THE HANGING POSSE

Disclaimer:

The characters, locations, place names and original attributes are the property of David Dortort and Bonanza Ventures.

No profit is made from this story. For Enjoyment purposes only.



THE HANGING POSSE


By JULES6

Author’s Notes:


The idea for this story belongs to Theresa Green. It was her inspiring thoughts that led me to believe that most Fan-fiction authors have an obsession with their characters that are rarely understood by their husbands, partners, families and friends.

Although the characters might differ from story to story and fandom to fandom, we all have been told that we are strange, our thoughts stranger and our passion in such pursuits unnatural.

Our families scream that they cannot contact us by phone because we are tying up the line while on the internet reading. They tell us that the people we declare to love so much are fictional and don’t exist.

Please don’t ask how a mobile phone got in Nevada at this time – the original story was set in a much earlier time than Bonanza and they still had one. For the sake of the story – it works anyway. Same with the magical little metal box and any other electronic gadget that has been incorporated into the story.

Theresa, I thank you from the bottom of my heart as your story is truly one of the funniest things I have read to date. My husband even threatened to book an appointment for a psychiatrist because I was laughing so hard at the computer screen.

I decided rather than get upset, I would get even and immortalize him forever as a character in my stories. Forever to remain trapped there in a world he does not understand and declares should not exist.

So John, dear, this is for you………….. and I do love you, but you should know better than to cross your author wife.

and so this is what happened…………

Place: Front door of the Ponderosa Ranch

Time of Day: Just before dawn………….


“Ben! Ben Cartwright!” Sheriff Roy Coffee shouted, hammering his fist on the front door of the Ponderosa homestead, as loudly as he dared. “Ben, you must come and see this! Ben Cartwright!”

The door opened so suddenly that Roy was left knocking thin air for a few seconds. Then he was aware of a penetrating gaze burning into him as the patriarch of the Cartwright family stood and stared malevolently at him from around the door.

Ben was dressed in his maroon coloured robe, his silver hair with a mind of its own, was disheveled. The man looked extremely tired and very annoyed. There were beads of sweat on his brow and upper lip.

“What day is it today, Roy?” he said in a dangerously calm voice.

Sheriff Coffee frowned. Was Ben losing his marbles? “Umm. . . Tuesday, Ben.”

“And what time of day is it, Roy?”

“An hour or so before dawn, I reckon,” Roy said, even more worried about his old friend’s state of mind.

“Precisely! And yet, despite knowledge of that, you stand before me now. There had better be a bloody good explanation!”

Roy winced and closed his eyes. “I didn’t want to disturb you Ben, but the news I have couldn’t wait any longer.”

“Roy, I have just gotten back tonight from a two week long cattle drive. I come home and am instantly involved in an argument with Joseph. “I am tired, and in no mood for someone’s foolishness. I want to go to bed,” Ben said.

“If someone looks to have died, call Doc Martin and have Paul poke whoever the poor bastard is in the ribs a few times and be done with it,” Ben stated firmly. “If someone is in trouble, then for the love of God, find another good citizen of Virginia City to help.”

"Ben, there is. A large body of men – strange looking men – has been spotted approaching your place,” Roy explained hurriedly.

Ben’s demeanour altered immediately. “Indians?”

“No, Ben. Not Indians. They are altogether more bizarre than that. Maybe if you was to take a look for yourself?”

Ben ran his hand down his haggard face and sighed deeply, looking back longingly into the bedroom. “Alright,” he said. “Give me a few minutes.” He shut the door.

Roy released the breath he had been holding. As the Sheriff of Virginia City it was his job to keep an eye on things in the town and inform others if strangers should be hanging around.

News of their timing could not have been worse. He heard muffled voices from inside the bedroom and then a few moments later, Ben emerged wearing his normal work clothes and leather vest, with his boots in his hand.

“Lead on, Roy. Let us take a look at these uninvited guests.”

*************************************************

The large group of strangers outside the sturdy, homestead of the Ponderosa were indeed a motley crew. The citizens of Virginia City would not have seen anything like them in all their born days.

They were men, but their attire was outlandish in the extreme. Their pants and shirts and jackets came in all sorts of colours and textures. Not a single one of them wore a vest or gun belt.

