Tag Archives: guns

April 14th

On this day in 1881 some heavy shit was going down in El Paso, Texas. Mosey on down with me pardners and I’ll tell y’all about it.

My name is Dallas and I'm about to kill you dead.

Now the first thing you should know about this part of the world in the latter part of them there nineteenth century years is that it was one helluva fighty ole place. In this very year the Southern Pacific, the Texas and Pacific and Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe railways arrived in the town and the population grew to 10,000. Doesn’t sound like that much by today’s big city standards, but it was pretty much a boom town at the time. The boom was great for the economy, but a real bugger for the crime statistics, and that, my friends, is where we come in. You see, in the middle of this fightiness, there was a gunfight. It was epic. It was awesome. It was The Four Dead in Five Seconds Gunfight. Sure, you’re all more familiar with the gunfight at the O.K. Corral, but let me tell you something, those shooters took about 30 seconds to kill three people. I call that, well, frankly, disappointing. So let’s forget about the O.K. Corral and learn all about a real gunfight! Yeehaw!

Here’s what happened leading up to that fateful day. One of the big crime problems was cattle rustling and Johnny Hale, a rancher just outside the city, was a noted cattle rustler. He’d been stealing cattle from some Mexicans and two vaqueros (that’s a Mexican cowboy) named Sanchez and Juarique had been up to El Paso looking for thirty head of cattle he’d stolen off them. But, they’d been gone some time, and their friends and neighbours had set up a posse to come looking for them. Now, this was 1881, and even back then there was a deal of racism aimed at Texas’s Mexican neighbours. Mexicans were not allowed to carry firearms within the city limits. This is not what caused the problem though. The mayor, when he heard why the posse was there, was pretty sympathetic and allowed them to keep their guns and hunt out that low down dog, Hale. A constable called Gus Krempkau rode out with them to the ranch and lo and behold, they found the corpses of Sanchez and Juarique close to the ranch.

Turns out that Hale and some of his cattle rustling brethren were worried that the two Mexicans would find the cattle and come back with more men to dispense justice. So, two of them, Fredericks and Pervey, killed them stone dead. The whole sorry affair was taken to court where it was decided that Pervey and Fredericks would stand trial for murder. Krempkau, who spoke Spanish, was on hand to translate for the Mexicans. When the court adjourned everyone headed out for dinner and beer and that should have been the end of it. But, of course, there was more to come.

Hale had turned up with a friend of his, George Campbell, who had been the town marshal of El Paso (he lost the job because he was a drunk and a dick). They were not happy, but retired

The street where it all went down

to a local tavern to drink and drink and drink a little more. Across the road from the tavern, the newly appointed town marshal, Dallas Stoudenmire, was eating some dinner. He’d been in the court room too and knew all that had gone down. All was quiet until Gus Krempkau arrived at the tavern. Hale and Campbell were pretty much the worse for wear by this time and Campbell started trash-talking Krempkau for being a Mexican lover and talking their goddamned greasy language. He probably said worse. If Deadwood has taught us anything it’s that people in frontier towns and places like that swore like utter fucking bastards back in the day. In the midst of the trash-talking, Johnny Hale – who was so pissed he could barely see straight – got hold of one of Campbell’s pistols shouted “I got you covered, George!” and shot Krempkau. And now the stopwatch starts. Krempkau reeled back and collapsed against a wooden joist, he pulled out his own gun. Dallas Stoudenmire had heard the shot and he ran from the diner with his pistols drawn. He started shooting as he ran and gunned down an innocent bystander, a young chap named Ochoa; this did not slow him down, not even a little bit. Hale saw that his ass was on the line and managed to jump behind an adobe pillar, but Stoudenmire was too quick for him. Hale, popped his head around the pillar and Stoudenmire shot him right between the eyes. Campbell screamed at Stoudenmire to keep out of it, Krempkau, on the verge of losing consciousness shot Campbell twice. One bullet hit him in the wrist, breaking  his hand, the other got him in the foot. He screamed again and Stoudenmire whirled toward him and shot him, hitting him square in the stomach. He carried on walking toward Campbell who was now writhing in agony. Stoudenmire stood over him. Campbell’s last words were “You big bastard! You’ve murdered me!” And indeed he had.

It was all over. Krempkau, Ochoa, Hale and Campbell all lay dead. Now, call me picky, but I think that all of this may have taken a tiny bit longer than five seconds. Indeed some bystanders said afterwards that they thought it was closer to ten seconds. I guess four dead in ten seconds just don’t have that same ole murderous ring to it. Either way, there were still more dead than they managed at the O.K. Corral and in much less time, but for some reason it’s always been overshadowed by them thar Earps and that thar Doc Holliday. I dunno, I guess that maybe the guys from Tombstone had better P.R. agents or something.  But Dallas and Gus have me now and I’m bigging up those shooty men for fearlessly waving their guns around and killing each other for no damn good reason at all. Respec’ y’all!

For Today’s birthday we’re sticking with the law, but going for a less-shooty kind of law man. Today it’s Frank Serpico’s birthday. If you thought he was just a character in a film, played by Al Pacino, shame on you!

Serpico at the time of the Knapp Commission

Frank Serpico was a simple NYPD police officer. He worked as a patrol man, in finger printing and then got assigned to plainclothes where things got a little, sticky. Serpico was pretty disgusted by the widespread corruption he encountered and as a result of him trying to avoid it and refusing to be a part of it his career there was short-lived.  However, he didn’t just walk way from it. He spent the next years trying to bring the corruption to the attention of his superiors. Funnily enough they didn’t seem that interested. He was stymied by red tape and bureaucracy and seemed to be getting nowhere until he hooked up with another officer, David Durk, who felt the same way that he did. Now he head someone on his side, but as time passed  they were still being ignored. Finally after years of trying to go about things the right way, Frank went to the press. In 1970 he contributed to a New York Times story on corruption in the NYPD. This forced the mayor of NYC to do something and the Knapp Commission was appointed to investigate police corruption.

