But I got fatter chickens to pluck. My pard Loney’s got connections with that Tom Howe feller who says he found him another failed writer. Not as big as failure as him, o’course, but still. Name’s William Saunders from down by On the Blob gulch, past Cyberville Holler. Guess they’re cookin up some kinda wild word shindig and I’m invited.

Says he’s gonna call it The Cosmic Cowadventures of Hank Pickens and Liam Kilgore, and you’ll be able to track it down ‘bout where that other wacky word game is, but first he’s gotta talk to his pal the computer wrangler to fix it up on its own page and all, don’t you know?

Ye see, what they do is get a couple o’ them writerfolk – you seen the type, most generally the kind o’ gent what ain’t got much ‘ceptin imagination and a smile – and cut ‘em loose with a couple of imaginary characters like me and Mr. Liam, and we start scribblin’ letters back and forth, with no idear what’s coming up next. Now I ain’t no great fist with a pen, myself, but I’m hopin that Howe tinhorn will give me a hand with that if need be.

Anyways, y’all take care now, ye hear? Hang on to your scalps and all. Take good care o’ your grannies, too, since grannies is what makes this poor ol’ benighted world of ours keep spinnin.

Your hootin’ hollerin’ imaginary cowboy astronaut and international fella of mystery,

Hank

Don’t you worry ‘bout Loney none, he’ll be fine. Never was much to look at anyways. And who needs hair when you got a hat?

Can’t say much about where I been lately, national secret and all, but you can be sure it involved that dadblasted Evil Mr. X. You can also be sure he’s down a few minions. Laser tag ain’t so much fun when you’re usin’ real lasers.

Took a bit of a holiday to Arcturus, too, a while back, though it was a workin holiday. Put up a cosmic corral around the Cowzonians, down by where that gaseous globule draws in a bit toward the quasar out beyond Last Hole Stargulch.

Here’s hoping Lone Wolf feels better soon, and my very best wishes to this dear country o’ mine for a hoot hollerin’ Happy Birthday! Been 233 years since our foredaddys laid down the good laws.

Oh say!

Hank

But like I said, I don’t mind. Nothin’ better come along lately.

My partner Loney had to step out a day or two and asked me to mosey in and hold down the fort. Busted his adjective and needs to heal up some. Guess that happens to them word wranglers, now and again.

So let’s see, what else? Well, after the space armada got back from Darn Tootin’, had to lay into that dad blasted Evil Mr. X and his goldurn minions again. That feller is about as evil as they come. Parks his horse back in the barn without even rubbin’ it down. Nothin to pizzle me off more, I tell you what.

Kicked his minions hindquarters in two yanks of a hog’s tail, o’ course, not to be braggin myself up or nothin’. But that Mr. X takes a mite of kickin’ to get shucked loose o’ him. He’s holed up now in one of his secret hidey holes, which he’s got plenty of. That feller sure likes his caves. I busted up his infernal death machine, though, so we should be safe til the next cattle drive come fall.

Your horny cowpoke,

Hank

Oh well, I remember Grandma warn’t no saint neither, when she used to go into her fits and start shitting and puking all over the barnyard. But at least she would go unconscious for a bit afterward, give us a chance to rest up for the next fit.

Hank

Now me? I’m a cowpoke. Been one since I could throw a rope, ‘bout age three. Busted my first bronc when I was five, since I had to go bail Grandma outa jail, and she’d already done sold all our good stock for whiskey and young bucks.

Been on the lonesome trail ever since, on and off. Something of a black sheep in my family, since I ain’t spent much time in the hoosegow. But life’s been pretty darn good to us ever since that speculator found oil on Pa’s land. If you knew Pa, you would realize he’s the last man on God’s good earth that should ever have any money, since he could be broke as a stick and talk a duck into the oven. Him wallerin’ in money like he is now? Well, hardly nothin’s safe.

Have to say he’s been good to me with that cash o’ his, I reckon likely since my brothers are down in county, and they don’t let you spend that much on folks in jail. He married all twelve of my sisters off to rich fellers, so that’s something. From what I hear, they’re fond o’ their maids.

Before he got rich, he spent most of his time drunk as Moses, down at the Bayou to watch the talkies, so he’s got a pretty stretched-out view of what rich folk do. He paid some of them fellers down in Washington to hire me on as a international spy, and bought some rockets so I could be an astronaut, too. Now I don’t mind so much going around shooting down bad guys, and all them fancy suits and high-flyin’ cars, but the women in that international spy game? Don’t trust ‘em. Not a lick. Especially if dey dalk dike dis. No matter how beautiful they are. And them foreign gals can get pretty darn beautiful, let me tell you.

I ain’t ‘specially fond o’ outer space, neither. I suppose it ain’t so bad since you can look down and see the earth and all, but it’s darned lonesome up there. If you’re a fella who likes his trees and streams and things up close, I wouldn’t recommend it. And I can tell you there ain’t no smells out in space but your own stink.

Ya’ll take good care now, ye hear?

Hank