Some of them wore glasses in front of their eyes. They did not move like an organized group –on the contrary they milled about like people in a market place – but there was a determined expression on every single face. It was as if these men were not used to confrontation, but would brazen it out it if they had to.

“Have we got the readings on this place, yet?” one of them at the front of the group asked.

“Yeah, yeah. Just coming.” A second man holding some kind of box in front of him, squinted down at the object and then tapped the front with a finger. Here we go. . .”

“Angst reading?”

“Very low, Dennis. Very low indeed. Only three-point-two milliscreams.”

“Ah! Good! A comedy universe, mate. Just what we need. Don’t want anyone getting hurt, do we. What about the Little Joe lust level?”

John pressed a button and tapped the front of the box once again, a frown furrowing his brows. “The needle seems to have gone off the scale!”

“Struth! What about the romance reading? What kind of levels of kissing and fooling around are we dealing with here?”

Once again, John pressed another button. He yelped as the smoke started to pour out of the box. He tossed it onto the floor and gestured for everyone to stand back. In seconds the box exploded, showering the assembled men with tiny bits of plastic and metal.

John glanced at Dennis. “I think that answers my question.”

“Yeah. So whose universe do you think we are in? Susan’s?”

John shook his head. “Nah! Angst reading’s too low. What about your wife’s world?”

Dennis looked around him. “H’m. Not sure. Close, but not quite. It just feels a bit too. . . quiet. You know what I mean?”

John grimaced. “Oh, don’t talk to me about the quiet, mate. Not after the Rugby World Cup! I just don’t want to think about it, alright?”

Dennis nodded sympathetically.

“Yeah! Anyway,” continued John glancing round at the men surrounding them. “I think we’d better keep our minds on the game in hand. Whose universe are we in?”

“Get out the Authorial Analysis meter. That’ll help.”

“Ah, yes!” John reached into a back pocket and produced another strange device. He pressed a button and waved the machine around in the air.

“This should do the trick.” He pressed a second button and a spool of paper churned out of the little box.

“Here we go,” he said, reading from the list. “Over-reliance on semi-colons; tendency to use compound sentences; occasional lapses into modernisms; heavily dialogue-dependant text; virtually negligible plot; unrealistic portrayals of inter-racial relationships; unhealthy fascination with Little Joe’s anatomy; overuse of innuendo; worryingly comprehensive knowledge of medical practices and herbal remedies. . . Oh, gods, Dennis! This all points in one direction!”

The two men spoke in unison.

“JULES!”

John pinched the bridge of his nose, realising even as he did so that the fact that he was pinching the bridge of his nose should have told him that he was in Julie’s territory.

Her characters were always pinching the bridges of their noses when they were exasperated; and there was another one of those sodding semi-colons!

I mean, how pretentious can you get? He must stay on his guard – if he were not careful, he would find himself in the midst of one of those sentences – convoluted in the extreme, pointless and over-elaborate – that littered the work of Jules - the result no doubt of reading too much.

He would find that the narrative viewpoint had been shifted, with no subtlety whatsoever, mind you, into an internal monologue, probably in italics. I must stay alert! These men are depending on me! Dennis and the others are depending on me. . .

Aware that the men were starting at him with puzzled expressions, Dennis gathered his composure. “Right,” he said decisively, “we need to find to get a little organized here.” He pulled a long piece of paper out of his pocket.

“Now, John?” He began to run a finger down the long, long list. “Ah, yes! Here it is! Can someone find. . .”

He turned round and found himself face to face – well, no – face to chest, with a very tall man indeed. He looked up. . . and up. . . into hazel eyes and a hairy face and an expression of benevolent, if somewhat tired, kindliness.

“Yes.” The accent was definitely Australian.

“We would appear to have materialised in your wife’s Fan Fiction universe.”

“I know.”

Dennis looked at him. “Really, mate? How can you tell?”

John held up one finger. “Listen. Can you hear that?”

Dennis strained his hearing. “What am I listening for?”

John frowned at the crowd of men, chattering and complaining amongst themselves.

“RIGHT! LET’S HAVE A BIT OF HUSH, PLEASE!” His voice could have been heard all over the ranch. The crowd settled down, looking expectantly at the big man. “NOW, EVERYONE LISTEN CAREFULLY!”

