Showing results by narrator "Bill Coen" in All Categories

He smells like blood and opium and whiskey, and underneath that something sickly sweet, like rotten fruit. That's what starvation—and death—smells like. He is so thin and frail now, almost gaunt in his appearance, almost skeletal. His current accommodations, a musty, cramped room above a motel-saloon, have also been converted into somewhat of a shrine to him: his 1877 model Colt Lightning hangs on one bedpost, and his trusty Bowie knife from the other. His hand-tailored black hat with the hand-curled brim hangs over the bed, on the wall, like some would hang a picture of Jesus.

Our woodland had become a utopia; an wonderous place of ideal perfection. To us, at least, it felt this way. We had no concern what others thought of our world. They were considered nothing more than interlopers, threats, and were not welcome there. All was calm and peaceful. That is, until I'd found a trail of fresh blood, and determined beyond a shadow of a doubt it was not human blood, but animal blood, with spent rifle shells littering the ground nearby. It at that moment I knew that once again, our peaceful solitude was about to be interrupted by mankind's lust for blood.

When he comes back from fighting in Europe, he finds the city is upside down, there are new rules in place, new criminals have taken over, and to make matters even more fun, his wife has left him but returns with some gangsters hot on her heels. Did she take the money and kill her "gangster" boyfriend? Or is she wholly innocent? And what of Doc Weaver? He is now a turn coat and wanted by the mob as well and in the middle is Jack Manson.