Speaker 1: Hey, everybody, Welcome to the third installment of Fiction Friday. Tonight,
we're going to read the first a couple of the
first scenes from a book that I've recently read called
No Good Man. It is a book authored by Rebecca
Lee Wesson, who has contributed to this channel in the
way of a short story. If you remember, just a
few weeks ago, I uploaded a video called The hat
Man that is authored by Rebecca Lee Wesson. She's really
a good writer. This book is I don't know the
genre that you would classify this book in, maybe neo Western,
but as I read the book, I'm thinking No Country
for Old Men and Fargo and maybe some kind of
Quentin Tarantino screenplay. It's that good. It's NonStop action. It
has got so many twists and turns. Reader, you'd like
to kind of just get engrossed in a book where
you just have to you have to go to the
next chapter, then you have to go to the next
chapter to see what's going on. This is one of those.
Rebecca and her publisher have given me permission to read
these two scenes. You'll hear in this reading how action
packed this book is. Let me say that this podcast
should be considered not for children. Adult how do you
say it? Parental discretion should be advised. Kids under I
don't know eighteen, probably shouldn't listen to it because of
the language, the violence, and there is a bit of
sexual innuindow, it's not graphic at all. She's very tasteful
in this book with that kind of stuff. There is
language and violence, and to me, it makes it a
good book. So I hope you all enjoy this. All
of the information you'll need to click links and read
a description of the book is just right down there
in the description. Take a look at it. Click the link,
go buy the book. Hope y'all buy a thousand copies
of this book and put her get her in a
place where the algorithm on Amazon catches this book and
really gets it going. No good Man by Rebecca Lee Wesson,
All Right, here we go, Saturday, October fifth, Solemn City.
Jedediah stood in the open door of the Bluebird Saloon.
Despite the rural surroundings, the molded silver heels of his
black snakeskin boots spitelessly reflected the daylight outside. On the
left heel was a cold snake with its head upright
on the right heel was an angel. Her wings were
extended to her sides, and her face was morning. He
pulled his white shirtcuffs down through the sleeves of his
tailored suit jacket, knowing they would be stained red soon
and the shirt would have to be replaced, but he
did not mind. It was not unusual for business to
get bloody. He pushed a lock of gray hair that
had fallen into his eye back into his head full
of black, and adjusted his sunglasses further up to the
bridge of his nose. He cracked his heavy knuckles and
felt the residual aches from the scuffle a minute ago
fade from his right hand. Behind him, outside on the
gravel were the bodies of eleven men, Each of them
wore blue jeans and matching black polos with the logo
of a private security company over the left breast. On
the ground in the distance, a security drone with the
same logo blue sparks erradically. Four of its six propellers
were smashed from its fall to Earth minutes before, and
the camera on the underbelly looked like a shattered robotic
eyeball that had fallen out of its socket. Four of
jetted die as men stood over the limp bodies, watched
him and waited instructions. Two more set their sniper rifles
back into the padding of their hard plastic cases, snapped
them shut, and joined the others. Horace the seventh Man
leaned against the driver's door of his black Lincoln truck
with his arms crossed, looking privileged and resentful about that
for some reason. Like Jeddediah, his men had been given
many nicknames over the years, but the Desert Parish Boys
was the only one that stuck. The DPBS had shaved faces,
cropped haircuts, and wore tailored black suits with a silver
snake pennant pin to the left lapel. If they had
a dress coat. Horace lazily abided by it. He wore
black jeans and a leather jacket. His hair was long,
and his face needed a shave, and his attitude needed
an adjustment. The Bluebird Saloon in Solemn City, Texas, was
three hundred and fifty miles mostly west and a little
south of Dallas. It sat alone on a plot of
dirt as big and white as the eye could see
in any direction, and was too far from anywhere to
get any business. There was no stoplight, no gas station
within twenty miles, and no jobs, not even at the saloon,
which had invite only customers just three times a year.
Three times a year, a security cable buried three hundred
yards east of the saloon under the dirt at the
end of the gravel drive notified the twelve security guards
posted in and around the saloon if vehicles were approaching.
