THE TWO LAST WILLS AND TESTAMENTS OF DEADWOOD DICK
BAWDYdarkly comic illustrated*
*by max & ai vei vei
max singer
“ now my friends, had this been in the time when the Kings of the Old Testament walked upon thee earth, I might have suggested the Solomonic option, that this criminal half-breed – whichever Dead Dick he is, Wood or Eye – shall be cut into two equal pieces. Either down the middle left-to-right. Or crossways top-andbottom. Prehaps even sliced into a frontside and a back-side like two sides of beef. And then one-half given to each party ”
The Two last Wills & testaments of Deadwood Dick
For the ghosts of the napoleon house and the misFits of the French Quarter
“Leaving New Orleans also frightened me considerably. Outside of the city limits the heart of darkness, the true wasteland begin”
John Kennedy toole, A Confederacy of Dunces
Isabelle’s Saloon cUT and ShooT
“Hookers’ Trail”
Violletta’s Traveller’s Nook UncerTain
Madame Clair’s Salone de Pleasure dry PronG
Lady Philomena’s Palace of Delight BUnkie
Soo Ming’s Temple of Amour dinG donG
The FirST
last
Will
& Testament of “deadwood dick” Found aTop the Straw mattress in his cell Shortly after his hanging
“limp-dick half-Breed came to town, hogtied on a donkey, strung a rope ’round his neck, & he dan-ced like a monkey”
The TWo laST WillS & TeSTamenTS oF “deadWood dick”
chapter two a hand of piquet
Ifear that i will be spending my last hours on this earth sitting here in this cell, listening to the crowd of torchcarrying, drunken yahoos, rustics and bumpkins gathered outside the jail in hopes of a front row seat to a good-old-fashioned lynching, singing the chorus to the recently composed (and abominable) “Ballad of Deadwood Dick”…
“Limp-Dick half-Breed Came To Town, hogtied On A Donkey, Strung A Rope ’Round his Neck, & he Dan-ced Like A Monkey”
I also fear that my laissez-faire attitude towards life will fail me and my deepest-most thoughts on that occasion will sink, unfortunately, to the basest of emotions, tossed from atop the fiercest waves of loathing, onto the rocky shores of the deepest sloughs of despondency, as I contemplate the events that brought me to this particular denouement, rather than the alternative, which would have been mine had not a strange series of events led me here and my true identity been revealed.
How I arrived here is a tale of the city, where at least a semblance of culture exists, New Orleans, Louisiana, where it and I began.
And of one hickified hamlet, Yellow Gulch, Texas, where it all will have ended by the time anyone has read this.
It is a tale of my own Odyssey, of being betwixt my personal Scylla and Charybdis, the proverbial rock and a hard place.
rénaldé Binyamin ruBiné, a freethinker, polyglot, child of the enlightenment, scion and last liVing memBer of a wealthy spanish-Jewish family of nouVelle orleans
( 10 )
Having no direct contact with Mohammedans or those of other Eastern beliefs – except for the occasional intoxicated Chinese seaman I might have come across in a riverfront tavern or opium den – I am ignorant and thus cannot speak of them. As far as the Vaudoux “religion” practiced by many in this city, I am at a loss to understand their curious rituals, but I cannot but admire the energy and vitality they possess which are lacking in the established churches of the ruling class. Other than that I will keep my suspicions to myself.
Maman was considered the most beautiful woman, white, black, free or slave, in New Orleans. My father fell head over heels for her from the moment he first espied her in the company of her “maistre,” “The Frenchman.” She was always on his arm as he strutted about town, acting like he was the Cock-O-The-Roost, whether to church, to lunch at Antoine’s, to Livaudais’s plantation to bet on the horses, wherever, whenever.
And after his fateful first glance of Maman, Papa was a besotted, love-struck youngster, amoureux as we say. He would stare at her longingly from a distance, would curse and moan and weep like a lost child; when alone he would flail about and beat his breast whenever he thought about her being “intimate” with “The Frenchman”.