To a man, they remained silent, struggling to hear whatever it was that John wanted them to observe. On the very edge of hearing there was a whirring noise.

“Who can tell me,” said John in less strident tones, “what that sound is?”

There was a pause. Hesitantly, one or two hands were raised.

John continued. “Now we did this last week didn’t we – the positive correlation between Fan Fiction Character Corruption and the Effect on Authors Families.” He raised his eyebrows expectantly and looked around at the crowd.

“It’s always the same hands every time, isn’t it! Come on, now! Think about the graph that I drew on the board – revs per minute plotted against Bonanza time-line references. Yes? Remember? Now, what is that sound?”

A few more hands were raised. Suddenly there was a beeping noise from the back of the crowd.

John’s gaze swept the throng like a hawk. “RIGHT! How many times do I have to tell you to switch your mobile ‘phones off in lessons?” He started to walk towards the source of the beeping, huge strides eating up the ground.

The hapless mobile-owner found himself looking up into a stern face. “Let’s have it then. You know the rules,” said the tall man, holding his hand out. “I don’t know how you are getting a signal in Nevada in the 1860’s anyway!”

Pressing a button on the ‘phone and putting it to his ear, John continued, “Hello? Who is this..? No. . . he can’t talk now. He’s busy. . . No, I can’t put him on. . . He’ll call you back later. No! No! I’m not taking any messages! Goodbye.” He handed the phone to the other man.

“Don’t let it happen again!” Turning back to the crowd he went on, “Now, where were we? Oh, yes! That noise. Come on now, boys! What is that sound? Think about that graph. What could that sound be, eh? Yes, you there with the moustache! Yes, you!”

“Sound of the phone lines being clogged up again, sir.”

“Yes! Well done that man!” Turning to Dennis he continued. “No-one makes a connection more swiftly or types on a keyboard more often than my wife!”

“Bugger!” one of the other men shouted out in frustration.

“’Bugger’ being the operative word, mate!” John said.

“Exactly!” Dennis agreed.

“Right!” somebody in the back said. “And having established exactly where we are and what we are up against, what are we going to do?”

“Leave that to me,” said John, setting his jaw determinedly. “I have a plan. Our main weapon is surprise. Surprise and fear… our two main weapons are surprise, fear and—”

Dennis took hold of his arm. “Steady on, John. This is Bonanza, not Monty Python, you know.”

The tall man shook his head. “Sorry! Don’t know what came over me. Don’t even like Monty Python!”

Dennis glanced round at the huge crowd of men around them. “We can’t take all this lot in with us. They’ll think we’re invading!”

John thought for a moment. “It’s going to be tough in there. We need only the most dedicated and determined men.”

“And women!” shouted two voices over the others.

“Women?” John looked round to locate the voices.

“Yes,” one woman said, introducing the other as her sister. The two women politely eased their way to the front. “We are going in there with you!” The accent was American.

“But this is The Revenge of the Fan Fiction Husbands, madam. Who are you two ladies?”

“We are Fan Fiction sisters.”

“Sisters?”

“Yes! Out sister spends every spare waking moment on that computer, half the time writing to your wife and others, I might add!” One of the sisters poked John on the arm. “How is she going to get out and meet people if she spends all her time with Fan Fiction, eh?

“But—”

“Enough already! We are coming with you! It’s the only way I’m going to get any action taken against these people!”

John shrugged, recognising that he was not going to win that particular battle. “Okay, but we need some kind of selection procedure for the rest of them. I’m not just taking anyone along. This could be bloody. We need only those men. . . er, persons who are ruthless and cold-blooded.”

“We could take everyone who is a lawyer,” suggested Dennis.

“Or a tax inspector?” said another man with a receding hairline.

“No, no!” said John. “I was thinking of a different kind of selection criterion.” He took a deep breath and bellowed at the top of his voice. “RIGHT! CAN YOU ALL HEAR ME? GOOD!

Now, I want everyone to listen carefully. We’re not all going into the house, alright. I’m only taking the most dedicated. Those who have suffered the most. So, please step over there,” he gestured to a space to one side, “if your wife,” there was a squeak, “or sister, owns a poster of Adam or Little Joe.”

