Dieselpunk ePulp Showcase 2 (Anthology)

The More Things Change: A Tale of the Aether Age

A tall but paunchy gentleman was sheltering behind some tables in another quarter of the saloon. He was dressed like a southern landowner, his crushed top hat in one hand and monocle hanging from his waistcoat. But he too picked up a bottle and launched it in the direction of the bar the flapper ducked behind. “My de’ar, your hypocrisy is unbecoming.” The bottle shattered across the bar to get a squeal from the flapper. He smiled wickedly. “If anyone should be silent about propaganda it’s the residents of the state that claims to rule the so-called U-nited States of A-meri-ca.” He cackled with delight. “Even an unso-phis-ticated New Yor’k hussey like you should know that recent history proves thinking you run the continent don’t make it so.”


A chair leg rotored past the startled southerner, sending him back behind cover. “Better them then you,” called a French voice. It’s owner stood up from behind a beer barrel in the corner. He was dressed in cowboy denims and boots but wore a leather flight jacket, flying cap tucked into his back pocket. “New York is better than New Confederacy any day.” And the cowboy launched another chair leg.


“Yeah!” agreed the flapper, standing as the dark-skinned cowboy launched his last chair leg and a bottle at the Confederate. “He’s right. You could do a lot worse than us. If you’d only- -”


She ducked just in time to avoid a new delivery from the Californian, but in the background the cowboy began laughing uproariously. His latest bottle had caught the southerner’s top hat and sent it skittling. It’s owner, now covered in gin, retreated to a better defensive position while the cowboy cackled and slapped his knee. Then he stopped, spying someone cowering under a table on the other side of the room.


He pointed out the stranger as the latest salvo from the bar sailed past towards the piano. “Hey you. You never declared yourself. Where you from, son?”


Wide-eyed, the stranger held his hands up. “You can leave me out of this. I’m not American, I’m Canadian.”


“Canadian!?!” A stocky, older woman in a weathered poncho stood up behind the flapper’s bar. Her face was a picture of rage. “You said you were from Seattle.”


“Yeah, that’s what I said. I’m Canadian.”


The old woman swept back her wide brimmed hat to let it dangle by the cord around her neck. She completely ignored the bottle that sailed past her head to smash on the wall behind the bar. Instead, she only had dagger-eyes for the neutral-wannabe from Seattle.


A pointed finger slowly rose towards him with the gravitas of an oracle’s threat. “You... are American.”


The ‘American’ cringed as another bottle landed in his general vicinity. “No I’m not. I’m a citizen of the British Empire. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”


The old woman’s face went a deep crimson. “No. You’re. Not!” She turned to grab several bottles from the back of the bar. Then, with no regard to her own safety, she stood free of all protection, laying down glassware cover-fire on the hapless British-American. “You are American!” she bellowed. “You. Are. American!”


Seeing the American/Canadian suffering under the withering fire, the cowboy started laughing again in deep guffaws. He slapped his thigh several times, really getting into the comedy- -


Then stopped. The bottles were no longer flying...


His eyes panned right to see the old woman now pointing at him.


“You’re just as bad,” scowled the stocky, hard faced poncho wearer. “You’re worse, you so-called Mississippian.” She pointed again. “You think you’re French!”