Sheriff Bob Scott buckled on his gun belt, placed his hat squarely on his greying head and checked his flies before opening the jailhouse door and heading out onto Main Street, Paradise, in the county of Buffalo. Arizona.

"Howdy, Mr Delaney." He greeted the man propping up the wooden post, which was in turn propping up the porch.

"Howdy Sheriff! Forget to get dressed this morning?"

"What?" He rechecked his flies.

"The gun."

"Goddammit!" he muttered, and went back inside for the missing piece of apparel, and reappeared fully dressed. Looking up and down the hot dusty street, he noted that the hitching rail outside the saloon was fully occupied, signalling a full house. On the other hand, the hitching rail outside the Dirty Gertie whorehouse was deserted, signalling another full house.

There wasn't a man in Paradise willing to advertise that he frequented the most flourishing business in town by leaving his horse outside, but there was a well defined trail in the dirt leading around to the discreet back door. With the railroad construction teams working round-the-clock shifts, Gertie's never closed, and the girls' clothing spent more time on the floor than it spent on the girls.

As Scott exhilarated in the tranquil scene, he watched as a couple of young lads got busy with shovels and sacks around the back end of the horses, obviously out to make a buck by selling the equine end product to gardeners struggling to raise their own fruit and vegetables in this oddly named dustbowl.

There were wagons hitched outside the general store and the haberdashery, and the passers-by crowding the boardwalks were, as usual, forced to step over the outstretched legs of the proprietor of the Halfway House Undertaking Parlour, dozing in the noonday heat. The hand-painted sign on the black draped window read, "Best coffins in Paradise." When he was awake, he often said that the townspeople lived in Paradise, and that he operated the Halfway spot to Heaven. "And I can git you there in comfort!"

So far everything seemed nice and quiet, with nobody drunk enough to require sorting out, so Sheriff Scott straightened his string tie and headed over to Betsy's steakhouse for lunch.

As he pushed through the swinging door, a buxom redhead clad in a very fetching green dress bustled toward him, carrying an order book and treating Scott to a smile. "Why, howdy Sheriff. Ain't often we see you in here. What'll it be?"

"I'll just have today's blue plate special, Betsy. The wife's gone off on the stage to Flagstaff for a couple of days so that her sister can help her spend more of my money. The way she spends it, I'll be bankrupt by the time she gets back here."

"Sure honey. Look, I'm glad you came in here today, 'cos trouble's brewing, and somebody ought to warn you before all hell breaks loose."

"Why, Betsy, what's wrong?"

She drew him to one side, away from overactive ears and spoke in a low voice. "I don't want it getting out that it was me who told you. I have a living to make in this town, and if them women gets wind of what I'm about to tell you, I'll be lucky if I ever sell another steak. That's why I couldn't come to your office and report it."

"Come on Betsy, spit it out. It can't be that bad," Scott put a comforting arm around her shoulder, but she quickly shrugged it off.

"Don't start them tongues wagging already," she warned. "Thing is, we had a couple of women in here last night, straight from the Salvation Army social. They were a mite indiscreet, and their mouths were flapping. Seems they're planning an attack on Dirty Gertie's tonight. A whole bunch of them are coming marching in with banners and the Salvation Army Band and the Temperance League and who knows what else.

"They found out their husbands and boyfriends are going to Gertie's to get what they can't get regularly enough from their womenfolk, and they had a meeting to decide how they were going to shut it down. They whipped themselves up into a frenzy and decided on drastic action, then they got hold of one of them earth-moving machines from down at the railroad site, and they plan use it to push down the whole cathouse with everybody inside it."

Sheriff Scott roared with laughter and collapsed into the nearest chair. "Betsy, honey, you sure had me going there. For a minute or two I really believed you. It's not April Fool's Day already, is it?"

"You're the damned fool!" she hissed. "It's true, I tell you, and if you don't put a stop to it, there's going to be a lot of men found with their pants down, and people could get hurt too."

"Gee Betsy, this is the best tale I heard since that bank robber over in Flagstaff forgot to get out of the bank before he blew it up!"

"Keep your voice down, darn it! I swear I'm telling the truth, and if you have half the sense God promised a doorknob, you'll get over to Gertie's, and warn her to shut up shop by sundown, and get everybody out of there."

"Sure, supposing she doesn't drop me on my ass, and does as you say, then all the guys will be coming after me with earth moving machinery! Come on Betsy, a joke's a joke, but this is going too far."

"OK, scoff all you like, but if you just sit on your ass down in your safe little office, then there's going to be mayhem in Paradise tonight."

"Betsy honey, just bring me my dinner."

As he sat there alone, waiting for his cheap meal, he wondered just how gullible did Betsy think he was? Oh, he wouldn't hold it against her. It was one of the best jokes he'd ever had played on him. Mayhem in Paradise indeed!

He was still chortling about it that night as he wrote up his daily report. One drunk arrested, and now sleeping it off in the cells, and that was it. A nice quiet, normal day, that is until he heard the raised voices coming down the street. Female voices, lots of them.

"Holy shit!" he swore, and dropped his pen, splattering ink all over his nice clean report. Running out of the jailhouse, he saw them coming down the street, heading in the direction of the whorehouse, placards and voices raised. A shrill chant: "Keep your hands off our men!" and underlying the hysteria, the unmistakeable rumble of the earthmover.

Feeling a distinct kinship with the Christians being fed to the lions, he stepped out into the street and faced the oncoming mass. Raising his hands, he called out "Ladies, ladies". He never noticed the placard-wielding harridan coming from the side, but he felt the placard as it knocked his hat off and almost his head too. He lay there in the dust, counting the stars whirling around him, and moaning pitifully. And the feet moved on.

Mayhem had indeed come to Paradise.

© Sandy Parkinson, January 2008. Word count 1196.