Three times a year, security cameras and a security drone
helped with the other directions. Three times a year, a Corvette,
a Maserati, two Mercedes G five fifties, and two Rolls
Royces arrived and parked on the northern side of the saloon,
their collective width wider than the establishment itself, but the
security precautions were redundant. A half blind man could see
a person or vehicle approaching for miles away, and a
shrewd one would learn to hear them way before that.
This far out in the flatlands, the only sound on
such a weather free day was a light wind. Once
that was taken out of the equation, hearing a trespasser
was simple arithmetic near silence minus the sound of a
light wind plus the distant sound of rubber on gravel
equals uninvited guests. Nevertheless, the twelve security guards were Texan,
which meant they were accustomed to courtesy. They expected that
if Jedediah Warcrep paid the Bluebird's Lune a visit, he
would use the driveway like a gentleman. But the guards, however,
cultivated by Texan etiquette, were not good at math, and
in the hills freckled with shrubs. Five hundred yards north
and south of the saloon. Two sniper trained dpbs, lying
on their stomachs with their eyes in the scopes of
their M two's did not give them a chance to
retry the equation. The third time that year the saloon
saw customers. The snipers each fired a single shot from
their locations. When the first two guards fell simultaneously onto
the gravel in front of the entrance, more security guards
were alerted and then imprudently ran to check on their
comrades and fell shortly after. This continued for the first
minute until the four internal security guards also alerted and
went into the open. All four were shot upon exiting
the saloon, but only three met the gravel. The fourth
leaped back inside, while the sniper in the south swatted
the scorpion off the lens of his scope that had
caused him to hit the man in the upper thigh
instead of the head. By minute two, there were thirteen
spent bullets, eleven big dead bodies, one dead drone, and
a more or less clear entrance for Jedadiah, who drove
his blacked out Bentley Moulson down the long driveway several
minutes later like a gentleman. Unless the wounded security guard
had maintained an extraordinary sense of calm and dexterity in
the situation, in which case he may have been invited
to become a DPB. Jedediah expected the man to react
predictably and out of fear, which is exactly what he did.
Somewhere around minute four, when Jedediah was out of his
vehicle and two steps from the entrance of the saloon,
the guard jumped in front of him from behind the
doorframe with his gun pointed, eyes wild and mouth screaming.
Jedediah grabbed the nose of the gun, yanked the man forward,
and knocked him out with a train punched to the temple.
The guard fell to the floor inside the saloon, where
around minute five, he died in his sleep from the
bullet he took to his femeral artery. From the open
door the saloon, Jedediah could tell the establishment was a
prop It had everything someone would expect to see if
they accidentally wandered in. Everything besides customers. It was windowless
and lit in a way that suggested it was always
six o'clock at night. On the southern wall to the
left of the entrance was a polished wooden bar top
with a handful of red pleathan swivel stools underneath it.
A square TV VCR was mounted in the corner of
the ceiling where the southern and western walls met, and
was playing a college football game recorded about forty years earlier,
judging by the attire of the coach talking to the players.
The grainy footage was cut off by black and white
horizontal lines that pushed and pulled each other over the
screen for a few seconds, then disappeared and showed the
game again, the teams now in the middle of play.
Behind the bar was a wall stocked with unopened bottles
of liquor. Next To it was a refrigerator with a
transparent door that displayed bottles of beer that were likely
warm because someone in the props department had forgotten to
plug it in. The western and northern walls were covered
by framed Doseki's mirrors, and underneath them were square tables
like the bar top had probably been polished once years
ago and not since. On the top of the table,
closest to the door was a remote control for the drone,
and next to it was an open laptop that relayed
the drone's footage until its robotic eyeball was shattered. Three
of the chairs around the table had been pushed out,
and the fourth had been tipped over completely. When the
men sitting in them rushed outside. Jedediah stepped over the
guard's body into the saloon and felt the hollowness of
the wooden floor underneath his feet. He stood still next
to the overturned chair, listened to the quiet, and waited.
After a long empty pause, a muffled voice came from
underneath him. Jedediah scanned the wooden floorboards in the room
and then walked behind the bar and lifted the black
rubber floor mats one by one until he found a
metal handle, and when he pulled it upwards, a rectangular
wooden door lifted with it, exposing a wide and well
lit stone staircase. The basement of the Bluebird Saloon was
handsomely decorated and five times the size the bar itself.
The floors were stoned and stained oak. Wainscoting covered the walls.
