Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT    4
DEDICATION    4
BOOK 1    6
CHAPTER 1: THE DAY THE WORLD CHANGED FOREVER    7
CHAPTER 2    52
CHAPTER 3    79
CHAPTER 4    86
CHAPTER 5    115
CHAPTER 6    125
CHAPTER 7    134
CHAPTER 8    180
CHAPTER 9    209
CHAPTER 10    215
CHAPTER 11    228
CHAPTER 12    235
CHAPTER 13    260
CHAPTER 14    274
CHAPTER 15    286
BOOK 2    292
CHAPTER 1    293
CHAPTER 2    306
CHAPTER 3    322
CHAPTER 4    331
CHAPTER 5    336
CHAPTER 6    352
CHAPTER 7    366
CHAPTER 8    378
CHAPTER 9    394
CHAPTER 10    406
CHAPTER 11    449
CHAPTER 12    454
CHAPTER 13    473
CHAPTER 14    501
CHAPTER 15    517
CHAPTER 16    534
CHAPTER 17    543
CHAPTER 18    546
CHAPTER 19    561
CHAPTER 20    569
CHAPTER 21    628
CHAPTER 22    653
CHAPTER 23    657
CHAPTER 24    659
The Devil's Hand    659

COPYRIGHT

Copyright  DCBourone, 2018
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION
"A nation can survive its fools, and even the ambitious. But it cannot survive treason from within. An enemy at the gates is less formidable, for he is known and carries his banner openly. But the traitor moves amongst those within the gate freely, his sly whispers rustling through all the alleys, heard in the very halls of government itself. For the traitor appears not a traitor; he speaks in accents familiar to his victims, and he wears their face and their arguments, he appeals to the baseness that lies deep in the hearts of all men. He rots the soul of a nation, he works secretly and unknown in the night to undermine the pillars of the city, he infects the body politic so that it can no longer resist. A murderer is less to fear."

Marcus Tullius Cicero

"The very concept of objective truth is fading out of the world. Lies will pass into history."

George Orwell

"Is not liberty the destruction of all despotism - including, of course, legal despotism?"

Bastiat

"Chaos liberates not only the evil, but the good."

Billy Spears

THE SOLDIER'S SON

BOOK 1

By DCBourone

CHAPTER 1: THE DAY THE WORLD CHANGED FOREVER
~Zero Hour:  The Massacre At The Cantina Tejas
~Words Of His Father
~The Apocalypse Has Already Happened
~A Murderer Recalls a Very Peculiar Killing
~And As They Murdered, So They Are Murdered

~~Somewhere In West Texas

Billy Gehr was a boy on a mission.
A boy?
Or a man.
He wasn't sure.
He had just turned fourteen years old.
And today he was going to kill the men who had killed his father.
Kill as many as he could.
Or be killed himself.
So.
Boy?
Or man.
He would find out soon.
In his right hand Billy carried a Norinco .45 caliber pistol.  The Norincos were Chinese copies of a captured 1943 Remington Rand, or so the rumors went, near perfect duplicates of the original John Moses Browning 1911.  Made out of 5100 series carbon steel, his grandfather had said.  Or maybe scrapped Chinese railroad tracks, his father had mused.  Same steel, Billy's grandfather would murmur.  Billy's father and grandfather had spoken with reverence and sorrow that some Chinese factory had made such a superb copy of John Browning's classic fighting pistol.
It was gunsmith talk.
Soft voices in the dark.
On a Texas porch
Under a Texas sky full of stars  
The Norinco's original sights were copies from that first Remington, so small as to be virtually decorative, but Billy and his father and his grandfather had replaced the original rear sight with a hooked wedge you could use to rack the slide, one-handed, on a boot heel or a belt or a pocket seam or the steering wheel of a car.  They had replaced the front sights with copies of the long ramp found on the Smith and Wesson M28 Highway Patrolman.  His grandfather had machined the new sights one by one on an ancient Pratt and Whitney bench top mill the size of a sewing machine, or a Victorian dollhouse.  They had replaced the guts of the Norincos with all stainless internals from Cylinder and Slide.  Some of the guns had been salt-bath nitrided, making them virtually rustproof and indestructible.
His grandfather had called them Forever Guns.
Because you could build them.
And maintain them.
And use them.
Forever.
Billy had loved being the son, and grandson, of gunsmiths.
His family had been gunsmiths, soldiers, and lawmen, for generations.
So Billy had learned about these essential tools.

And how they were made.

And he had also learned a lot about how these killing tools were used.

Billy had learned a considerable amount about killing, in general.

Killing men is both art, and science, his father had said.

So you will study the science.

And the art will come.

Words of his father

So in his right hand, Billy carried the Norinco .45 caliber pistol.
And in his left hand he carried a yellow Big Gulp cup of gasoline.  
Almost thirty ounces of Chevron 93 octane, mixed with three heaping tablespoons of bacon grease.  The mix had slicked up nicely.  He had practiced.  Flinging the mix onto a department store mannequin propped on a folding chair.  With just a gentle twist of the wrist.  Because Billy wanted his mix to sticknot splash.  And practice makes perfect, his father had said.  Now there were twenty Diamond strike-anywhere matches epoxied together in a bundle sticking out at the base of the Big Gulp cup full of gasoline and bacon grease.  And a foot-long strip of sandpaper carpenter glued down the front of his tattered Vietnam era army jacket.

So.

Toss the contents.

Strike the matches down the vest

Throw the cup

So Billy came around the corner of The Cantina Tejas, a dusty barn turned into a dusty dance hall in a dusty part of west Texas, tossed the contents, struck the matches, and turned Hector Mejor Calinas into a human torch from Hector's knees to his tattooed face.  Billy saw a good dose of his incendiary mix of Chevron 93 and bacon grease go straight into Hector's open mouth.

