Not updating crosses branches

Not updating crosses branches

So as he ran that last seventy yards Billy turned at every ten and fired a full ten round magazine of Cooper load Hensley and Gibb’s 200 grain hard-cast at the Cantina, bracketing the three second story windows which looked down upon him like black square empty eyes.

But it shot the right thumb off a Cartel soldier named "Taco” Perez, and broke his pistol, Taco who was aiming his Beretta 92 out the farthest of three windows and planning on being a hero and drinking a litre of Patron Tequila and terrorizing the girls in the trailers and basically feeling fabulous about himself for killing whoever had lit the Cantina on fire.

Forever.) Synopsis: In one hour, a nuclear device will detonate in the middle east. The feel of the ground through your boot how you've trained on dry cracked asphalt the type that has medium sized pea rocks that is rough and dry' the type that chews up your boots, you know the type I'm talking about" the stuff you only see in old towns that have lived past their prime and are now in that slow death spiral. Tim had witnessed the ceremonial killing of Luis from the second story windows of the Cantina, had seen the skeleton gloves, had been blinded by The Deputy’s light just as he had aimed a Remington Police 870 loaded with buckshot at the Deputy’s silhouette. My intention is to layer all this over many hundreds of pages. He and the dude in the truck in the other story were best friends, and had worked together for almost twenty years.

And today, a Texas Deputy Sheriff's war against the Cartels in his county is carried on by his young son. It's only natural at times to let the auto reflex's take control, while a small part of your mind is thinking of the smell of cordite and the brush of fabric on the inside of your wrist were your gloves meet your buttoned sleeve. When he had learned of The Deputy and his war against the Cartels Tim had once taken a phone call and received instructions from one of his best watchers to go to a Whataburger where it was known The Deputy ate on occasion. So I am very worried that I am going "Too Slow"--modern fiction tends to what is called "flash" fiction-- Very abrupt, on the nose, punchy and quick. The dude in the truck will soon be heading to the Gear Ranch, and thereabouts. NOTE FOR ALL and CRUSADER BELOW: Yes, my intention is to turn this into a Kindle/Amazon publication.

The Sherriff’s Deputy had been killed because in the last year The Deputy had shot, run over, or beaten to death at least seven Cartel members. And maybe two more men who had disappeared, two stone cold professionals, Los Zetas contract killers from Nuevo Laredo who had never shown up, never called in, but had simply… All the other deputies had quit, or been persuaded to leave, or been persuaded to park themselves in the shade and look the other way. The Deputy had beaten Luis to death in a very special way. When they arrived across the border, soft plump girls with hope in their eyes because they had been promised jobs as waitresses or motel cleaners or nannies, Luis tattooed their left feet with a small star. So Luis just chopped off that left foot with the little small star. On Friday nights The Cantina Tejas was very busy, very loud, very bright. The Deputy had propped Luis up against his Chevy truck. And above the handle and to the left was a light, a dull bronze color, about the size of a 7-ounce Coca-Cola bottle. And he could hear footsteps, and the sound of something being dragged. They did not want to look or talk or think about anything. And because every fifty feet down the service road. Gabriel could smell chicharron, the smell of pork fat, and fried pork rinds. The skeleton gloves, the poise, even the same heavy square pistol. But Billy was quite concerned that a seasoned Cartel soldier would aim an Ak-47 out one of the three second story windows of the Cantina Tejas, sacrifice Gabriel, and begin emptying magazines through the porch roof in his direction.

Something wrong with the economy, that’s what people said. Then the Deputy swiveled lightly up into the bed of his truck. It was a very unusual way to kill a man, Gabriel had thought.

The Deputy carefully laid the blanket on the center of Luis chest. Stomped both feet practically into the ground through Luis’ chest.

I’m in the soldiering business, his father had said. And being a soldier, well, that means I’m also in the dying business. His Big Surprise was a German Mg-42 machine gun made by Gustloff-Werke in 1944, or rather, made from a kit from a Gustloff-Werke weapon, back when such kits were sold for two hundred dollars apiece in Shotgun News.

His father’s words were the kettle drums of war, propelling him into the future. And his seventh round of the middle thirty transected Taco the wishfull killer and drinker of Patron tequila, punching a .45 caliber hole through both of Taco’s lungs before it penetrated the roof of the Cantina and tumbled into a white hot Texas sky.

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