We have snow, and more snow today. We had snow three days ago, then it warmed up and now it is snowing again. It looks like winter had got us this time, it is late in the month to get snow that you could reasonably expect to melt away.
I have been working on writing projects, models and game content. In the midst of that I got an offer to exclusively list some of my work with a reader content provider app. That has held me up for a few days as I decided whether I wanted to roll the dice, remove some of my content from many sources and put it in one place. I have been dealing with that for a week now, and today I should buckle down and decide.
Looking at the outside world I am surprised to see that much snow overnight. I am also surprised to see my neighbors RV still parked. Last year they spent the winter in Florida, but maybe Covid-19 has grounded them this year. (The big tarp covered lump on the side of my neighbors house).
I thought I would leave you with an excerpt from my new novel Fig Street. I would love to say feedback is encouraged, but for the last few weeks I have been inundated with spam from about a dozen services, all posting in the comments (I delete them as spam before they are ever published, but it eats up a lot of time) advertising everything from Weed, medical or otherwise, Gambling sites and of course the ever popular penis enlarger pills. Who would have known, with all the important things in the world that the quest for a larger penis would still be pursued. Let’s hope we get the Covid-19 vaccines before the penis enlargement break-though which is certainly bound to be found, or claimed to be found.
What is Glennville? Glennville is the fictional small town that Fig Street is located in. There are two short stories also set in Glennville: The Great Go-Cart Race and The End of Summer. I linked to my Smashwords pages, because the end of the year sale is coming up, and so (Only at Smashwords) you can get deep discounts on all of my books, $3.00 to $1.49, or in many cases free. So you can load up those tablets and e-Readers for very little or completely free.
My Smashwords Accounts: Dell Sweet 1 – Dell Sweet 2 – W. G. Sweet 1 – W. G. Sweet 2 – W. W. Watson 1 – Wendell Watson – W. W. Watson 2 – Wendell Sweet – Geo Dell – Geo Dell & Dell Sweet
Seems to be a lot of accounts, but I have been writing and publishing for almost 40 years, and I have only recently published under my actual name. You can find dozens of discounted books at those links, starting on the 18th of December and lasting until January 1st. Spread this around so others can also get free or deeply discounted books, Dell.
FIG STREET
Fig Street is Copyright © W. G. Sweet 2020
All rights foreign and domestic reserved in their entirety.
Cover Art © Copyright 2020 Wendell G. Sweet
Some text copyright 1984, 2010, 2014, 2015 W. G. Sweet
LEGAL
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual living person’s places, situations or events is purely coincidental.
This novel is Copyright © 2020 Wendell G. Sweet. Dell Sweet, W. G. Sweet and Geo Dell are publishing constructs owned by Wendell G. Sweet. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic, print, scanner or any other means and, or distributed without the author’s permission.
Permission is granted to use short sections of text in reviews or critiques in standard or electronic print.
* This is a work of fiction used on this blog with permission. The work is not edited for content
Big John Calloway was sitting in the Rusty Nail as usual. He’d heard talk that Turk’s wife had been killed and that Turk had disappeared, all day long. Finally the curiosity had begun to eat at him, and he’d slipped by Dusty’s house to see just what in fuck was going on. Dusty had given him an earful, Turk was up at the cabin, and Dusty was heading up there in about an hour. He’d be swinging by The Nail to pick John up before he left, he’d said. Good fuckin’ deal, Big John thought.
He’d sat right here with Turk many times over the years listening to him complain about his lot in life and how if he ever got the chance, he’d off the old bitch he was married to and head for the hills. Dusty swore, that Turk swore, that he didn’t do it. Bullshit, was what that was, pure bullshit. He’d done it all right, and he was a fuckin’ fool to think that the Sheriff wouldn’t figure the whole thing out either. Kyle Stevens was no friggin’ idiot, and if Turk thought he was, he would find out different soon enough. Big John tipped his bottle, drained it, and ordered another.
“Put it on account, on account of I ain’t goin’ to pay for it,” he told Betty, the bartender. Betty only tended bar on the weekends. She and her husband, Terry Knowlton, owned The Nail. Betty put out more than drinks on the weekends too, Big John knew that from personal experience. She was, in his opinion, one ugly fuckin’ woman. He and Dusty had joked on several occasions that her face was ugly enough to stop a Mack truck, but she could fuck. All them ugly ones could. And she knew enough to keep her fuckin’ mouth shut. Most women didn’t, ugly or not.
Betty bought the beer, winked as she sat it down, and then traveled off to the far end of the bar.
