TWENTY-TWO - You Killed My Momo

The acrid smell of burning hair made Arous retch.

The Desperado was about to shoot the Momo again when the two watchful Desperados from the booth incapacitated him.

“Where’d you get that new toy, Johnny Ringo?” said one of the two watchful Desperados.

“Goodnight,” said the female one as she clobbered him on the back of the head.

“How many times do I have to tell you,” screamed the proprietress. “No lasers in here.”

The Momo was half draped over the bar and with a last fading of energy in her eyes she slumped down onto the floor.

“Johnny boy, if you killed my Momo, I swear!  I can’t keep a Momo for you guys shooting up the place,” she said to the moaning Desperado as he rolled on the floor. “What did you guys do to him?”

They tipped their hats to her and began rounding up the rest of the Desperado in the diner and throwing them out the door.

The Momo’s target was on his haunches all the way to the wall. He had seen the sparks fly when the Momo smashed her anklets like stale sugar candy.

“She almost killed me,” he said.

“Be a service to the world, you sleaze bag,” said the proprietress.

Arous had started moving toward the Momo. She jumped over the counter and stumbled.  She hadn’t realized it yet but the dry air was zapping her energy.

“She’s dead,” said Arous.

“Now, that’s the second one this month! You guys out of here. Get. Out!”

As Arous leaned over the Momo, several of the Desperados were able to get a good look at her before they were flung out of the diner.

“Don’t forget, Midas,” the proprietress said to the two Desperados still cleaning house.  The Desperada lifted him up by the scruff of his neck and carried him out.  At the door, her companion tipped his hat to Arous and to the proprietress and was gone. 

Arous was stroking the Momo’s face.

“Girl, I wouldn’t touch her, she’s dirty,” said the proprietress.

Arous had already started to sing before the proprietress even finished her sentence. The proprietress stopped, mesmerized for a moment by the song.

“What?”the proprietress said.

Arous paid no attention to her; she repeated a tune that she had heard Priscilla sing a million times.  Arous closed her eyes.  Tears began to stream down her face.

The Momo exhaled long and loud.  Arous began to sob. 

The Momo stopped breathing.

“Oh, please,” said Arous.  “I know you were trying to help me. This is the least that I can do.”

Arous continued to sing, bent down to the Momo’s face until her lips almost touched the Momo’s.  She breathed her song of life and healing into the Momo.  The shaggy chest lifted.  Color seemed to come back to her hairless face and a gold hue infused the hair on her body.

“Thank you for coming back from the Mist,” she said.

The Momo’s eyes fluttered wide open. She made a sort of mewing sound, like the soft chirp that a cat makes when it’s happy to see you. She tried to sit up.

“Wait,” said Arous. “Can you give me a glass of water for her?”

The proprietress filled a glass at the faucet.  Coming only as close as was necessary, the proprietress leaned over the Momo and handed Arous the glass.  The proprietress’ hands trembled so that she shook most of the water out of the glass. She stepped back again, a little further away this time.

“Thank you,” said Arous.

She held the glass in her hand for a minute.  Traces of fog went from her fingertips into the glass, swirling around and disappearing. She poured the water into the Momo’s mouth, helping her to drink it by caressing her face.

“Now you can sit up.”

No sooner had the Momo sat up than Arous heard a jingle of keys and sliding bolts at the door.  The proprietress had locked the front door.  She walked closer to them but kept the bar between them and her.  Arous stood up, jumped up to sitting on the bar.

The proprietress stammered, “She was dead.”