The Bolinians Pt. III: The Battle of Bolinas

Though several months have passed, the timeless story of our Russian fur-trader Dimitri Pavlovich or, as known to the natives, "Man With Forever Erection", has been simmering in eager expectation of boiling over into a full-blown conflagration. That time has come. The little known Battle of Bolinas, systematically covered up by the Bolsheviks and the Communists as a national embarrassment, has recently been discovered in the archives of the Mission San Rafael and Mission Sonoma, as the only known chronicle of the only known direct confrontation between Mexico and Russia, aside from the infamous vodka/tequila barfathons held every spring in Daytona Beach, Florida in the early eighties.

The Bolinians, as the offspring of Dimitri Pavlovich and several Miwok Maidens, had decided to take their feral ways deep into the fir and bay forests by night and the deep, endless seaside caves of the Pt. Reyes peninsula by day, preferring to avoid the relentless insults from the purebreds. On the morning that their father met the Mexican rancher, Gregorio Briones, the Bolinians, whose group numbered about 40 that day, were hiding on the periphery of the meadow where the Caballero had decided to graze some of his cattle. Briones, a veteran of the Mexican Navy, and his team of brothers, cousins and other distant relatives from his father's big rancho in Pt. Reyes Station were slowly walking their mounts through the lowing cattle, completely unaware that they were being watched from the surrounding woods. Then, at the head of the meadow, a man in a long red velvet robe with otter-fur trim and a sealskin nightcap that hung with his long braids down his back emerged from the woods with two giant hounds, each half the man's height. It was Dimitri Pavlovich, feeling harmonious and sated after a morning of frisky sex with two 14-year old twin Miwoks who smelled like freshly squeezed milk from...oh my god! Pavlovich stopped suddenly, in awe of the cattle now grazing on his field and their incredible odor. He felt a powerful pang of homesickness, having not seen any four-legged beef on the hoof since his tour of duty around the summer palaces of the Czar and other Russian royals.

Pavlovich in better days.

"Beef!" shouted Pavlovich, running through the waist high grass toward the herd, his arms open, velvet robes billowing in the wind. "Beef on the hoof! I haven't seen beef like this since the Moscow Opera!" He turned to his hounds, Fyodor and Mikhail and said with a tease: "You fellas are gonna love you some beef on the hoof, lemme tell ya." The dogs whimpered and drooled, each giving Pavlovich a hearty lick to the crotch in hopes of gaining their master's favor.

Without a word, Gregorio Briones brought his mount to a halt and signaled his horsemen into battle formation, a line of 5 Alta Californians each with the Briones family pancho trimmed in silver and matching sombreros with silver bands, rifles shouldered and ready. "Who is this fucking nut?" shouted Gregorio, doubting very much that any of his cousins or brothers would have any idea who the man in the flowing robes and shiny oiled nightcap could be. Pavlovich, who was now chasing the shy cattle around in circles, seemed to take no notice of the men on horseback, who were the first relatively white men he had seen since his exile to the Farallones.

Meanwhile the Bolinians, none of them taller than an Ewok, began to advance on all fours from their hiding places among the dark Monterey pines encircling the meadow, completely hidden by the tall golden grass. Pavlovich had his sights set on a particular cow whom he stalked with a strange Dorian whistle reminiscent of the Russian dirge that accompanies a burial at sea, and the cow, hypnotized, had stopped in it's tracks.
"You!" Briones shouted. "Don't fuck with my cow!" But words were not enough to stop the beef-starved Russian. Slowly, Pavlovich approached the beast, whistling plaintively, his arms outstretched as if he were meeting a long lost lover. Just as the Russian was about to throw his arms around the neck of the beast there came a shout.
"Senor! The grass is alive! The grass is possessed by the devil!!" It was one of Briones cousins, Buddy (or, in his native tongue "Budlito"). Then, as if on cue, the little Bolinians popped their anvil shaped heads up from the grass and began to run. Briones, thinking the little brown monsters were coming for him and his cousins, raised his rifle, as did the rest of his crew, hoping to scare the Bolinians off. The Bolinians had never seen a firearm of any sort and kept on coming but, just as Briones was about to give the order to fire, the Bolinians veered off, running past the Mexicans and heading for their father, Dimitri Pavlovich, who now sat on the back of his hypnotized cow, his two giant wolfhounds at his side

When he heard the bloodthirsty cries of his offspring, Pavlovich signaled to the Mexicans: "Shoot the little fuckers! Hurry up! Blast 'em to eternity or they'll tear me limb from limb!" The Mexicans were too confused, perplexed and slightly amused by the little circus unfolding before them to want to shoot anybody, and Pavlovich, desperately trying to spur his bovine mount into action with his buckskin slippers, began to sob with terror. The Bolinians had him, his dogs and his beautiful black angus surrounded. They clucked and hissed, trying to woo Fyodor and Mikhail away from their master, but the dogs, never particularly friendly with the little brown creatures that pulled on their tails and tormented them whenever they raided the camp from their hideouts in the woods, were having none of it.

Then without warning a stout little Bolinian named Chuck rushed Pavlovich and his cow, screaming unintelligible Bolinian nonsense (which can still be heard to this day at Smiley's Saloon) and slapping himself on the ass. At this the Mexicans started to laugh hysterically, alarming the dogs, who pounced on Chuck and...

(to be continued...bwaaahaaaa!)

 

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