Almost the entire crowd started to move towards the space.

“STOP! STOP! Alright, forget that. Not selective enough, obviously. Okay! BACK AGAIN, PLEASE! Right! Move across if. . .” he thought for a second, “if your wife knows the date of Michael Landon’s birthday.”

This time three-quarters of the crowd chanted in unison “October 31st” and started to walk.

“NO! NO! BACK AGAIN! STOP! STOP! Jeez!” John rolled his eyes. “Step forward if. . . if. . .” his voice was desperate now, “if your wife owns Bonanza pyjamas, Adam socks, a cardboard Little Joe, a Hoss doll, a model of Cochise or any of the other horses from the show, knows so much about Bonanza that you have to resort to cheating in order to beat her at any trivia game.”

The crowd muttered in confusion. “What about Bonanza coffee mugs?” asked one of the Fan Fiction sisters. “Do they count?”

“Life-size cardboard cut-outs, complete with replica gun belts and hats on?” shouted a man at the back. Dennis looked sidelong at the John. “Did you say ‘cheating’?”

Dennis whistled. “Cheating and winning is not very Australian, is it John!”

“No,” said John with a smirk. “We Aussies usually cheat and blame it on someone else anyway!”

“Ha!” Dennis elbowed him in the ribs. “Nice one!”

John shot two of the husbands both a dark look when they started to have a minor disagreement of their own. “If you two colonials don’t behave, I’ll leave you behind!”

Two men pulled faces behind John’s back as the big man tried again.

“Look, this is the last time, alright. LISTEN! Move over there if your wife owns at least four items of Bonanza merchandise.”

There was a certain amount of counting on fingers and muttering under breath from the crowd. Dennis could just about catch most of the comments. Duvet cover. . . mug. . . pencil case. . . poster. . . calendar. . . After a minute or two, a large, but not overwhelming sub-section of the crowd had moved to one side.

“At last!” said John. “The rest of you stay here and wait, please. We’ll be back soon.” He turned to his elite band. “Now men. . . erm, and you, two ladies. . . remember – this may be a comedy universe, but keep your wits about you! There is always the possibility of,” he lowered his voice ominously, “slapstick!”

Several members of the group winced.

“Come on then,” said John leading the way. He turned back suddenly. “Oh, can someone pass me that sports bag, please? Thanks. We won’t get far without that,” he added cryptically.

He lugged an enormous, battered, bag over his broad shoulder and, humming and whistling simultaneously in a manner that would drive any reasonable person to distraction, led them towards the front door of the homestead.

*************************************************

Ben Cartwright watched as a smaller group of the men began approaching the house from the other side of the yard. He had built this ranch up from nothing but his hands in the bare earth, but he had never seen such a strange collection of men.

They did not have the air of criminals. Nor did they show the humility and awe that Ben had seen in those who sought for him to fix some pending disaster in their lives. His curiosity was piqued.

The leader of the men stepped right up to Ben, seemingly fearless in the face of someone highly respected in these parts. The man’s face was expressionless, but Ben could sense a great deal of emotion behind the mask of calm.

Ben stood up to confront the man and was disappointed to find that he had to look up a long way to meet the man’s gaze.

“Greetings, strangers! What brings you to the Ponderosa?”

“We want a word with you, Benny!”

The stranger did not seemed bothered by Sheriff Coffee placing his hand on his gun in a warning gesture.

“Yeah!” A voice rang out from the small crowd of strangers. “You tell him, John!”

“Yes! And tell him to get them other ones to get out here pronto! The skinny, weedy one. He’s the trouble maker! And his long drink of water brother, dressed in black!”

Several voices took up the cry.

“Morbid bastard!”

“Just ‘cos he has got brains and uses them to beat the baddies!.”

“Why does he always wear only black, that’s what I want to know! Bloody ridiculous!”

John held up his hand for quiet. When he spoke his voice was perfectly calm.

“If you don’t mind, Mr Cartwright, we’d like our wives back, please!”

“And sister!” came the two women’s voices from the back.

“Your wives?” said Ben.

“And sister! Don’t forget sister!” the two female voices chimed in again.

“Yeah, alright, madam. And sister!” said John. “We want them back right now, and believe you me, sunshine, we are not taking no for an answer!”

