TENDING TOWARD LACRIMAL EXHAUSTION & THE BRAND OF REHEBOAM
COPYRIGHT
Ó2003
A David Michael Pugh / Garbled Mess Production
All Rights Reserved
An excerpt from Chapter 15 of The Brand Of Reheboam by Stagger P:
Bill could hear chatter and the clanging of glasses from inside the Muddy Cup. He walked up the steps and went inside. It was a loud, boisterous saloon, full of cigar smoke and the stinging scent of fermenting liquor. He tore through the thick cloud of smoke that greeted him at the door and swam through the swirling gray fog past a dozen laughing patrons to the bar. There was no room at the bar, but he hadn't had a drink since the Gehennas, and he'd be damned if he didn't get a taste of some corn liquor. He squeezed between two grimy, hardened men, pushing one aside as placed his elbow on the polished surface. He lifted his hand to signal the bartender.
One of the men that he had nudged aside to get to the bar grabbed Bill's wrist suddenly, gripping it tightly. He was a disgustingly fat man with the pudgy features of a wild boar. His belly was huge and solid from years of chronic drinking, and he had a yellow, jaundiced complexion that spoke of some worsening illness. Even so, the fat man's strength was amazing, and Bill felt as if his wrist would shatter in his grip. Still holding Bill, the fat man made a movement with his other arm like he was going to swing. With lighting quick reflexes, Bill used his free hand to whip out a long dagger, the edge of which was pressed against the man's throat in a blink, the cold steel drawing the slightest trickle of blood from beneath his Adam’s apple. Realizing his compromised position, the fat man loosened his hold on Bill, letting go of his wrist altogether.
The rest of the saloon became aware of the altercation. They quickly fell silent and turned their gazes towards the fat man and Bill.
"You ain't got the balls, boy," the fat man said.
He was testing Bill. Judging by the beads of perspiration that formed on his upper lip, the fat man doubted his own words. The rest of the saloon's patrons watched to see how the stranger would react. Bill knew that if he showed any weakness, they would turn on him and devour him like a pack of rabid dogs. They were a violent bunch, and the only way to communicate with them was through violence. While he had been in a few bar-fights in his time, there had always been a sheriff or a few local deputies to break it up if it had gotten too heated. But here in Scarlet Falls, Bill knew that there would be no one to intervene. It took him only a split second to decide what his course of action would be.
With one sharp flick of his wrist, Bill opened a large gash in the fat man's neck.
For a moment, the wound was wide and bloodless, giving a clear glimpse into the severed purple corridor of his trachea. Then, as if the body suddenly realized the harm that had been inflicted on it, a stream of blood began to pour from the wound. The fat man put his hands to his neck, desperate to close the wound. Blood seeped out of the thin spaces between his fingers, running down his hairy arms and splashing to the ground.
"Jesus Christ," the fat man wheezed, air hissing out of the aperture in his neck.
Bill turned to the rest of the patrons to see if anybody else was going to make a move on him. No one said or did anything. Many of the patrons averted their gaze when Bill looked at them, hiding their faces in their cups. Satisfied that they would offer him no trouble, Bill returned his attention to the fat man. But it was too late. He had made a tragic mistake by turning his back on the fat man. In the space of those few seconds, the fat man had armed himself. Holding his slashed throat with one hand, he swung an unopened bottle of port wine with the other. Bill's reflexes were a fraction of a second too slow, and before he had the chance to duck, the bottle shattered against his skull, blinding his vision and weakening his legs. The dagger fell from his hands. A shower of wine and glass rained down over him, the impact of the blow knocking him to the ground. His head was a jumbled mess of hazy inaction, and he lay there with a stupefied expression on his face. The fat man, clutching the jagged neck of the bottle, stood heaving above him. Blood from his neck trickled down onto Bill, who tried to shake the blue dizziness from his head.
"Finish that sonuvabitch, Buford!" one of the patrons demanded in a voice heavy with whiskey and excitement.
The letting of blood had animated the crowd, and now that Bill was on the ground, some of them had gotten up from their seats to get a better view. The fat man kneeled down over Bill, ready to stick the broken bottle into his face. But his oxygen-starved brain was beginning to cloud over, and he struggled to focus on Bill. He gasped for air, but it slipped out of the gaping wound in his neck before his lungs could absorb it. He was suffocating.
