The fourth Lesbian Western screenplay by Sage Sweetwater will hit Triboro Pictures Development Department in late fall 2010. The title is MADAM BLAZE STARR: WHISKEY AND SAGEBRUSH TRUTH IN EIGHTS AND ACES, the sequel to DOMINGA RIO OF CUERO, the lesbian western novel by Sage Sweetwater and Blue Sleighty, adapted to screen by Sage Sweetwater which is a few weeks away from hitting the Development Department at Triboro Pictures.

MADAM BLAZE STARR: WHISKEY AND SAGEBRUSH TRUTH IN EIGHTS AND ACES is a story of religion's Madam, she being Madam Blaze Starr, owner of the Tarot Veil Ranch, a modern-day house of prostitution in Cripple Creek, Colorado where the story is set. The story is based upon the unpublished novel by Sage Sweetwater, the screenplay currently being adapted by Sage Sweetwater from the excerpt below. The scene begins with Dominga Rio in Cripple Creek, Colorado, leaving off with the screenplay Dominga Rio of Cuero with a sequel movie tie-in.  A woman, that being Madam Blaze Starr, is in a meditative moment with God which leads to the pulpit that is going to hell.

The Pulpit That Was Going to Hell!


Madam Blaze Starr proceeded to follow the conceptual blueprint of The Mother Earth News, the original guide to living wisely. “If you build it, they will come.” Teddy Roosevelt said it over a hundred years ago. The monks at Abbotsbury followed that advice in the early Middle Ages. The one thousand swans the monks found when they settled at the head of The Fleet in Dorset now return to the swannery in Abbotsbury year after year to nest and breed. The monks cut the reeds and laid them aside for the swans to build their messy nests.

Reference of trees and wood fill the bible from beginning to end, building on scriptures which allude to trees, woods, and woodworking.

After the God Revolution, Madam Blaze Starr built the pulpit from cedar. A natural preservative in cedar provides resistance to decay and deterioration, a necessary material in modern-day churches for restoration. Madam ordered in cedar newel posts and decorative finials from The Cinder Whit Company to make the pulpit one-of-a-kind. She followed the conceptual blueprint design on the pages of The Mother Earth News. Using a handsaw, Madam cut the lumber to exact dimensions, quartersawn, and measured with a Mason of vertical grain, the whiskey stored in the mill-direct wide pine bin. The pulpit that was going to Hell!

Genesis 6:14 translated, Noah made his arc from gopherwood. Another word used in place of gopherwood is cedar.

Madam Blaze Starr sealed the joints of the exterior and interior shelves of the pulpit with cedar pitch, heating resin over the fire. Kaphar is the Hebrew word for cover over with pitch, and translated in Leviticus 16:6, to make atonement, similar to the effect that pitch could have on the surface of the material it covers. It would have a covering or purging effect, which is what atonement means in a spiritual sense. Since atonement must take place not only in the outward actions of a person, but also in the heart, the analogy would be complete with the cedar pulpit having an internal coating of pitch. Sealed, gold-leafed and varnished, Madam Blaze Starr is born again—into the profession.

“Carpenter, you have spilled the whiskey,” Sapphire said. Her girls helped her carry the pulpit into her log wall bedroom to store away from sin under Madam’s four-poster bed, the bedposts turned from The Cinder Whit Company. Lightning arrestors—let it rain!

Madam Blaze Starr’s Tarot Veil Ranch was packed tonight. The Parlor Room was with just with standing room. The men drank fine whiskey from Madam’s bar while she brought the girls into the adjoining viewing room for selection. Testosterone was rich-smelling and cocky, so thick in the air you could slice it with a bull’s nut cutter.

“Madam, can I have a word with you in private?” Mayor Tickbuck asked.

