I spent the last few years writing books about songwriting and as well as a fantasy series for middle graders (The Misadventures of Hobart Hucklebuck), but when I decided to try something new, well it led to Forever Zombie a collection of short stories.

Monday, March 9, 2009

Kill Me A Roster

March 9th - 6:48 a.m.
Last Chance City Jail

A rooster crowed somewhere off behind the Last Chance City Jailhouse.

If Colt McCoy would have had his revolvers at hand, someone would have been feasting on fried chicken that night.

He tried to pull the lumpy jailhouse pillow over his head to shut out the sound of the rooster, but he nearly gagged on the smell. It smelled like piss, shit, vomit and a hint of... roses. The scent of rose was the worst as it was simply out of place. Sort of like a fine French Bordeaux poured into a jug of moonshine. He tossed the pillow across the room. Hard to say how many ugly cowpokes and gunslingers had rested their heads on the filthy thing.

“Hey, Marshal!” McCoy yelled hoping he would be heard beyond the wooden door blocking the cell area from the main office.

A moment later the door opened.

“Shit, McCoy,” Marshal Tucker grumbled. “Don’t you know what time it is?”

“Time to be dreamin’ of some sweet little cowgirl instead of listening to that Gol’ Darn rooster. Can’t you shoot it or something?”

The marshal scratched his belly (which hung over and covered most of his gun belt) and belched.

“Shoot. Old Ma Kettle would beat me over the head with a fryin’ pan if I did anything to that chicken.”

“She wouldn’t have to know,” McCoy replied.

“Oh, she’d know all right, Colt,” he said in a very subdued voice. “She’d know...”

“Well, then, how about just letting me out of here?”

The marshal scratched his stubbled chin.

“You sure you don’t want breakfast first?”

“Only if you’re gonna feather that fuckin’ bird and fry it up for me,” McCoy replied. “I’ll go have breakfast down the street.”

“By down the street I hope you don’t mean the saloon,” the marshal said. “That’s what got you in here last night.”

“I don’t recall,” McCoy said.

“Yep,” the marshal replied. “And that’s exactly what got you into trouble.”

“Just go get the fuckin’ keys, okay?”

“You didn’t say please,” the marshal replied.

“Keys, please. Geez...”

The marshal smiled.

“Be right back,” he said.

But he wasn’t... well, sort of, but... well, the day started off fucked and it was gonna end that way too...

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