Ben frowned. “I’m afraid that I have no idea what you—”

“Oh, don’t play the innocent with me, Mr Big Shot Rancher! You know exactly what I mean! For years you’ve been luring our women away with your three sons and all your hard earned wealth. Somehow they thought choosing that Michael What’s-his-name and that Pernell long-drink-of-water character to play your sons and, BAM! That’s it! All of a sudden the shirtless, dragged-through-a-bush-backwards look is where it’s at!”

Ben looked affronted but before he could object, the big man continued.

“And it’s not just those two is it! Oh, no! I’ve got men out there, poor neglected men, whose wives are smitten by. . . by Clay! And he’s not but been seen except in one episode!

“I really do not—” began Ben, but could not get a word in edgeways.

“And do you know who really winds us up? The one who drives us up the bloody wall? Eh? LITTLE JOE! LITTLE JOE!” Ben noticed a vein pulsing on the side of the man’s head.

“I mean at least there is a certain machismo about Hoss,” John explained. “At least a bloke can look at Hoss and think, yeah, big shoulders, rugged features, tall, manly blah, blah, blah. . . At least a bloke can see why his wife is attracted.

And Adam! He’s got wiry black hair that ain’t even real! He pounces around the room, spilling poetry and classic music! He doesn’t even fight with a proper with a gun and tells others that there is a better way of sorting out things than fighting! He stands around posing like a bloody ballet dancer, and they still want to go to bed with him!”

“Yeah!” A roar of support surged up from the crowd of strangers.

John, turned to his supporters.

“And do you know what my wife made me do? Do you know? I’ll tell you. My wife made me watch two whole episodes of Bonanza one evening while I was eating dinner in front of the T.V. before I even knew what was happening. And it was on football night too.”

There were horrified gasps from the crowd. Dennis had to be led to a chair for a bit of a sit-down. Being forced to watch that stuff when there was an important football game on TV? No wonder John was full of angst. Oh, how he had suffered!

“Yeah!” continued John. He turned back to Ben. “So this is what we want.

Ben looked confused. He had barely understood a word these men had shouted at him in apparent anger and frustration.

“Anyway, we would appreciate it if you and your. . . your. . . sons would stop being so irritatingly alluring and allow our wives—”

“And sisters!”

“—and sister, yes, to focus on us for a change.

Ben struggled to comprehend what the man was telling him. It did not make sense. “These women of whom you speak. Where are they?”

John gestured with a huge sweep of his arm. “They’re out there, Benny! Thousands of them! Tens of thousands! All with bloody silly pen-names, learning to write in Cantonese and emailing each other with salacious comments concerning Little Joe’s body.

Ben’s eyebrows shot up.

“And making up stories to fill in all the bits where the episodes missed out,” John continued. “Like what happened after Joe rode away from Julia’s Palace. Or why Adam was accused of committing murder when he supposed to be picking up supplies from the General Store.

And these women are always putting you lot in Alternative Universes where. . . where. . .” John struggled for a moment.

“Where Ben is running for political office and getting threatened by using Little Joe and Adam,,” called a voice from the crowd.

“Or Joe getting hurt in a train accident and almost getting kidnapped and held for random as well by baddies who can’t read!” shouted another.

“Or how Marie died and what you had to do to bring up your boys on your own!”

“Yeah, yeah!” said John, regaining his confidence. “And. . . and you wouldn’t believe how many times they have had you re-married for a fourth, fifth or twenty-seventh time!”

Ben paled. “Remarried. . ?”

“Oh yes!” said John. “Many’s the story in which they conveniently have Adam getting married and then something happening to spoil it. Or Little Joe where the woman are dressed in blue and die on the way to the church when they are thrown from a wagon!”

“You mean. . ?”

“Yeah! What has Adam got anyway, his own personal harem so he can play hide-the-sausage?”

Ben was aghast. “Adam? You mean, my son Adam?”

“Yep!”

Ben shook his head in disbelief. “But Adam wouldn’t do something like that to a young lady!”

“In this universe he certainly would. But there are countless stories out there, Benny me old mate, in which Adam or Joe are keeping a young lady warm at night!”

“No!” Ben was horror-struck. “I sure they admire the ladies from afar, of course, but their behaviour and feelings are purely platonic, I assure you!”