A giant iron and frosted glass dome light was mounted
in the center of the ceiling, where the wainscoting continued
in egg shell white. On one wall, six polished steer
horns were mounted into oversized coat hangers. Each one held
one cowboy hat and one jacket, several of which were
leather and beaded in Southwestern patterns. On two other walls
were framed paintings of cowboys doing heroic things, and underneath
them were tall leather seats angled toward each other with
circular side tables in between. Opposite the staircase was a bar,
and behind it was a timid looking female bartender. In
front of the bar and plasticy short skirts were five
more young women. Judging by the emotional drain on their faces,
Jedediah assumed they were not there by choice. In the
center of the room was a circular poker table with
a green felt cover. It was scattered with poker chips,
cigarette trays, and six sets of folded playing cards, and
six tumblers with ice cubes melting in brown liquor in
the matching armchairs surrounding the table where the imperious gray
haired men as the Big Boss six at their third
and final poker game of the year. Five of them
looked anxiously toward Jedediah and the four dpbs, who entered
the space unhurriedly. The six Man craned his head over
two layers of neck fat to see the uninvited guests
behind him, and then scoffed and lit a cigarette jet
did the devil of the desert himself? The fat man said,
with smoke billowing out of his mouth and nose. I
see that ugly face of yours survive the estate fire.
I heard your folks burn till their flesh fell off
the bone. Jedediah took his sunglasses off and put them
in the inside pocket of a suit jacket, and then
stood by patiently while the fat Man continued, Have you
been a busy boy? Haven't you in the hospital for
a whole year? Then taking care of your daddy's affairs
around the world after that, how's it feel to wear pants? Uh?
Think you handle all that responsibility? The fat man chuckled
in the silver bolo around his neck absorbed into one
of his chins, which wiggled when he spoke. I'm surprised
you didn't come to visit us sooner. We've been waiting
what three years for this moment, hadn't we? The fat
man asked the older man at the table, who exchanged
nervous glances. Jeeddiah grin. How's my sister jal She's crazy
as hell, fucked in the head like you, the fat
man said. I hate the bitch, but I agree with
her on one point. What's that The six of us
will be a hell of a lot richer once you're
in the ground. The fat man dropped his right hand
under the table. He brought it up quickly again, holding
a revolver. The others at the table recoled as he
tried to turn and shoot Jeadiah behind him, but his
bulging stomach kept him from aiming properly. Dead he moved
his arm as far as it would go in Jedediah's
direction and fired, sending a bullet into a wall, nowhere
close to its target. He tried to shoot again, but
his finger got wedged in the trigger guard and prevented
it from resetting. You fat son of a bitch. A
man on the other side of the table hissed, may
as well throw your cards, adding fuck you Pickney. The
man hissed back, and then squealed in pain when the
DPD twisted the gun out of his hand. You must
be weighed Huckabee Section five, Jedidaiah said to the fat man,
who cradled his finger into his chest, which makes you
holt Rollerson Section six, Jededdiah said to the man on
Hukabee's left, Glenn Marshall section one, Earl Pinckney section two,
Roy Clement section three, and Jim Allen Section four. The
six men followed Jedediah with their eyes their expressions full
of dread and contempt as he passed clockwise behind them
and tapped his finger on the back of each of
their chairs. Are you touch any of us? And you
got the entire Texas police force in every chapter of
the Texas Hell Hags to worry about, Hukerby said, angrily,
with a cigarette pointed at Jedediah, who ignored him. Slavery,
drug and weapon trafficking, murder, and corruption, theft, Jedediah said,
listing the things from their collective resume as he passed
behind Huckaby's chair. Again, Oh, for fock's sake, you're no
better than us. I heard you threw a man off
his own skyscraper in Tokyo because the deal didn't go
your way. Huckabee said, Did you come all the way
to Solemn City to compare negotiations strategies or is there
a point of this fucking visit? Jedediah stopped behind Rollerson again,
smiled agreeably, and looked at the men around the table.
Where is it? He asked politely. Hookyby charted, come on, Jed,
we both know you ain't getting the rock. My offer
is three million dollars, Jettadiah said, are you out of
your mind? Hookerby asked, with his eyebrows raised in amazement,
how much are you worth? Boy? Forty fifty billion, he
pretended to count the fingers of his injured hand, by
my calculations minus half. Your sisters cut to us that
rock's worth at least twenty billion. So unless you're going
to offer us a fair value. Go in and kill
yourself already. We'll throw the stone in your grave for free,
take our cut of your state, and be done with
you and your bitch sister. What do you say? Whoever
tells me gets to live, Jeadiah said to the group.
