How to be an Alpha Part 2: The Spaghetti Western

How to be an Alpha Part 2: The Spaghetti Western

Posted on March 4, 2022 at 9:01 pm by Steve Solex

Cue the 1950s sitcom music, grab yourself some fuckin’ Bon-Bons and sit your fat ass down on the couch, cause shits about to get…real? As usual a montage of Steven Solex, his wife and little Baby Stevens-Solex Jr is shown. The three of them sit around the coffee table in the center of the living room playing Monopoly when suddenly all three of them pause and stare into the TV with the shitties of grins on all three of their faces. Their names appear on the lower third of the screen as the camera zooms in on each of them individually. The music fades as black screen takes over, and displays “Leave it to Stever” smack dab in the middle of the screen in white letters. The letters fade, as does the black screen as the music continues but at much less volume. Steven Solex is shown in his backyard, he’s waist deep in a hole. His forehead glistens in the sun as the sweat reflects like tiny diamonds all over his face and neck. His mustache is glorious as always. The crowd cheers in the scene as the music fades. Good Ol’ Number One stands in the middle of the hole wearing his trademarked plain white t-shirt and tan cargo shorts, with his hands on his hips.

“That’s it boy, keep up the good work!” Steven shouts out.

Dirt flies from the hole and into a large pile next to it. 

“Yes, sir!” A young boy exclaims, as it’s become clear that young Stevens-Solex Jr. is in the hole digging away.

Steven walks over to the edge of the hole and reaches into a red, Coleman cooler. He fishes around for a few seconds and then pulls out a can of beer. He turns, so that he’s sideways to the camera, pops the top of the can open and making sure that the label of the beer is camera side, he chugs it down. The label reads, Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Little Scotty stops shoveling dirt and sticks the shovel into the ground, standing it straight up.

“Can I have a beer?” The little guy asks as he swipes sweat from his brow with his forearm, smearing dirt all across his face.

Stevens leans back and bellows with laughter as the crowd pipes in with some raucous laughter of their own.

“No, son.  You sure can’t,” Steven says, struggling to keep his composure.

“Well, can I have some water?” The boy asks, in a shaky voice.

The crowd lets out a collective awe as Steven raises an eyebrow and looks sideways at the needy little shit.

“Yeah, I don’t think so kid.  There’s a lesson to be learned here, and having a glass of water right now will only make you soft.  You do want to be an Alpha, don’t you?” Steven asks as a few boos from the audience riddle the airwaves.

“Yes,” the boy answers.

“You want to be a man, don’t ya?!” Steven asks, his tone raised.

“Yes,” the boy answers, muttering under his breath.

“Then act like it! You want to be like that sissy-boy, jokester, Jatt Starr?! Or do you want to be an alpha male that kicks butts and takes names, like me?! A man like me, that breaks necks and cashes checks.” Steven scolds the boy, putting a finger right in front of his face, nearly touching his nose.

The boy is silent as his eyes begin to well up with tears.

“Well, boy! What do ya’ want?” Steven says, his accent becoming a bit Texan.

“I want to be like you, sir,” the boy finally replies and the crowd lets out a collective awe as he does.

“But, sir?” The boy asks.

“What is it, son?” Steven asks, his accent once again sounding a bit Texan.

“Why does Jatt Starr think he’s two different people?”

The crowd erupts in laughter as Steven looks camera side and gives the camera a big wink that’s timed perfectly with a ding sound-effect.

“Well, boy.  It’s cause he’s a fruitcake,” Steven responds, his accent becoming even thicker.

“What do you mean?” The inquisitive little shit asks.

“It’s like this.  Go ‘head, sit down,” Steven instructs, pointing down to the dirt.

Little Scotty complies and sits criss-cross applesauce in the middle of the hole.

“Now, see..it’s like this, boy. Ol’ Jatt…well that feller, he’s got somethin’ terribly wrong inside his head.  See, only the nuttiest of nutbags develop a personality disorder and that’s exactly what’s done-happened to ol’ Jatt Starr.  He’s prolly taken one too many shots to the old noggin’, if you’re pickin’ up what I’m puttin down,” Steven explains, really leaning into the Texas accent.