Seeing the fat man hesitate, Bill seized the opportunity. He grabbed the dagger from where it lay beside him on the floor and thrust it up into the fat man's enormous belly, pressing the blade to the hilt directly beneath his ribcage. Bill yanked the blade back out and a spurt of crimson liquid followed. The crowd gasped. A bubble of blood appeared momentarily on the edges of the fat man's mouth and then burst. The broken bottle fell from his hands and landed on the hardwood floor without shattering. With one hand he tried to seal the opening in his neck, and the other he used to cover the wound in his gut. Bill slipped out from underneath the fat man and rose to his feet. The entire upper-half of the fat man was drenched in blood, from his cheeks to his waist. That a man could lose so much blood and still be standing amazed the crowd, and they gawked as he stood there reeling, unwilling to give in. The certainty of his impending death fostered a searing anger within the fat man, and despite his grave injuries, he stumbled forward after Bill. But Bill Carlson was no longer taking any chances. With one calculated swing of his arm, he plunged the entire length of the dagger into the crook behind the fat man's ear, penetrating deep into his skull and putting an instant halt to his forward motion. As the blade pierced the cortex of his brain, the fat man twitched and shook for a moment, only to go limp and collapse completely when Bill withdrew the dagger from his skull.
With the fat man dead, the crowd retreated back away from Bill. The one who had yelled for the fat man to finish Bill sipped his cup nervously. Breathing heavily over the enormous corpse, Bill continued to clutch the blood-soaked knife. Two men from one of the tables sheepishly came over and grabbed the fat man at either end. They strained to lift him off the ground and lumbered out of the saloon with the fat man's carcass. Bill was covered in blood, both his own and that of the fat man. He was bleeding from a large gash on the forehead where the bottle had broken, and the throbbing pain that began there went outward in terrible pulsating waves. He wiped the dagger across his shirt and leaned against the bar for support.
"Shot a whiskey," he said to the bartender, the pain in his head making the words tumble out slowly.
The bartender filled a small glass to the brim with whiskey and passed it to Bill. He swallowed the entire thing and put the glass back on the table.
"Hell, give me a whole bottle," he said, making his way to an empty table at the far end of the bar.
COPYRIGHT
Ó2003
A David Michael Pugh / Garbled Mess Production
All Rights Reserved
An excerpt from Chapter 15 of The Brand Of Reheboam by Stagger P:
Bill could hear chatter and the clanging of glasses from inside the Muddy Cup. He walked up the steps and went inside. It was a loud, boisterous saloon, full of cigar smoke and the stinging scent of fermenting liquor. He tore through the thick cloud of smoke that greeted him at the door and swam through the swirling gray fog past a dozen laughing patrons to the bar. There was no room at the bar, but he hadn't had a drink since the Gehennas, and he'd be damned if he didn't get a taste of some corn liquor. He squeezed between two grimy, hardened men, pushing one aside as placed his elbow on the polished surface. He lifted his hand to signal the bartender.
One of the men that he had nudged aside to get to the bar grabbed Bill's wrist suddenly, gripping it tightly. He was a disgustingly fat man with the pudgy features of a wild boar. His belly was huge and solid from years of chronic drinking, and he had a yellow, jaundiced complexion that spoke of some worsening illness. Even so, the fat man's strength was amazing, and Bill felt as if his wrist would shatter in his grip. Still holding Bill, the fat man made a movement with his other arm like he was going to swing. With lighting quick reflexes, Bill used his free hand to whip out a long dagger, the edge of which was pressed against the man's throat in a blink, the cold steel drawing the slightest trickle of blood from beneath his Adam’s apple. Realizing his compromised position, the fat man loosened his hold on Bill, letting go of his wrist altogether.
The rest of the saloon became aware of the altercation. They quickly fell silent and turned their gazes towards the fat man and Bill.
"You ain't got the balls, boy," the fat man said.
He was testing Bill. Judging by the beads of perspiration that formed on his upper lip, the fat man doubted his own words. The rest of the saloon's patrons watched to see how the stranger would react. Bill knew that if he showed any weakness, they would turn on him and devour him like a pack of rabid dogs. They were a violent bunch, and the only way to communicate with them was through violence. While he had been in a few bar-fights in his time, there had always been a sheriff or a few local deputies to break it up if it had gotten too heated. But here in Scarlet Falls, Bill knew that there would be no one to intervene. It took him only a split second to decide what his course of action would be.