Now wait a fucking minute. Now, Huckabee said, with his
bloated hands in the air, Holt Rolison won today. Half
the stone is on its way to his place in Abilene.
Earl Pinckney blurted it out. Alan's brother keeps the other half,
but we don't know where. Pickney looked down at the
table and avoided the glare of the other men. Rollerson
threw his stack of chips and cards across the table
at him, and Jim Allen put his face in his
hands and shook his head. Damn you, Earl Rollison shouted,
if anyone puts a hand on my Darla, Holt, everyone
has put their hands on Darla, Huckabee said, laughing heartily.
Rollerson scowled, damn you, Wade, he said. I would have
hung you next to them Mexicans when I had the chance,
but you'd have broken the damn tree in half, you
fat fucking pig. Rollerson stood up and grabbed a bolo
around Huckaby's neck and then pulled it until his face
turned blue. Jedediah watched them momentarily and then turned to
one of the dpbs behind him, Asom tell Horace it's time,
and the biker a some asking his cell p onto
his ear. If he's there, he dies Asom nodded. Another
DPB walked behind Rollerson and dragged him back into his
seat by his collar, and Huckabee pawed at his neck
to loosen the bolo Asum ended his brief call and
dropped the phone into his pocket. Then he joined the
three other dpbs, each of whom stepped behind one of
the men at the table and stood patiently. Jedediah removed
a large revolver from his belt and stepped behind Huckabee,
who craned his neck to see what was going on
behind him. Then he started to protest, you cycle path,
You're going to start a war over a fucking rock.
We're a fucking empire. You can't do this. Jedediah pushed
a gun into the back of Huckaby's head and pulled
a trigger. The rest of the men at the table flinched,
and the women at the bar screamed and huddled together.
Huckabee's large body leaned forward over the table. Dreams of
blood from the back of his head, traveled down his jaw,
in his chin, and dripped onto his playing cards. Away
Pickney pleaded from across the table. You said I'd get
to live. Jedediah stepped behind Rollerson and nodded at the DPBS,
and before any more complaints could be heard around the table,
they shot them in in front of them. When five
more bodies leaned over the card table and turned the
green felt top red, two of the dpbs hoisted their
guns and walked to the women. The first DPB dug
into his pockets. He removed two car keys, four keyless
entry fobs, and two glocks he had taken from the
dead security guards, and then placed it all on the
bar top. The second DPB added Wade Huckabee's revolver and
three more glocks to the pile, and then he addressed
the women. These are fully loaded glock nineteens. The other
ones a double action revolver with fivellets in the cylinder
point and shoot any questions, he asked. The women exchanged
glances and shook their heads, and after a long pause,
the bartender took their stilettos off and stood up. She
grabbed a key and a gun, and then walked hesitantly
past the table of dead men and up the staircase.