But after much breast-beating, Papa finally found the courage to act. He approached “The Frenchman” through an intermediary and offered him a small fortune to release Maman from her obligations – even though Papa’s friends warned him that “The Frenchman” would never part with Maman, certainly not to “le Juif” – The hebrew – as “The Frenchman” disdainfully called him.
maman was considered the most Beautiful woman in new orleans. my father fell head oVer heels for her from the moment he first espied her in the company of her “maistre,” “the frenchman” ( 13 )
By maX SinGer
My education was undertaken at home, since there were few local ecolés, secular or religious, willing to take in a “bâtard métis.” At first by Papa and Maman, who took it upon themselves to teach me to read and write at an early age, and later (after I had entered my adolescence) under the watchful eye of a beautiful and brilliant young prodigy, Cecily, an English girl, a few years older than I, who had sparkling hazel eyes and long strawberry tresses, whom Papa had brought to America to be my governess and to tutor me in French, Italian, literature of the world, philosophy, music, the classics, history, whatever else might arouse my curiosity. All of which I devoured voraciously. And then, quite by accident, both our curiosities were aroused by an unexpected addition to the curriculum which we voraciously devoured together:
One stormy afternoon, while we were in the library, curious about the ribald tomes we understood Papa had in his collection, Cecily went to climb up the sliding library ladder to reach one of the higher shelves and pull out a volume by “Máximo” Cantante (“Los Cuentos Populares Perdidos Completos De Pippidufka,” i believe.) She twisted her delicate foot, missed a step, and fell into my arms. I held, comforted her, and gently massaged her ankle. Then, my hand, uncontrollably, developed a mind of its own, moved up to her calves, then her thighs, and, continued on, creeping slowly, up under her dress, without meeting any resistance, until it reached her “fairest flower”, and, thereafter, quite simply, matter-of-factly, we introduced each other to “Ars Amatoria” – the arts of love.
In that way we escorted each other from childhood into adulthood.
one stormy afternoon, while we were in the liBrary, curious aBout the riBald tomes we understood papa had in his collection, cecily went to climB up the sliding liBrary ladder to reach one of the higher shelVes
What it was that they found seductive I was not, am not, certain– I do not, did not, consider myself an extraordinarily handsome or attractive man. Perhaps it was the nature of my lovemaking? And my deep natural pleasure I found in their company? Perhaps it also had something to do with this: as time passed, I also discovered I possessed certain natural sexual talents – being amongst them the ability to control the “high and low tides of my prodigious engine” which enabled me to bring my lovers and myself to the heights of mutual passion – which skills I later perfected and indulged in, thanks to the happy meeting of my fathers largesse and the ready availability of such diversions in the brothels and parlours of my fair city, as well as discreetly in the bedrooms and gardens of certain wives and daughters of the local gentry, always when the men of the house were absent, usually engaged in their own secret trysts. As you will discover, as you read on, such skills played a central role in the final act of this tale.
Papa and Maman made no scolding mention of any descent into a misspent youth. Perhaps in their unapologetic plaisir et joie de vivre, silently approving. Or perhaps assuming it was a temporary phase that I would outgrow. Or perhaps merely so wrapped up in the cocoon of their love they did not notice. And I made no effort to enlighten them.
But among my friends my escapades were legendary, admired, and joking that I had a supernatural eye to identify the willing lass, as is the habit among friends they bestowed upon me the moniker Deadeye Ricardé, which, ringing harsh upon the ears – and pretentious – soon became Deadeye Rick, and finally someone blurted out the alliterative, and droll, Deadeye Dick. And it stuck. Thus the years of my youth passed happily with little sturm und drang.