Steven takes the last swig of the Pabst Blue Ribbon. He looks down at the empty can and tosses it up into the air, lifts his shirt exposing a six-shooter, and like he’s Doc fuckin’ Holiday, he shoots the can right out of the air.

BANG! TING!

A few members of the audience shreik in terror as Little Scotty quickly covers his ears tightly. Solex holds the pistol right in front of his own face as smoke emanates from the barrel of the pistol.  Steven takes in a deep breath and blows the smoke out of the barrel, and takes the pistol on a gunspinning show that would make Johnny Ringo shit in his pants before holstering the weapon in his brown leather holster on the right side of his hip. He looks camera side and once again winks in perfect timing with a ding, before concealing the gun underneath his white shirt.’

“Yee-haw!” Steven shouts as the camera focuses on the small boy, who is seemingly terrified. 

The camera cuts back to Steven and suddenly he’s wearing a ten-gallon, black, suede cowboy hat, with a dip the size of Texas tucked in tightly in his bottom lip. Steven goes down to a knee, getting eye to eye with the boy, revealing his black leather chaps in the meantime.

“You see that, boy?!” Steven asks the kid in a high pitched southern accent, sounding almost identical to Yosemeti Sam

The camera cuts back to Little Scotty, who’s now outfitted in a little red cowboy hat, laced in white trim.  His little brown corduroy vest has a pinned on Sheriff’s badge.

“Yes, pah. I did,” the biological son of the man who has lost to Steven Solex more times than he has fingers replies, in what can only be described as the fakest accent you’ve ever heard.

“But, pah?” Little Scotty asks.  “What about that Italian feller, Mario? Isn’t he one of those ruffian, tough guys?”

The crowd laughs as Little Scotty struggles to keep the accent.

Steven laughs at the mere thought of Mario being considered a tough guy.

“Nah, son.  He sure ain’t.  Ol’ Mario, well…I don’t know how to put this delicately, boy.  Mario’s a fake.  The man’s an imposter, son. Ol’ One Eye’d Will-Lee done gone and messed up when he named this here tag team tournament after that washed up, has been. That Eye-Tallian feller didn’t even stand a chance in his own dog-gone tournament,” Steven says, laying that accent on real thick.

The crowd’s laughter is now a steady dull roar, until it’s interrupted by the kid.

“But, pah..”

“No, buts about it, boy.  He’s a loser.  Just like your real father!  Ya’ hear me?!”

The crowd oo’s like someone just tried to walk out of Ross’ with an irregular handbag without removing the security tag.

“That Mario Maurako, he couldn’t beat a one-legged man in an ass kickin’ contest boy, and you dare try to call him a man? An alpha even?” Steven asks the young boy. 

But the question is rhetorical, and little Scotty knows that. So, instead of answering, he just hangs his head low, but he does get out one question…

“Why do you sound like Clay Byrd right now?”

But before Steven can answer, they’re interrupted.

“BOYS!” Constance shouts out into the backyard as she swings the back door open.

The camera cuts back to Steven and Scotty; not a thread of Cowboy gear in sight.

“Yes, honey?” Steven asks, the Texas accent completely erased.

“It’s time for dinner, boys!” She shouts back.

“Be in, in a minute, sweetheart!” Steven replies, using a cupped hand against his cheek like a megaphone.

Steven looks back to the boy and says, “Let’s go.”

He taps the boy on the shoulder and lifts him out of the hole, onto the perfectly manicured, fertilized and angle cut lawn.

“What are we gonna do about this hole?” The boy asks.

“We?” Steven recipes, the crowd erupting in laughter.

“Not we, son.  But you….you are gonna fill that hole up after dinner,” Steven says, wrapping an arm around the boy’s shoulder and walking side by side with him toward the house.

“But, I just dug that hole,” the boy whines.

“Sometimes, son. When you’re a man.  When you’re an alpha…you have to put up with a bunch of crap.  And this son….this is one of those times.”

The crowd lets out a round of applause as the scene fades to black.  But not before Steven looks over his shoulder and once again winks to a perfectly timed ding.