Big John had a nasty streak in him that would not quit. Most of the people in town made it a point to avoid him. He was a large man with a muscular build. Well over six foot and weighed in at about 250 pounds. The only two who’d never been afraid of him were Turk and Dusty, and he had his doubts about Dusty. Dusty wasn’t afraid, exactly, but he could be cowed, at least a little he could. But not by Kyle Stevens, they’d both discussed that less than three hours ago.
They both expected Kyle Stevens to look them up, it was only logical, but they weren’t about to tell him where Turk was.
In truth, John himself was impressed by the fact that Turk had actually killed May and gotten away before anyone caught on. He’d done murder himself, and more than once at that. Dusty knew about it, Dusty had been there, but Turk sure as fuck didn’t know, and neither of them was about to tell him. Lie it up, it was a rule of thumb they all followed.
He and Dusty had picked up a young girl hitchhiking the other night, out by the interstate. It wasn’t the first time they’d done that. The interstate shot all the way down to Syracuse, and up to Canada if you went in the other direction. There were always girls hitching one way or the other, and for a couple bucks worth of gas, you could just cruise till you found one. Nearly all of them would put out. The one they’d picked up the other night hadn’t wanted too though.
They’d taken it anyway, and after he’d got done with her, her own mother wouldn’t recognize her. Usually they’d just beat the shit out of them, threaten them a little, and put them back on the road. It hadn’t gone that way this time. They’d spotted her on the interstate, picked her up and taken her to a clearing in the woods out by Glenn Pines, by the county dump. Dusty had tied her up. Every time she screamed, he’d broken one of her fingers. They’d raped her twice and when they’d finished, she’d been all but done up: In a trance of some sort. Wouldn’t look you in the eye or even speak.
He’d tried to get her to come out of it but she wouldn’t. He’d gotten so mad that he grabbed the bat out of his trunk and bashed her head in. Dusty hadn’t jumped into that, he’d watched instead. They’d taken her over to the old school and dumped her in the field behind it. They’d both figured she’d rot before anyone found her. No one ever went there anymore. He had no idea that she’d already been found and taken away.
Big John looked up from the table and Kyle was just walking in the door. He walked over to the bar and said something to Betty and Betty pointed to where John was sitting.
Stupid bitch, John thought, she’d pay for that. He’d see to it. He watched Kyle walk towards him. So the time had come had it? Well, fuck him, he wasn’t going to tell him anything. He scowled at Kyle as he walked towards him, then signaled to Betty to bring him another beer.
“Need to talk to you, John,” Kyle said pleasantly, as he got closer, “Turk Hayley seems to have disappeared and the only two persons who might know where he is are you, and Randy Weston.”
“You’re wastin’ your time with me. I don’t know where he is and I don’t give a fuck either,” John said, harshly.
“Look,” Kyle said, still as pleasantly as he had started out, “I know you don’t care about anyone in this town, but Turk is wanted for questioning in two murders, and if you know where he is, and don’t tell me I can hold you for obstructing an investigation.”
“Two murders?”
“Yes, two, his wife and a girl we found out by the old school. You wouldn’t know anything about that now would you?”
John’s heart skipped a beat. He forced a smile onto his face, and talked around it. “So, since me and Dusty know him, you figure we know something about it, is that it?” his mind was running minute miles behind that smile. He forced it to stay there, as he leveled his eyes on Kyle. They found it… Shit… But he thinks Turk did it, and…
“Something like that,” Kyle said, answering the smile.
“You know,” John said mildly, “as a law man, you ain’t shit in my book. Sorta like sucking a titty through a nightgown, you leave a lot to be desired, an awful lot,” Big John smiled wider as he finished, and leaned back on the bar-stool. Let this cocksucker think it was Turk, couldn’t be better, he thought.
Chet Sanders who sat on the bar stool next to big John, suddenly became much more interested in the conversation beside him than the tube he had been watching at the opposite end of the bar. News anyhow, he told himself, and all boring shit. This looked as though it might be much better. This looked as though Sheriff Stevens just might get that stuck-up ass of his kicked. Big John sure seemed pissed off. Chet tuned into the conversation.
“Really?” Kyle asked, in mock surprise.
“Oh, yeah, you’re about as handy as a one legged Indian at an ass kicking contest,” John told him, still smiling. He tucked his legs up onto the rungs of the bar-stool and grinned.
Chet’s eyes bugged out. Either Kyle was a straight out pussy, or he’d have to smack him a good one upside the head for that. If he did, John would wipe up the floor of The Nail with him. He eyeballed Kyle, and waited.
The voice came from behind Chet, and he quickly whirled around, although he already knew who it was.
“Evenin’, Kyle.”
Chet turned and stared into the eyes of Gary Jones. Jones owned the gravel pit out by Glen Pines. He was a drinker, but so far as Chet knew he wasn’t a fighter, although he was plenty big enough to be. In fact he wasn’t all that much of a drinker either, come to think of it. He’d come down to buy his men a beer or two on occasion, hang around awhile, and then hit the road. Now what the fuck was he doin’ stickin’ his nose into it? Chet wondered.