“Why Mayor Tickbuck, you certainly surprise me with your company, what do I owe this honor?” Madam asked. Madam’s cleavage uplifted the town government, and that wasn’t all! The Clergy was in the lost and found box at the Tarot Veil; preacher’s glove. “Something’s going to burn, Mayor—I can smell it in the air.” Paranormal reflex and telepathic striking?

“Let’s step into your office where it’s a little more faint of Old Spice—this manly scent is overpowering me, if you know what I mean,” Mayor Tickbuck said.

“Follow me, Mayor Tickbuck, we don’t roll up the red carpet here to good conversation.” Wasn’t that just like the goddamned government! Madam Blaze Starr knows this—never miss a good chance to shut up. She knows good judgment comes from experience, and a lot of that comes from bad judgment. Timing has a lot to do with the outcome of a raindance. “What’s on your mind, Mayor?”

“Well, Madam, I thought maybe we could work out a little something on your tax bill—let’s just say life is simpler when you plough around the stump,” Mayor Tickbuck said.

Cursing under her breath, Madam Blaze Starr said “Fucking bribe Gawd, be thankful we’re not getting all the government we’re paying for!" She casually set up the bait, dropped it “accidentally”, and bent over to pick up Chance LaRue’s match on the red carpet. Mayor Tickbuck took the bait and grabbed her from behind and pushed his suit-pant hard cock into Madam’s luscious rear end. Thinking it under her breath, go ahead, dry hump me and walk out of here with a crusty white tell-tell ejaculate stain on your pants so your wife can see, asshole! You never know which way the pickle is going to squirt! Don’t worry about bitin’ off more than you can chew, your mouth is bigger than your cock.

“Hammers of Hell!” the men shouted from the parlor room inside the Tarot Veil. Madam Blaze Starr was saved by the bell! Madam was just waiting to smash his political career. Mayor Tickbuck ejaculated from the dry humping just in time. The origin of “Hammers of Hell” traces back to the early 1900s, relating to the ringing of bells done with a hammer or clapper. The town church was on fire, burning sin and corruption. The men scrambled into their transportation, Mayor Tickbuck in his city truck, and headed back into town.

Madam Blaze Starr looked into the night sky, the orange flames leaping from the church steeple. “Burn down the cornfield!” she yelled. “Burn down the damned cornfield!” She went to her bedroom, fell to her knees, and pulled the pulpit that was going to Hell out from under her four-poster Cinder Whit bed. She placed it upright. “Lightning arrestors—let it rain!”

The ecclesiastical incestual carnage had finally met Hell at the flaming altar of judgment day! And where was Chance LaRue’s match!

Unstruck, Chance LaRue's red sulfur tip tightly clenched in the hand of the lovely Madam Blaze Starr at the Tarot Veil. And where was Chance LaRue? Sitting at Dominga Rio’s alibi blackjack table at The Midnight Rose thinking peyote and drinking whiskey!

Copyright 2005-2010 Ms. Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist

     The burros are braying, answering bleats from distant sheep. The mourners are praying up top of the hill at Mt. Pisgah Cemetery. Dominga Rio leans against her open White 1966 Cadillac hearse front door, listening to the Taps blowing from the trumpets. She didn’t deliver the casket; it’s what she drives everyday. They buried a woman with her loom, where her wool was weaved. The deceased woman’s orphaned baby lamb runs around her grave, bleating for her.
          
     The lightning is striking way up high on top of Mt. Pisgah. A mirage of 1890s gold dust flies. The ghostly miners’ picks salute the Gold God and the Madam—Bobby Womack and Madam Pearl DeVere.

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

     Indigo is standing at the pawn shop counter with her blacksmith tools. The anvil has a familiar ring to it. Indigo struck it for the last time with her hammer.  “Gone cold, forge fire’s out,” Indigo tells the proprietor. “How much for this pile of steel?” She choked back the tears.
         
     “Three-hundred fifty,” he said. He’s a pawn shop poster boy, tattooed drugstore cowboy, smoking Marlboro man wearing snakehide western boots.
         