The other women did the same. The men listened to
the sound of their bare feet running across the ceiling
above them, and when they heard the sound of luxury
vehicles leaving in a hurry, Jedediah pulled a cigar from
his breast pocket and lit it. He put the revolver
back on his belt, took a long puff of his cigar,
and drew a large knife instead. Then he lifted Huckabee's
head up by the forehead. A few minutes later, his
white shirtcuffs were stained red and the shirt would have
to be replaced, but he did not mind. It was
not unusual for this business to get bloody. Vit drive
of the Rollerson estate was shaded by a canopy of
long established live oaks. Their branches were like interlaced fingers,
with leaves so thickly woven together they blocked out most
of the fading sunlight as horror drove underneath them. Near
the white stone mansion. At the end of the drive,
the tall trees turned into a manicured lawn that was
painted yellow orange by the dying October. Light. Trimmed hedges
framed the mansion bright orange and pink latanna filled in
every gap, and surrounding the home as far as the
eye could see was a green acreage dotted with evergreens
and desert willows. It looked like a postcard, Horace thought,
wondering how many bodies were buried underneath it. The driveway
curved into a massive circle, wherein the landscape center circular
topiari surrounded a fountain of baby angels pouring infinitely from
a golden pot of water. At the top of the circle,
in front of the entrance was a Harley Davidson patch
together with used replacement parts. The Texas hell Hogs had
more than enough money to buy the newest models, but
Horace knew that wasn't their style. He entered the circle
counterclockwise and part behind the bike, somewhat relieved by his
assumption that the hell Hogs had sent a prospect or
someone insignificant to make the delivery. But when he turned
his engine off, his hands began to shake anyway. He
closed his eyes to steady his breathing, and then counted
to seven. One he was eleven years old. Again, the
rusty hinges on the screen door down the hall from
his bedroom squeaked and rubbed together disagreeably in a low
to high pitch, waking him up. Two, the cry of
hinges reversed from high to low, and the plywood frame
closed again. He pulled his blanket up to his his
heart beat so intense it made little waves in the thin,
tattered material. Three he stared at the dim light pouring
through the bottom of his closed bedroom door. He could
hear a thumb trying to start a lighter repeatedly, and
then heard the sound of a cigarette being inhaled. The
tape on the bottom right of the NASCAR poster next
to his door lost its stick, and the corner curled
up and bobbed freely. Four the footsteps dragged forward slowly
down the hallway, and the corner of the poster flooded
like a paper hand, beckoning Horace out of bed and
out the window to safety. But any movement he may
now had to be calculated, or the old metal springs
in his little bed would object and squeak and ruin everything.
Five He rolled off the mattress silently and slid under
the bed. The footsteps shuffled closer to his door, and
he held his hand over his mouth. He would not
let himself cry. If his daddy came into the room.
Maybe this time he would fight him. Six. The shadow
of his daddy's shoes stopped outside the door, and Horace
bit into his hand to hold back a whimper. Seven
his daddy coughed and mumbled to himself, and the shadow
of his shoes shuffled forward into the living room. And
when Horace heard the TV switch on, he let out
a quiet sob of misery and relief. For the first
night in a week, he would be okay. Horace opened
his eyes again, feeling calmer than before. No one was
pointing a gun at him, and the property was still serene.
He opened his door, stepped down from the truck, and
drew his gun, and then looked around as he walked
up the stone path to the pillared entrance. And in
a state that well maintained, there was always somebody, a gardener,
a maintenance man, or pool boy, all probably with their
own quarter somewhere unseen on the property, but it was
empty and oddly quiet, like the staff had since the
inevitable arrival of Jedediah and fled someplace out of sight.
Even the wind in the trees began to die down
and slip away to safety. The heavy front door of
the mansion had been left open slightly, and horace slid
through its sideways. On the left wall of the entry
was a giant framed mirror. Underneath it was a pear
shaped vase with the top as narrow as a beer
bottle and a midsection as wide as a tractor tire.
And on the right wall was a hanging rug that
displayed a woven scene of laborers in a green field.
A chandelier hung in the center of the ceiling, and
underneath it was a circular wooden table with a vase
full of blue and red flowers. And beyond the table
was a double staircase that arched over a short hallway
leading to another part of the home, and under the
arch was a bearded man in a black leather cut
with his back to the door. The top rocker on
his cut said Texas hell Hogs MC. The bottom rocker
said Texas Hooligan's MC. They were patched in a half
circle above and below the head of a wild hog
with a cigarette in its mouth, and on either side
of a hog emblem were two smaller square patches TX
on the left and VX on the right. And the
biker's right hand was a small black box, and in
his left was the thigh of Darla Rollerson, a big
haired blonde woman who had her excessively made up face
smashed into his Horace closed the door behind him and
waited for the heavy thud to interrupt their moment. Darla
let out a surprise yip and pushed the biker away
and quickly closed the top buttons of her pink sweater,
looking suddenly reserved. Heard of a doorbell, jackass, the biker said,
and then groan when he saw it was Horace Billy.
Horace said, confused, why isn't someone from section six delivering
the rocks? Because my boss is Roy Clement and he
was the last keeper. Now I'm delivering the rock to
the new keeper. Holt Rollerson. You're really fucking slow horse.
