the selection is taken is given if it is known. Terry Smith, from An El Dupree Moment: El Dupree came upon an injured cur on the road to Mejave Mai. "Rise, cur," El Dupree said, casually pushing up the brim of his big spangled sombrero. He sucked air through his teeth and waited. The cur glanced sidelong at the colorful stranger and hissed, "Yeah, riiight. A fucking miracle worker? A talking hat? Funny man from downtown?" El Dupree reached for his revolver, hesitated, and instead, took out a #14 vinyl headsack. Yes, it was going to be a long day, he thought. And the dog was enlightened. Lindsey Durway, untitled: Pepito could just see daylight through the seams of the #14 vinyl headsack. He found that if he cocked his head slightly to one side, he could glimpse, through the splitting seam of the headsack (the aging headsack, the headsack that smelled of masa harina and hair oil, the hated headsack of enforced ignorance), one crusty corner of El Dupree's mouth. El Dupree licked his lips, his tongue the color of well-cured meerschaum, and muttered, "Yust you vate." Pepito was enlightened. Terry Smith, from El Dupree Gets His Act Together and Takes it On the Road: The big-hatted lone figure on the horizon went unnoticed by the sleeping man curled next to the pile of blackened chicken bones. Faint dust devils rose behind the approaching stranger's horse and the morning sun let play its light on the little dangling balls on the brim of El Dupree's impressive sombrero. Yes, men had made fun of the proud sombrero, but those men were dead, El Dupree thought to himself as he spurred toward the sleeping man he would soon awaken and challenge to the deadliest of all games, the game that had mad its way from Tierra del Fuego, across Chile, and into the heart of Mexico: CamChata! Devil Fingers!! Researcher unknown, from Somewhere in Chihuahua: I have the dice. I've laid out the three pieces of red yarn. I have a live lizard and four small stones. Time now for CamChata, Devil Fingers, the way Granddad used to play it. Robert Rothschild, untitled: I rebel. Grandfather. Embrace me. I rebel. Yarn on the left, stones in groups of three and one, the lizard bleeding from my fingernails. I rebel. Brian Rice, untitled: El Dupree finds himself seized by revolutionary fervor. He hitchhikes across the North American continent to New York City; the pervasive aroma of imperialism and decadence thrills him as the whiff of the doomed chicken exhilarates the fox. High explosives taped to his midriff, El Dupree infiltrates the General Assembly of the United Nations. He marches boldly down the aisle, mounts the stage, and strides to the podium; Soviet Foreign Minister Eduard A. Shevardnadze breaks off his address and stares. El Dupree opens his garment and reaches to embrace Shevardnadze; the distinguished diplomat's astonishment deepens as, for an instant, he takes El Dupree's approach for an act of forbidden love. Then he notices the extensive wiring. El Dupree places Shevardnadze in a full Nelson (the gross illegality of which will figure prominently in the ensuing criminal charges) and, still holding the minister, places his own lips to the microphone. El Dupree declaims: Humpty Dumpty liked macrame. Humpty Dumpty put it on his resume. And Don King's resources And his chinny-chin-chin Couldn't put Humpty to bed without his Nongie Blanket. The thought of the simultaneous translation lifts El Dupree to joy. Later, he will agree to surrender in exchange for $25,000,000, safe passage to Havana, and a Family Pak of ju-ju drops. Lindsey Durway, from Plum Village: In Plum Village did El Dupree A stately pleasure-dome decree Where Juan, the faithful gofer ran, Through ghettos measureless to man, Down to an oile'd sea. Lindsey Durway, from Plum Village: O Little Star of Yucatan, How still we see thee lie, Where burros sleep and Mayas weep and enchiladas fry.