The following is the first chapter of a novel my father began about fifteen years ago. He never finished it, and thanks to the way the Endless are, he never will — but at least it provides evidence that I come by my expository style naturally.
Reading it now, after all this time, I can’t help but feel that Joe Bob worked for the Discovery Institute.
BAMM!!! Then, again, BAAAAMMMMM!!
Then, one more time, hard, BAAAAAMMMMMMMMMM!
The echo pounded back and forth off the walls of the dingy little hotel room. And damn near made my ears bleed.
Finally, I’d done it. That asshole Joe Bob was downright dead. But it wasn’t over.
I smelled as much as heard the other one, off to my right. I didn’t think. I just dropped down on my right knee and swung the barrel over on a shape hunkered in the corner…. But — even in the evening shadow — I could see the body language didn’t say “ambush.” It was more like cowering.
I know. I shoulda just blown that other muther away, too. Those two lowlifes had given me every reason to blow them both straight into dogshit heaven.
There were four rounds left in my fist. And the sick hate boiling up in my gut — and the adrenaline rush — wanted to flat out kill the other one too.
But she just looked so damn pathetic.
So, I’d regret it later. That’s how it always seems to go.
She just moaned: “Ohhhh, shit! Ahhhhh… heeeey…. whyja havta do that fo’ … Whoa…. ”
Like I say. Pretty pathetic. Right?
I’ll grant you, that cheap little room was quite a sight. Impressive ugliness. Well, $12.50 a night doesn’t buy much to begin with. A 10-foot by 12-foot worn-carpet space with a saggy twin bed, a beyond-scuffy dresser and a dirty two-foot-wide window view of the brick across the street. And now…
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