John nodded. “Yeah, yeah. . . Whatever. . . But my point is, that Little Joe and Adam have to stop attracting our women, so that we can enjoy our lives again without our wives calling out the wrong name in bed, do you understand?”

“Erm, well, I do not—”

“I don’t care how you do it, but we want the attention of our women focused on us at the weekend, alright?”

“But—”

At this point Dennis reached down into the blue sports bag and produced a strange-looking gadget. “And just to make sure that you do your best, I’ve brought along this.”

Roy was about to reach for his gun again, worried that these men meant to hurt Ben. John, along with all the other Fan Fiction significant others craned forward to see what it was that Dennis held.

“This,” continued Dennis, “is a laptop computer –my laptop computer, actually, although my wife seems to have half-hinched it – on which there is a fiendishly clever bit of software.”

If it works – and I was assured by the fifteen-year old on the Customer Support Desk that it would, as long as I’d loaded patch 3.1.67 – will have a devastating effect on the world of Fan Fiction.”

The assembled husbands and two sisters looked hopeful.

“Oh, yes!” continued Dennis, warming to his subject. “This software can sense Fan Fiction stories being written anywhere in the universe, and it contains a database of words and phrases that are not permitted to be written. Anyone using one of these phrases will find that their computer spontaneously combusts and their modem connection to FanFiction.Net crashes every time.”

“What is in the database?” asked John.

“Ah, hold on a second,” said Dennis, pressing a few buttons on the computer. “It’s quite a comprehensive list. I carried out an analysis of FF.Net and so on, and came up with the following forbidden phrases: High cheekbones.”

Several husbands nodded approvingly.

“Bronzed and tanned skin,” Dennis continued. “Sculpted abdominal muscles; leanly muscled thighs. . .”

The crowd murmured their approval.

“. . . chestnut, locks and curls of hair; broad, heavily muscled shoulders…” Dennis glanced at Ben as he spoke.

“Tousled hair falling across emerald green, sensual eyes. . . The list goes on and on.”

“I swear to God if I see another “brushed a stray curl out of his eyes” I am going to pluck Little Joe’s head as bald as a chicken,” came the outcry from one disgruntled husband.

One of the two sisters now piped up again. “You’d better add something about collarbones, honey! And slender hands! Definitely something about shirtless Joe!”

“And forearms corded with muscle!” shouted another voice.

“And don’t forget slim hips!” called a second.

“And hairy chests!” called a voice at the back. Everyone turned to stare. “She’s into Adam! What can I say?” The man shrugged apologetically.

“Right! Yes! Okay, okay!” shouted Dennis. “I’ll add all of those to the database. No problem!” Turning back to Ben he added, “So do you understand, Benny? No captivating our women anymore, or you may find yourself a little short of plotlines and character development.”

Then remembering whose universe he was standing in, John corrected himself. “Well, you probably wouldn’t notice that, but. . . but. . . there’ll be no sex! Pass the message on to Adam and Little Joe. They won’t get their hands on a single date for weeks if they lure my wife to the keyboard. Understand?”

Ben decided that the best way to deal with this madman was to humour him. “Yes, of course. I will give them the message straight away.” As soon as the situation was much calmer, he would have Roy arrest the entire group and hold them until they could be taken away from his home to a more secure facility. Preferably a prison cell.

John nodded decisively. “Good! That’s sorted then.” He turned away and stalked across the room. Dennis and the rest of the crew struggled to keep up with his long steps.

“What’s next then, boss?” asked Dennis.

John’s face was a picture of iron determination. “Well, Dennis, we seem to have sorted out the world of Fan Fiction, but there is a whole lot of distractions out there that could muck up our plans.”

“Yeah!” agreed a man in the back. “So what are we going to do?”

John stopped and turned to Dennis. He took a deep breath. “Dennis, we are going to crash every Michael Landon and Bonanza website on the Internet!”

Dennis smiled grimly. “Yeah!”

It was going to be a long night!

*************************************************

THE END

Thank you goes to Leesa and Susan for lending me their partners and families for this story. No offence to any individual is intended. We all love our families and partners.

First story I have ever written for Bonanza where I mention the boys but you don’t see them. Strange.


JULES6