     “Is that the best you can do?” Indigo asked him. “Here, take a look at this anvil—signed by her own fire Dominga Rio—branded by her own iron.”
          
     “Shit! Is that so? You wouldn’t be sayin’ it if it wasn’t so, would you?" he asked. 
         
     “It’s about as real as it gets,” Indigo said.
         
     Indigo walks out with three thousand dollars, not near what that anvil alone is worth in sentimental value. Hell, blacksmith tools are a dime a fucking dozen. Indigo feels some shame, but a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do.
         
     The serpent never sleeps.  The pawn shop proprietor calls THE RAIDER. Figures he can add some more money to his till by cold calling in a national tabloid story. “I got Dominga Rio’s anvil!” he belts through the cell. Ace Banner is on the way—to Las Vegas.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *
         
          Chance LaRue smells the wind, heavy with the scent of obedience to God.  Chance’s horse stepped with a shiver of fear through Phantom Canyon. Chance’s breath is heavy of the day’s saloon beer she consumed at Womack’s Casino earlier in the day.  She and the horse stumbled on to a woman in the scripture of a loose dirt clod.  There she was, in a burrow woven in the willows, on Gold Camp road, apparently in a sacred anointing in the woods. The air is scented with myrrh, cedar, and Rose of Sharon.  Chance startles the woman who appears to be in a meditative trance. 
         
     “To the one, we are the smell of death.  To the other one, the fragrance of life,” the born-again mountain-kissed woman said.  It was scripture from Corinthians 2:15. The woman appeared to be wafting aloft the fragrance of salvation and life among the living and dead.  It’s a dimension of worship not always recognized. “Would you be so kind to take off your spurs, and bend to anoint my feet?  Balm blesses, Good Samaritan woman.”
         
     Chance tipped her hat, and then bent down and unbuckled her spurs. “What do they call you?” Chance asked the woman.
         
     “Madam Blaze Starr, known well in memory of the Mustang Ranch,” the woman said.  It was a title that roused the erect tail feathers of the quail from the sagebrush. They flew in every direction to salute the oldest profession and the new name in town.
          
     “Would that be the one in Reno?” Chance asked.  She laid her spurs on the Truth balled up in a dirt clod.
         
     “That would be the one,” Madam Blaze Starr said. 
         
     “Born again, Madam?” Chance asked.  “I am prepared to find you a church in Cripple Creek.”  Chance pulled a quill from her beaded tresses, and handed Madam Blaze Starr an inkwell bundled in parchment wrapped inside her bedroll.  “Just write on the back of this playing card, ‘Sagebrush Truth’ and we’ll get on with it.  My religion is anointed with whiskey and sagebrush Truth in eights and aces.  This card came from the green felt of Dominga Rio’s blackjack table at the Midnight Rose Poker Room downtown Cripple Creek.  It’s why there’s a hole punched in the top of it—it’s been replaced with a new deck, but it’s still good with me.”
         
      “It’s not a church I need,” Madam Blaze Starr said, fanning the cedar smoke at her breasts, pushing it up her cleavage to her nostrils.
          
    “What do you need, Madam?” Chance asked.
         
     “Your gold pan, for starters, and then confession. I have a predilection—the sexual liking of women.  I am born again—into the profession.”  She pulled out hidden in the sagebrush, a crock booze jug. She saw Chance’s gold pan strapped with rawhide on Chance’s horse.  “What do they call you?"
          
     “Chance LaRue, known well as the firebrand,” Chance answered.
         
     “Would that be the one in Colorado?” Madam Blaze Starr asked,  standing with Chance LaRue in the spiritual spot of the Gold God and the Madam, Bobby Womack and Madam Pearle DeVere in Cripple Creek, Colorado. She recognized Chance’s turquoise beads weaved into her hair.  Madam had seen Chance LaRue blazed on the lesbian erotic pages…

Copyright 2005-2010 Ms. Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist