No Good Man by Rebecca Lee Wesson

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.