A Hilarious Story: The Hateful Eight Meets Tombstone

Henry "Preacher" Blackwell is an old bounty hunter with gas problems and an addiction to strong whiskey, asparagus, and Mexican hot sauce. After surviving the Lincoln County War, riding with Billy The Kid, he did what he did best....killing outlaws. After the war, he went into business with his tall, ugly (a face only the Devil's asshole couldn't nor wouldn't love) bestfriend Flash. The uncordinated drunk pair venture out in the New Mexico frontier to collect a shitty bounty worth less than their shirts.

If only the outlaw they accidentally killed had slid another inch out of the window, they wouldn't be in the bucket of shit they now find themselves in. But "Fish Eyes" Mack is worth five hundred greenbacks, and once they recruit the perfect band of other unruly insane bounty hunters, they know they'll get a rich payday...and hopefully enough greenbacks to drink and get laid.

Chapter 1 Intro:

How The West Wasn't Won

Part 1 of Series: Shouldn't Have Shot That One

DB Bray

&

Walt Allen

IG: @dbbraythewriter

IG: @waltallenvocalgiant

Chapter 1

Henry "Preacher" Blackwell stared over the scope of his winchester rifle and hiccupped. He blinked his only eye several times, spat a stream of tobacco juice from his pursed lips, and leaned back to the scope. He used to be a Baptist preacher before the Civil War, but once he saw the blood spilled, he lost his faith. He never carried a bible anymore….only ammo.

The sand that tickled his white scraggly beard made him sneeze. He held it in and farted. The man beside him, Josiah "Flash" Gordon, wrinkled his nose. "What you eat, Preacher?" he hissed, turning his head with a gag.

"Speragus," Preacher said with a chuckle.

"Why we even out 'ere?" Flash asked in a hush tone.

"You know why, dangnamit," Preacher hurried to say before a tight fart escaped his cheeks again. "Sorry," he muttered.

"Fuck's sake," Flash hissed, attempting to hold in his laughter.

The reason the pair were on a rocky outcrop in New Mexico down by the Mexican border was simple. They were bounty hunters….well bounty hunters in the general sense of the word. They were washed up gunfighters from a bygone age, mostly drunks who hunted down worthless outlaws to make a living, both too old to be cattle rustlers, two decades after the Civil War.

Preacher was the smarter of the pair, but had serious gas issues with his stomach, and his addiction to asparagus and hot sauce. He preferred both at the same time. He stood a few inches over five feet and weighed well over three hundred pounds with deep, sad blue puppy dog eyes. He was bald with grey hair flowing in a long matted ponytail just behind his ears with a slight overbite.

If folks thought Preacher was ugly, his best friend of thirty years, Josiah "Flash" Gordon, a loud Irishman, was even uglier. A look the Devil's asshole couldn't nor wouldn't love. He was a zero on a scale of twenty. He was named Flash because he could procure an alcoholic beverage anywhere he stood. A true alcoholic.

He was bald, his hair falling out in early childhood. He had a few whiskers on top that he combed over with an obsession. He was a worthless drunk with capillaries that looked like rivers of blood running throughout his large nose, crisscrossing at every available intersection.

His teeth had fallen out, some from a solid punch, but most of them with a disastrous drunk fall, usually from escaping a jealous husband from a hotel balcony. If it was one thing God did bless him was an abnormally large cock.

Sign up now to get the most out of Books2Read

Discover something great at Books2Read.

Thanks for signing up for Books2Read notifications!