You know that it's not supposed to be you, Horace said,
running his hand through his hair nervously. Just give me
the rock and leave. I'll say I didn't see you
or what, pretty boy, You're gonna kill me? You know
I don't want that, Horace said. I'm not giving you shit,
Billy said. He reached his hand in the front of
his pants and adjusted himself, and then winked at Darla,
who had her back pressed against the wall of the arch.
I ought to just kill you, Horace, then this business
with the rock can finally be over with. He shook
the box in his hand and began to walk around
the table toward the door. Kill me, What the hell, man,
Horace said, matching Billy's steps on the other side of
the table. Horace, I don't like you, Billy said. Don't
nobody like you, not even Joan. When Jed's did she
don't need you anymore, So I'll just shoot you right
here in miss Darlas's pretty house, and then wait on
Jed and shoot him too. Then I'll take off. When
I get home tonight, I'll sleep sound as hell, knowing
I got a worker at paycheck coming my way. Horace
felt his hand start to shake again. We had a
fucking deal, he said, No, you had a deal with Joan.
Now she lied and you believed her. That's on you, brother,
Billy said, shrugging indifferently. Plus, you're betraying Jed. You know
what it makes you, makes you a snitch? A snitch,
Horace shouted in disbelief. I was a snitch for your club.
Can't trust to snitch, compedre, Billy said, with his back
to the front door. Before Horace could react, Billy drew
a pistol from behind his cut and fired at him.
Horse dropped down and slid behind the giant vase under
the mirror with his bicep searing in pain. Darla screamed
and fell to the ground with her knees to her
chest and hands over her head. Horace looked around the
vase and fired back, grazing Billy's shoulder with a bullet.
He shot again when Billy duck behind the circular table
in the center of the space, this time hitting him
in the knee, and Billy howled and pulled the table
backward onto its side, crashing the vase onto the ground
and sending dirt and pedals sliding toward the front door
along with the black box. You shot me in my
fucking knee, man, Time out, Billy shouted from behind the tabletop,
moaning and panting time out for real, man, it's not fair.
I wasn't expecting a fucking gunfight. I got to reload.
As Horace inched toward the table with his gun pointed,
the front door swung open and slammed into the wall.
Jedediah stepped inside with four dpbs behind him. He kicked
the overturned table past Horace and into the staircase, and
then grabbed Billy by the neck and raised him into
the air. Billy grabbed onto Jedediah's hand and swung his
boots around wildly, his oxygen depleted kicks, aiming desperately for
something to hit. Jedediah closed his fist tighter and held
Billy in the air until his face turned blue and
he stopped moving. Then he let the biker's lifeless body
drop to the ground in a moment of bravery. Darla
pulled out her cell phone. When the sound of the
first number dialing echoed through the entrance, she let out
a horrified squeal and whimpered. Jedidiah walked over to her
and took her phone out of her hand called them.
Jedediah ordered he finished dialing one one and then gave
the phone back. Darla looked up at him with rivers
of black mascara running down her cheeks. She took the
phone and backed away under the arch and then vanished
around the corner on the other side. One of the
four dpbs picked up the black velvet box at his
feet and opened it briefly, and then removed a device
the size of a lighter from the bottom of it.
He dropped the device on the ground and crusted with
his boot heel, and then he tucked the box under
his arm and waited at the door with the others.
As the sound of sirens started to grow in the distance,
Jedediah walked to Horace and put his hand on his shoulder.
Horace looked back apologetically. He held on to his bleeding
bicep with his right hand and hoped for a sliver
of sympathy he knew was not coming. I don't know
you lately, Jedediah said quietly. He reached for Horace's lapel
and removed the snake pendant, and then turned around and
walked back outside with the rest of his men. Humiliated,
Horace wiped his eyes with his bloody hand and stared
bitterly at Billy's dead body on the ground, dreading the
storm of ramifications he knew would be coming. All right,
thanks for joining me on this fiction Friday. I enjoyed
reading those two scenes from this book. Again. All the
information you need to buy this book is in the
description below. I'm also going to post it on Facebook.
I don't post many things on social media. I don't know.
It's kind of boring to me. Whenever I post stuff
on Facebook, it's something silly. But I will put this
on Facebook. I'll put it in the description here. Mike
put it on Instagram. I have an Instagram account, might
put it on I'll put it on all the things
that I have on account with and you can find
it there. So thanks for being with us tonight. I
certainly appreciate it. We'll see on the next podcast. Thank you.