Sherman Alexie - The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven

"Junior," I yelled. "Slow down, slow down."
Junior had the car spinning in circles, doing donuts across empty fields, coming too close to fence and lonely trees.
"Thomas," Junior yelled. "You're dancing, dancing hard."
I leaned over and slammed on the brakes. Junior jumped out of the car and ran across the field. I turned the car off and followed him. We'd gotten about a mile down the road toward Benjamin Lake when Thomas came driving by.
"Stop the car," I yelled. and Thomas did just that.
"Where were you going?" I asked him.
"I was chasing you and your horse, cousin."
"Jesus, this shit is powerful," I said and swallowed some. Instantly I saw and heard Junior singing. He stood on a stage in a ribbon shirt and blue jeans. Singing. With a guitar.

Indians make the best cowboys. I can tell you that. I've been singing at the Plantation since I was ten years old and have always drawn big crowds. All the white folks come to hear my songs, my little pieces of Indian wisdom, although they have to sit in the back of the theater because all the Indians get the best tickets for my shows. It's not racism. The Indians just camp out all night to buy tickets. Even the President of the United States, Mr. Edgar Crazy Horse himself, came to hear me once. I played a song I wrote for his great-grandfather, the famous Lakota warrior who helped us win the war against the whites:

Crazy Horse, what have you done?
Crazy Horse, what have you done?
It took four hundred years
and four hundred thousand guns
but the Indians finally won.
Ya-hey, the Indians finally won.

Crazy Horse, are you still singing?
Crazy Horse, are you still singing?
I honor your old songs
and all they keep on bringing
because the Indians keep winning.
Ya-hey, the Indians keep winning.

Believe me, I'm the best guitar player who ever lived. I can make my guitar sound like a drum. More than that, I can make any drum sound like a guitar. I can take a single hair from the braids of an Indian woman and make it sound like a promise come true. Like a thousand promises come true.

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Tanec, oheň, levný pití, basketbal. Hořké povídky o Indiánech, nasáklé alkoholem a nejistou budoucností. První prozaická knížka Shermana Alexieho se čte jedním dechem, po dvou odstavcích chytíte rytmus a začnou se vám líbit, ty zdánlivě beznadějné příběhy, plné sarkasmu. Jeho pozdější knihy jsou propracovanější, tahle je neučesaná a o to opravdovější.
A drug called Tradition.