chapter four
“hooker’S Trail” or
The odySSey BeGinS
chantelle was an “older” woman, past her prime years, with long salt and pepper tresses, But nonetheless still an attractiVe and imposing woman. her “friend” mme. eValine was much younger
noVel
By maX SinGer
Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Steiber warned me that wanted posters had suddenly began appearing throughout the area, illustrated with a crude artist’s rendering, purporting to be my likeness. an illUSTraTed
Wanted alive
$10,000 reWard deadeYe diCK aKa riCardé rubiné
Half-breed HiYaller
r eward paid Upon h is r eturnTo New Orleans To Face Justice. For Various savage misdeeds
Normal To Those OF hIS rACE . Most Villainous b eing The r ape Of A Female r elation Of A Notable Of That City. ( 53 )
Now fortunately, having some passing knowledge of the notorious Deadwood Dick from reading articles in The Picayune, The Bee, Frank Leslie’s illustrated Newspaper as well as some “Penny Dreadfuls” I had come upon, I was not totally unprepared. So on the spot, automatically, without thinking, I raised my arms and declared aloud in what I remembered the scriveners wrote down in the language they imagined an illiterate villain like Deadwood Dick might use and how he might sound:
“doan shoot i gives up ya gots me! me, dedwud dik! you lukky fekkin a’holes you gots dedwud dik!” Apparently it worked. At least for the moment.
But, like most good “law-abiding” citizens, unable under any circumstances to tell the difference between one half-breed and another, and my fitting the vague description and crude portraits on both wanted posters spread throughout the area, and, also unwilling perhaps, to so quickly relinquish their rights to a $10,000 reward, they did not accept my declaration there and then. They both claimed me. One as Deadwood Dick and the other as Deadeye Dick and aimed their weapons on each other.
The two posses, after much back-and-forth threats and challenges, unable to reach an understanding, but deterred by the rifles, shotguns and pistols that had been quickly drawn, on-theready and pointed at each other, called a truce and were for the moment assuaged by jugs of moonshine passed around – as well as a good whipping I received from members of both parties. And they agreed that on the morrow, they would hogtie me to a donkey, and with me in tow, ride into Yellow Gulch to present me to the local sheriff to settle the matter as to which Dick I was and thus which posse had the stronger claim to my person and the $10,000 reward.
chapter five yellow Gulch texas or
The hickiFied hamleT
arriVing midday, they gathered en masse, Quite Boisterously, armed to the hilt, growing in size and Volume, outside the sheriff’s office.
Arriving midday, they gathered en masse, quite boisterously, armed to the hilt, growing in size and volume, outside the sheriff’s office. With me in tow.
The sheriff, Tobias Tooberson, stormed out of his office, with his Deputy, Randolf Q. Smits, close behind, both also armed, and apparently stirred to action by the screaming and yelling mob perched outside the jail, who were shooting pistolés into the air and waving overhead what appeared to be large sheets of paper with something printed on them. The Sheriff cocked his shotgun and fired two shots over the heads of the crowd, and they immediately quieted down. After a few minutes of explaining the situation and their predicament, The sheriff asked to examine the papers which, of course were the two wanted posters in question. One for Deadwood Dick. One for Deadeye Dick. He was handed both. Looked at both over and over. Looked at me. Back to them. Back to me. Back to them. Back to me. And, then visibly perplexed and perhaps a bit fearful of the gathered mob, finally, desperately, laughingly said, “Dang nabbit, ya just can’t tell one half-breed from another! Can ya?”
He went on to state that, since he was simply unable to make a decision as to which Dick I was, he would remove himself as arbiter – that is, pass the buck? – and would lock me up and call for a properly authorized traveling magistrate to arrive and make a considered ruling. Such proposal was reluctantly accepted by the posses, encouraged in that decision by the lawmen’s weaponry and the appearance of some five or six additional armed townsfolk standing beside Tooberson, and I was led inside and locked up to await the arrival of a judge.