“You better take a fuckin’ hike, Gary,” John told him, without turning around from Kyle. “This is between me and him, less you’d like to get your ass busted too?” Now he did turn around, but only briefly. His eyes lit on Gary Jones, and then swiveled back to Kyle. Gary was not a big man, but he was by no means a small man either. And the constant work at the pit kept him in good shape.
Big John was still turning back to Kyle, when Kyle hooked the bottom of the bar stool with one foot, and shoved with the other. Big John went over with a loud crash, and Kyle went down with him. Chet jumped back out of the way, right back into Gary’s arms, which he noticed had come up awful damn quick, and locked his arms up over his shoulders. When he’d jumped back he’d begun to swing his foot towards Kyle’s ribs. You had to come in on the right side of a fight in The Nail, and Chet knew it, but apparently Jones had seen it. “You best let me go, if you know what’s good for you,” Chet told him. The whole bar was up now, and moving towards the commotion like a tidal wave.
Six men from the back of the bar tried to step into it, and over a dozen men who worked for Gary Jones stopped them cold. No one raised a hand. Kyle managed to wrestle Big John-who was mostly nothing more than a fat piece of shit in Kyle’s book. He just looked big, and that scared most people off him-over onto his back, and handcuff him.
Gary released Chet, and Chet did a quick fade towards the back of the bar. Suddenly this wasn’t quite so interesting, and he didn’t want to end up in the cooler for the night, and it sure as hell looked like that was where John was going.
The bar fell absolutely silent. Hank Williams wailed from the Juke Box about what a cheatin’ heart could do, and all eyes in the place were locked on Kyle as he tugged Big John to his feet. It was the first time any of them had ever seen anyone take Big John down, Big John came off the floor without a sound, still grinning.
“Hey, it’s all over,” Kyle said. “No big deal, be on about your business, folks.” The volume of noise that had previously held the bar, suddenly jumped back up. Hank Williams continued singing, but he sounded nearly a mile away now to Kyle.
Big John was all smiles. Jail, which was where Kyle was supposedly taking him now, was just exactly where he wanted to be. If he was in jail, he certainly couldn’t show up at the cabin with Dusty, could he?
Nope, he answered himself, he certainly couldn’t. And the cabin was the last fuckin’ place he wanted to go to right now. “I’ll be wantin’ my fuckin’ phone call,” John said through his grin.
“And you’ll be getting it, just as soon as I get you down there, John,” Kyle replied, and smiled back. He turned away. “Gary? Appreciate it.”
“No trouble,” Gary replied, “how bout I walk out to your car with you?”
Kyle raised his eyebrows but didn’t speak.
“Don’t think I’m gonna forget this, Jones,” Big John said.
Gary simply smiled and followed Kyle outside. Most of the bar watched them go, and then went back to talking about how easily Big John had gone down, and, “Did ya ever think somebody’d drop him like that?”
“Fuck, no,” Chet Sanders told the man who had asked the question. “You mighta been blocked, maybe couldn’t see the whole thing what happened, but I was standin’ right there, I saw it, took six punches, and that Gary Jones had to jump in to help him do it, didn’t you see it?” Chet Sanders spent the better part of that night telling everybody who would listen what had happened.
By two AM when The Rusty Nail closed down, the story was that it had taken six men to hold Big John down, and even with that he’d fought like a bear. And most probably he’d broken more than a few of Kyle Stevens ribs. After all, he’d punched him ten maybe fifteen times. And if that fuckin’ Gary Jones hadn’t jumped him from behind…
Gary waited until Kyle slipped Big John into the back of the patrol car. Kyle raised his eyes once more, and they both stepped away from the car.
“Got a call from Mac today. Asked me to meet him out to your place around seven,” Gary said. “You know what that’s all about, Kyle?”
Kyle looked puzzled. “I don’t have a clue, Gary. He’s going to be there though, called me and asked me the same thing.” Kyle glanced down at his watch. Nearly six fifteen, he’d have to get moving. “Listen, I’m going to drop old John here off, tag along if you want, and then we’ll head out to my place after.”
“I’ll meet you there, Kyle. I gotta go back out to the pit real quick, close things up, drive the trucks down the bottom, I might be a little on the late side, but I’ll be there. Sure wish I knew though, what the hell Mac’s up too.”
Kyle shook his head. “Never know with Mac… I’ll see you in an hour or so, Gary, and thanks again.”
“Ahh, forget it.” Gary turned and walked away.
Get it now, or wait until the 18th and get the discount: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1043146