Dieselpunk ePulp Showcase 2 (Anthology)

The More Things Change: A Tale of the Aether Age

THE MORE THINGS CHANGE: A TALE OF THE AETHER AGE

Created By Grant Gardiner.

The 1920s. In a North America somewhat different to the one we remember.

A new town full of gambling saloons, far from the nearest safe zeppelin freightway. In the region that was once known as ‘Nevada’.

The thundering beat of hooves broke into messy disarray as he hauled up in front of the State of the Union saloon. By the time Shotgun had cantered to a halt the sheriff was out of the saddle, on the ground and tying the horse off on the veranda handrail. “This had better be good, Mister Burnham.” He swept around the black sedan his depu... associates used to get around town, then he started taking the steps two at a time. “It’s the Lord’s Day. And my little girl’s fifteenth birthday. If this ain’t worthy of the sheriff’s presence I’ll be mighty unhappy.”


Standing at the saloon’s front door was ‘Mister Burnham’ and his offsider ‘Mister Cerano’. Both were built like brick outhouses but clad in pinstriped black with matching gray fedoras. Apparently because that’s how Chicago manufactured its ‘accountancy officials’.


“Yeah, sheriff,” replied Burnham as the Texan reached the top of the stairs. “It’s a proper mess in there. And you told us we weren’t supposed to, you know, take things into our own hands no more, so...”


The sheriff halted just outside the doorway to look at the gangster. The shrug the hulking mobster gave was pitiful but the Tommy guns both ‘accountancy officials’ carried were anything but. “You did the right thing, Mister Burnham.” He took one more worried look at the submachine gun in the huge catcher’s mitt Burnham called his hand. “You did the right thing.”


There was a riot of yelling, crashing and cussing pouring out of the saloon. It was punctuated with a steady beat of smashing bottles. But no firearm discharges. Which meant, by city law, they couldn’t just haul them down to lockup for the night.


The sheriff growled as he looked in on the carnage. It didn’t make things any better that he was actually needed this time. “Is Mister Wong safe?”


The gangster nodded.


“Is he pressing charges?”


There was a pause and the sheriff tore his eyes away from the still developing crime scene. Burnham was looking at him, one eyebrow cocked high. “What you reckon Mister Wong is doing?”


The sheriff grunted. Of course Mister Wong was pressing charges. Not pressing charges would only save the sheriff’s time. And who cared about the sheriff’s time?


The middle aged Texan nodded and dragged his open duster back from the vintage Peacemakers holstered at his waist. Behind him the two gangsters cocked their Thompsons then followed in his wake as he pushed through the swinging doors and into the saloon...

•••

“You’re a damn liar, you Hollywoodland stooge. From a nation of liars.” The diminutive little flapper in the tassled dress stood to her feet. “A no good phony- -“ She heaved a bottle the length of the saloon. “From amongst a herd of no good phonies!”


The bottle shattered against the piano, spraying gin and glass everywhere. “Ha hah!” cried the ruffled but sharply dressed gent taking shelter behind it. He straightened in triumph, reefing his now ruined green cravat from his once expensive gray suit to hold it high in victory. “So you admit that the great nation of CaliModerna is, indeed, a nation.”


He ducked with a squawk as several more bottles rained down upon his position.


“It’s sarcasm, you ninny!” yelled the infuriated flapper. She picked up another bottle. “California isn’t a country. No matter what you name it.” She threw the tiny gin bottle with next to no accuracy. “Just cause a propaganda film says you’re a country, don’t make it so!”