Now, while the town fathers and good citizens of Yellow Gulch, Texas, may not have cared whether they captured a half-
The TWo laST WillS & TeSTamenTS oF “deadWood dick”
Andso, indeed, the very next day, as the judge had declared, a telegram was dispatched to all towns within a week’s travel, reading… to All Whores, hArlots, bAWds, tArts And trollops. eXClAMAtIon poInt. stop. CAn YoU
texiana telegram
rAIse A lIMp dICK froM the deAd. QUestIon
MArK. stop. If YoU thInK YoU CAn A $50 gold
pIeCe AWAIts YoU. stop. CoMe to YelloW gUlCh WIthIn the WeeK to Meet seleCtIon CoMMIttee. stop. reAd lAtest YelloW gUlCh beACon ArrIvIng bY stAge for detAIls. end.
chapter six
Trial By QUim or
The laST TemPTaTion
The TWo laST WillS & TeSTamenTS oF “deadWood dick”
Word quickly spread throughout the region and beyond of the impending public extravaganza. The paid notices appearing in the papers throughout the region reading:
trial
By Quim in yelloW GUlch
!Trial Of The Decade !
deadWood or deadeYe? hookers Will Decide large CroWds expeCted !! b ring The Whole Family!! onCe-in-a lifetime event Entertainment for ALL !! Judge Hollister mcelroY !! Will preside at The Trial
But then, instead, when the curtain was slid Back, through it entered not the temptress direct from one of my recent nightmares But one of the least attractiVe women i had eVer gazed upon
i could neVer forget – But might hope to – masked mistress x, a leather clad temptress whose sadistic skills the selection committee ignorantly thought might tickle my fancy.
chapter seven the hangman measures up or the last supper
i was told what i was going to get, of course, if i was eVen half-lucky, was the standard prix-fixe “yellow gulch half-Breed farewell feast,” a plate of cold Beans, some stale Bread & a Jar of flat piss Beer.
114 )
chapter eight
The Second last Will and Testament of “deadwood dick” discovered a Week after his hanging Stuffed inside the Straw mattress in his Jail cell
The TWo laST WillS & TeSTamenTS oF “deadWood dick”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
feet in the mud [new orleans]
Hemingway & Co. had Paris in the 20s, “a movable feast” of artists, writers composers, patrons, ne’er do wells, expatriates & thinkers, gathered together in a whirlwind of amazing creative energy and innovation. I had my “moveable fais do-do,” the French Quarter in the 70s, a tight-knit group of creatives and ‘Quarter rats” living a similar life. I had left Philadelphia in 1970, with my wife, a Sacred Heart and Newcomb alum, and travelled aboard my ill-fated hippy schoolbus, “The Universal Travelling Workshop,” headed to NOLa where I dreamed of becoming an underground cartoonist ala R. Crumb. I was. Briefly. For the infamous Nola Express. But my “cannabis-besotted” strip “The history Of The World According To The Shitballs” faced universal incomprehension. Luckily for me, a schoolmate from high school, “Ginnie” Hardy, had preceded me to NOLa, and was editor of The Vieux Carré Courier, the French Quarter’s weekly newspaper. We reconnected. And found himself “beamed’ into the heart of that creative community. Living and working in the 70s Quarter, the hub of the city’s art scene, I mingled with notable peers like Phillip Carter and David Hershkovitz as well legends like Tennessee Williams and Clarence Laughlin.
an illUSTraTed noVel By maX SinGer
[nola props & cred]
pro Bono
Mardi Gras Poetry Festival, McGovern 1972 Campaign ( loGo )
CAC Dew Drop Inn (PoSter deSiGn/illuStrAtion) publication design
Barataria Review. Jazz and Heritage Festival Programs. 1984 Worlds Fair Guidebooks. Where Magazine WhereTalks I interactive. States-Item | Times-Picayune (deSiGn director). graphic design
Snug Harbor Jazz Bistro ( loGo deSiGn, t-ShirtS, AdvertiSinG).
Restaurant Jonathan (loGo). Franklin Printing. editorial illustration/cartoon Gambit. Figaro. New Orleans Magazine. Gris Gris. Vieux Carré Courier. Nola Express. Offbeat. art exhibits