With one sharp flick of his wrist, Bill opened a large gash in the fat man's neck.
For a moment, the wound was wide and bloodless, giving a clear glimpse into the severed purple corridor of his trachea. Then, as if the body suddenly realized the harm that had been inflicted on it, a stream of blood began to pour from the wound. The fat man put his hands to his neck, desperate to close the wound. Blood seeped out of the thin spaces between his fingers, running down his hairy arms and splashing to the ground.
"Jesus Christ," the fat man wheezed, air hissing out of the aperture in his neck.
Bill turned to the rest of the patrons to see if anybody else was going to make a move on him. No one said or did anything. Many of the patrons averted their gaze when Bill looked at them, hiding their faces in their cups. Satisfied that they would offer him no trouble, Bill returned his attention to the fat man. But it was too late. He had made a tragic mistake by turning his back on the fat man. In the space of those few seconds, the fat man had armed himself. Holding his slashed throat with one hand, he swung an unopened bottle of port wine with the other. Bill's reflexes were a fraction of a second too slow, and before he had the chance to duck, the bottle shattered against his skull, blinding his vision and weakening his legs. The dagger fell from his hands. A shower of wine and glass rained down over him, the impact of the blow knocking him to the ground. His head was a jumbled mess of hazy inaction, and he lay there with a stupefied expression on his face. The fat man, clutching the jagged neck of the bottle, stood heaving above him. Blood from his neck trickled down onto Bill, who tried to shake the blue dizziness from his head.
"Finish that sonuvabitch, Buford!" one of the patrons demanded in a voice heavy with whiskey and excitement.
The letting of blood had animated the crowd, and now that Bill was on the ground, some of them had gotten up from their seats to get a better view. The fat man kneeled down over Bill, ready to stick the broken bottle into his face. But his oxygen-starved brain was beginning to cloud over, and he struggled to focus on Bill. He gasped for air, but it slipped out of the gaping wound in his neck before his lungs could absorb it. He was suffocating.
Seeing the fat man hesitate, Bill seized the opportunity. He grabbed the dagger from where it lay beside him on the floor and thrust it up into the fat man's enormous belly, pressing the blade to the hilt directly beneath his ribcage. Bill yanked the blade back out and a spurt of crimson liquid followed. The crowd gasped. A bubble of blood appeared momentarily on the edges of the fat man's mouth and then burst. The broken bottle fell from his hands and landed on the hardwood floor without shattering. With one hand he tried to seal the opening in his neck, and the other he used to cover the wound in his gut. Bill slipped out from underneath the fat man and rose to his feet. The entire upper-half of the fat man was drenched in blood, from his cheeks to his waist. That a man could lose so much blood and still be standing amazed the crowd, and they gawked as he stood there reeling, unwilling to give in. The certainty of his impending death fostered a searing anger within the fat man, and despite his grave injuries, he stumbled forward after Bill. But Bill Carlson was no longer taking any chances. With one calculated swing of his arm, he plunged the entire length of the dagger into the crook behind the fat man's ear, penetrating deep into his skull and putting an instant halt to his forward motion. As the blade pierced the cortex of his brain, the fat man twitched and shook for a moment, only to go limp and collapse completely when Bill withdrew the dagger from his skull.
With the fat man dead, the crowd retreated back away from Bill. The one who had yelled for the fat man to finish Bill sipped his cup nervously. Breathing heavily over the enormous corpse, Bill continued to clutch the blood-soaked knife. Two men from one of the tables sheepishly came over and grabbed the fat man at either end. They strained to lift him off the ground and lumbered out of the saloon with the fat man's carcass. Bill was covered in blood, both his own and that of the fat man. He was bleeding from a large gash on the forehead where the bottle had broken, and the throbbing pain that began there went outward in terrible pulsating waves. He wiped the dagger across his shirt and leaned against the bar for support.
"Shot a whiskey," he said to the bartender, the pain in his head making the words tumble out slowly.
The bartender filled a small glass to the brim with whiskey and passed it to Bill. He swallowed the entire thing and put the glass back on the table.
"Hell, give me a whole bottle," he said, making his way to an empty table at the far end of the bar.