Title: I Gave My Soul To Jesus, But I Left My Heart For You, 2/?
Pairing/Rating: Buffy, Spike, possibly others. PG-13 fer cussin' and swearin' and stompin' by horse flesh on tender girl legs
Summary (heh): Based on the gud summries: "Buffy was a yound [sic] and promising Barrel Racer. Then she had an accident. Spike was a young and promising Bull Rider. Then he met Buffy." Yep. That pretty much sums it up.
A/N: Sit by a campfire when the doggies are done howling, get the cooky to hum a tune on his harmonica, and let my Texas narrator tell you a tale of promise, heartbreak, and a woman scorned. Get a'long, little doggies. This is the very embodiment of crack!fic. Hallelujah and pass the hooch. Also: =& is a spur, and % is a horse's ass, which I may have made of myself.)
Miss the beginning? Look no further.
There you are. Thought we done near lost you in the sagebrush. Now, I hope you didn't take to heart what them cowpokes told you about using Prickly Pear to wipe your backside after giving back to Mother Nature, 'cause that's just a joke they play on gringos to keep themselves entertained. Grab yourself a plate of beans and rashers and settle into your roll, and I'll pick up this yarn again. Don't forget to check your blanket for rattlers - they like to curl up in there.
Now, when we last saw our girl Buffy - her mama had gone through a fanciful name spell after a silver-tongued vanilla salesman from Omaha breezed through town stealing hearts like a magpie steals clothespins - she was darn near rock bottom. All her dreams, hopes, hell, even the cowboy that won her heart was ripped out of her hands like the washing on a line during twister season.
I'm gonna tell you straight, ain't gonna lie to you. Life is hard, and living is mean. Some folks is just meaner'n snake shit, and that's just God's honest truth. Buffy may have started out purer than the driven proverbial snow, but when life is cruel, it can twist even the straightest arrow into something that can bend and twist and take yer eye out. Buffy was about to become this in the metaphorical sense.
It started off with a loose strap here, a pricker under a horse blanket there until after a few mishaps with her ride, Skyler's time started slipping. And soon enough, her daddy started hinting that he'd like to start throwing his money down a diff'ernt bottomless pit. Well, without Daddy's money funding her racing, that gal had to leave the rodeo and plop her porcine rump in a naughahide chair at her daddy's dealership and make cow eyes at the balding salesmen in their stretched-out and shiny-seated suits.
But what about that slick, lupine feller that'd treated our gal like so much offal? He had them buckles for a reason, sure as shootin', and he started making a name for himself out here in the local circuits. Some folks claimed that boy done had himself a gen-u-wine black hole between his legs that sucked him onto those bulls and kept him up for eight seconds and oft'times longer. But Buffy didn't just want to squash his dreams of being a champeen, she wanted to break his spirit, just like the world had broken hers....
Sonny whipped around, almost tangling his gangly legs in the process, and tore his Stetson off his head and covered his chest with it. "M-ma'am? How y'all are, Miss Buffy? You lookin' purdier than a spangledy pup today, if you don't mind my say-"
"Can it, wise ass. You know Mr. Taggert won't let me near them overgrown cows in my condition, so I'm gonna need you to take care of a little thang for me."
"M-miss Buffy, now... You know I cain't be he'ping you out like 'at no more. Why, some nights I jest lay there, a'thanking on all them thangs you had me do to that nice Miss Skyler's horse and I get a twistin' black feeling in my gut, like-
"Shut yore mouth, Mongo, and high-tail it over to #6. I want that knot on his balls loosened up. That bull ain't bucking nobody no how."
"But Miss Buffy! If that bull just walks out there with that white-haired devil on his back, what's people gonna thank?"
"They're gonna thank that he's got some kindly mojo he works over them critters, and they're gonna steer clear of him. That's where I step in."
"B-b-but Miss Buffy, you cain't be steppin' no where with them legs no more."
Buffy whipped the dust cover off her broken legs and lifted her torso up out of her chair on her powerful arms. "No. No I cain't, Sonny. I have you to thank for that, don't I? Now gitcher ass over to chute #6 and loosen some bull balls, PRONTO!"