In 1971, Serpico was with other officers on a drug raid, when it became clear that his peers were not happy with him. The story of how he got shot in the face is long and convoluted, but at its heart lies the indisputable evidence that while the officers on the raid with him may not have deliberately sent him to be executed, they certainly did not give him back up, support him, or call in his injury when he was shot. Without the assistance of an Hispanic man in the building being raided, Serpico may have died. As it was he was left deaf in one ear and in constant pain from gunshot fragments left in his brain.  Later that year he testified to the Knapp Commission, becoming the first NYPD officer in its history to have the courage to publicly confront corruption in the force.

He retired in 1972 and after spending a decade living in Europe he returned to live in upstate NY. He lectures at universities and

Frank Serpico as he is now

police academies, helps out officers in similar positions to his own and campaigns against corruption and the weakening of civil liberties. Frank Serpico is an ordinary man who refused to stand by and see dishonesty cow honesty into silence.  When Al Pacino met him in 1973 to talk to him in preparation for playing him, he (Pacino) asked why he had done what he did, with all its concomitant risks. Frank replied, “Well, Al, I don’t know. I guess I would have to say it would be because … if I didn’t, who would I be when I listened to a piece of music?”

I doubt this blog is your cup of tea (or even coffee), Mr Serpico, but if you happen across it, I want you to know that I think you are a genuine hero, a good and fine man who refused to stay quiet. We need more people like you and it makes me happy to tell people a little more about you. Happy birthday, sir, and I hope you have many, many more.


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February 11th

On this day in 2006 Neo-Con pin-up and all round supporter of corrupt business practices and use of slave labour, Dick Cheney, went for broke and shot a man (Harry Whittington) in the face.

Harry Whittington: Cheney thought I was a quail.

The two men were part of a hunting party at a ranch in Texas, ostensibly shooting at quail. The incident occurred in the late afternoon after what might or might not have been a boozy lunch. The facts, as they often are when a man has been shot in the face, are hazy. First reports were that no booze  had been drunk, then “maybe a beer or two”, then “I only had one beer” or “I did not have a beer”, and “there was lashings of beer and spirits!” We do know that later that evening, after having shot a man in the face, Cheney had a few cocktails to celebrate calm his nerves. The poor lamb. This is what we do know, or think we know, or in the words of Cheney’s good mate, Donald Rumsfeld “As we know, there are known knowns. There are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns. That is to say we know there are some things we do not know. There are also unknown unknowns, the ones we don’t know we don’t know.” It’s fair to say that we know there are unknowns about that day on a Texas ranch, but there are undoubtedly unknown unknowns too. Anyway, here goes!

There were men shooting quail. They had lunch and beer. Maybe. They went out to shoot some more. Whittington shot a quail. Whittington went to retrieve his quail. Cheney saw another quail. The quail was near Whittington. Cheney shot at the quail and missed. Cheney shot Whittington in the face. And breathe!

The shooting was of course an accident. Cheney had no reason to shoot Whittington in the face and he did not mean to shoot him right in the face with his big gun. And awful as the accident was – three days later Whittington suffered a heart attack because some of the shot that did not hit him right in the face got lodged in his heart and caused a cardiac incident – there was a big apology in the aftermath. Naturally, as is the right and proper etiquette in incidents of this kind, Whittington apologised for being in the way of Cheney’s gun, getting shot in the face and causing a big ole media hullabaloo for poor Mr Cheney. Naturally, Dick did not apologise in public or private for shooting Whittington in the face and making him have a heart attack, because in order to do that he’d have to have been a half decent human being.

All’s well that ends well. Mr Whittington recovered from being shot in the face and has had the good sense to have nothing further to do with Dick Cheney, especially not when he’s carrying heat.

Today is the birthday of right-wing vapid totty, Sarah Palin. Ah Sarah! How shall I revile, thee? Let me count the ways. You know all about Russia because you can see it from Alaska, you thought your allies were North Korea, which is an easy enough mistake to make if you have shit-for-brains, you charged rape victims for rape kits when you were mayor of Wasilla, you fired a Police Chief, a

Sarah Palin makes a strong first impression

State Trooper and anyone else who didn’t fawn over you and have basically shown throughout your short rise to infamy, that you are a chancer, a pretty vile excuse for a human being who is very good at spreading hate and ignorance and very little else.

There are other things that contribute to making you a human being beneath contempt, but one doesn’t need to delve into the personal and your private hypocrisies to understand that your rise to prominence says something very troubling about the public’s collective psyche.  I can no more wish you happy birthday, Ms Palin, than I can sprout wings and shit on your head, but two days in a row of hating on the birthdays of the rich and famous? That’s a little too much hatred so …

Today would also be the birthday of a lovely man and a wonderful father by the name of Eamonn Bruen.  He was born in Castlerea, Co. Roscommon and eventually joined the diaspora and moved to London where in the 1960s his first and much-loved child was born, a daughter, who just happened to be me. Eamonn spent some of his youth singing in a show band and had a voice that was somewhere between Tom Jones and Otis Redding. He introduced me to Otis and Johnny Cash, for which I am truly thankful. The

No photos of Eamonn available, but he looked a lot like Rod Taylor, so this will have to do

last Christmas present I bought for him was a compilation of country and western hits, as like many an Irishman before and after him, he loved a bit of C&W. He was handsome, funny, bright and the most terrible piss-taker in all the world. He was also the best daddy a girl ever had and proof positive that not only sick and twisted demons from the bowels of hell were born on February 11th. Happy birthday daddy! Your little girl still loves you!


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