Sonny nodded furiously, clapped his 5 gallon atop his head and kicked up a rooster tail of dust, a'runnin' to the bull barn. Buffy settled back in her chair and massaged her legs, a devilishly cruel grin fixed on her purdy puss. "One down, one to go."
"Well, we'll wait to hear back from the EMTs to see if #5 is gonna be okay! That boy'll probably walk again, but I don't think his head'll ever look the same!" The announcer covered up the microphone and leaned over to his mistress and spoke, "Lord, but I hate it when they get their skulls crushed. Just takes the fun out of the rest of the night, you know?"
The crowd at the Resistol Arena was a'whompin' and a'whalin', cheering their country-loving guts out. It's no secret that bull riding is the grand finale of any rodeo for a reason: the potential blood bath. But there was something diff'ernt about tonight's festivities. Not one of the cowboys had managed to stay on their rides for more than two seconds, let alone the required eight to advance. The rodeo clowns had been working overtime to divert the especially crazed bulls tonight, and every rider had become tangled in their hold ropes. The next rider was someone that was quickly becoming legend, and in West Texas, the home of Pecos Bill, the place where folks still uttered "Remember the Alamo" on their death beds, that was damn impressive. And when you took into account he weren't local, hell, some folks claimed he was a Yankee or worse, that was nigh on impossible.
"Folks, we got us a real cowboy coming up now. Chute #6 riding on Satan's Helper, one of the feistiest bulls to ever grace the sawdust. Let's give it up for... Spike!"
The crowd about came undone. Everyone was on their feet clapping and cheering and hollerin', and since I promised to be straight with you, leaning forward hoping to catch a glimpse of some bloodshed. Not since Jim Bowie was bayoneted in his cot and the dreams of independence were put on hold for a year have a people been more disappointed. The buzzer chimed, the chute opened, and the bull walked out. Folks, I'm telling you that Satan's Helper, a bull that took away the procreation ability of scores of men, sauntered outta that damned chute and began to scratch his nose on his leg.
Well, you don't need me to tell you that you could'a knocked that crowd over with a feather. And sittin' high and pretty on that tamed beast's back was that feller'd broke our gal's heart and soul, lookin' just as confused as a Pentecostal preacher on a Gay Pride float. Not that I have nuthin' against them peoples, I'm just making a point.
He tried rocking back and forth. He tried digging his heels in that ol' bull's sides. He reached back with his free hand and slapped the beast's rump. "Move your bloomin' arse!"
Damn Yankee. Bulls don't speak ainglish.
The buzzer sounded, announcing time, and if that critter didn't lay down in the sand and take a siesta with that hombre on his back, why, I'll eat my hat. He was declared the u-nanimous winner, but truth be told, folks started getting a little spooked about that boy. Some folks started whispering, as they're wont to do, that maybe he'd rigged the whole damn thing. Other folks shot that down sayin' as they'd seen him up at the Loose Deuce bar, wettin' his whistle earlier in the day, so there's no way he could'a done it.
And in a small town of god-fearin' folk, they started wondering what in blazes was wrong with that feller, the boy who could tame an animal named Satan's Helper. As the crowds started stompin' down the steel bleachers to their pick-em-ups, heading back to the homestead, Buffy wheeled back into the shadows to hide her grin. She clucked softly with her tongue and Blue, her trusty steed, moved up alongside her and nosed her shoulder, ready for a pat. She grabbed his reins, exhaled slowly, and pulled herself back up into the saddle.
Her anger and rage hadn't been enough to get her legs workin', but it seemed like cold revenge would do the trick. Mr. Taggert shut the main switch, and the emptied arena was plunged in darkness, all but for some faint starlight. Buffy patted Blue's neck, buried her hands in his mane, and used all her strength to try and squeeze her once-useless legs together. Just enough pressure to move Blue forward and she gave a small cry in triumph as her baby took her on a gentle canter along the perimeter of the ring.
Blue came to a stop next to her chair and patiently stood, tail whisking away flies from the both of them, as she lowered herself back to her chair.
"Next up, Regionals. Let's just see if he can tame the savage beast twice."
Lord, but her laugh was colder'n a witch's tit. Looks like that boy got hisself in a heap o' trouble.