Hector Calinas, torturer.

Hector Calinas, rapist.

Hector Calinas, soldier for the Cartel.

Hector Calinas was a fairly recent resident of Texas, his rubbery face and thick neck covered with blue tracings of Gothic script and winged angels and crosses and clenched fists with daggers.  Only tracings now because while Hector's tattoos had been very useful for impressing psychopaths in Sinaloa and Jalisco, Mexico, those tattoos seemed to be a disadvantage in Hector's new home of Texas.  Too many contemptuous cashiers, difficult traffic stops, sullen cops meticulously photographing his trademark symbology.  So for several months now Hector had been driving to San Antonio and having his facial tattoos lasered away.

I'll take care of those tattoos for you, Billy thought.

Fire will clean up those tattoos just fine.

Burn, Hector.

No hurry.

Go ahead.

Take your time.

Now Hector rose in a giant swirl of flame.

A man on fire will go for help, Billy had thought.

But Hector lunged forward.  Right hand outstretched.  Cartel torturer and murderer, but Hector was nothing if not courageous.  And then Hector inhaled, mouth open wide, sucked in a big curl of orange flame, and dropped to his knees.

And lunged for the door of The Cantina.

Good enough.

Go for help, Hector.

Because I promise you

Help is not coming.

It's just me:

Billy Gehr.

And clearly?

I'm no help at all.

Billy waited a second or two.

Billy could remember all his father's words.  His father's words were the kettle drums of war, propelling him into the future.  I'm in the soldiering business, his father had said.  Which means I'm in the killing business.  And being a soldier, well, that means I'm also in the dying business.  So if I die someday you will carry on, and you will know that wherever I am, I will always know that you are my son, and now I live through you and only through you, and knowing you were my son was the great triumph of my life.

Honor thy father

So far it was going pretty well.

Now Billy Gehr needed to stand.

Watch.

Listen.

For just a moment.

There were things he needed to see.

Things he needed to hear.

Before the real killing began.

That would be pretty soon now.

He raised the Norinco pistol.

Over-penetration is a problem for civilians, his father had said.  Because when you fight, and you will surely fight someday, because our world is collapsing in upon itself, do you understand, son, you will see the fall of your country the way Romans witnessed the Fall of Rome?  Because our Apocalypse has already happened. Our Apocalypse happened, when we lost our common language. Our Apocalypse happened when we lost our common values, embedded within that language.  Our Apocalypse happened when we lost our honor.  Our Apocalypse happened, when we lost our courage. Do you understand me, son?

So when you fight?

You will be not be fighting as a civilian.

You will be fighting as a soldier.

You will be fighting for whatever is left of your country.

You will be fighting for whatever is left of Texas.

You will be fighting for whatever is left of your family.

And you will be fighting for whatever is left?

Of yourself.

So you will want to see your enemies destroyed.

So when you fire your weapon you will want penetration.  You will want holes in, and bigger holes out.  You will want splatter.  And spray. You will want to see your enemies dismembered.  Deconstructed.  Deleted.  Perhaps a leg here, and a torso there, you will find very reassuring.  You will understand the value of concussive decapitation, because a man without a head is probably no longer a threat.  You will want to see your enemies ground to a rubble of ash and bones.  So you know that your enemies will never rise up, and kill you.

Or even worse: kill your friends.

Now Billy saw what he needed to see.

Heard what he needed to hear.

And Billy fired.

The rounds from his Norinco pistol penetrated just fine.

They were his first shots in what Billy knew would be a very long war.

And he fully intended to carry on his family traditions.

He was, after all?

A Soldier's Son.

~A MURDERER RECALLS A VERY PECULIAR KILLING~

Gabriel Louis Martinez leaned forward on the long board porch of The Cantina Tejas and studied the flaming apparition that had been his friend and fellow Cartel Soldier, a man named Hector Calinas.  Gabriel Louis Martinez was propped against the boards of The Cantina in a chair made out of metal tubing and plastic.  Gabriel figured he might have about three seconds to live.  This odd creature with the big square pistol and that cup full of gasoline and that hideous mask was going to kill him.

Kill him soon, just like he had killed Hector.

Gabriel's thoughts flickered like heat lightning.

Just flashes of light on images, very fast.

So you did not review your life in the seconds before death

You just had random thoughts.

Images, flashing

Pocket litter

Sifting through fingers.

Gabriel was drunk on mescal.

He was so drunk his body could only move very slowly.

But oddly, in these last seconds, his thoughts could move very fast

In the seconds before his friend Hector burst into a tower of flame, Gabriel's random thoughts had concerned a momentous and very puzzling question: a Texas Deputy Sheriff had been killed just a few days ago.  But nothing had changed after the Texas Deputy Sheriff was killed.  Street lights still turned on.  Cash registers beeped and hummed and chimed, most of the time.  The Cantina Tejas was not raided.  The trailers full of young Mexican girls who entertained at The Cantina Tejas were not raided.  No police showed up at The Cantina Tejas.  No other deputy Sheriffs.  No state troopers.  No Justice Department investigators.  There must have been an investigation, surely, but that investigation had never reached The Cantina Tejas, which should have been the target of any intelligent inquiry into the Deputy's murder.

It was all very strange.

In Gabriel's mind this strangeness was only somewhat associated with another kind of recent strangeness over the last year or so: a slow decline in business, in how often they got paid, the number of days when his ATM card didn't work at Bank of America over sixty miles away in Waco, or Western Union offices were closed, and he could not send any money home.

The lines were shorter at Walmart.

The lines were longer at the health clinics.

There had been three bank holidays, when no money could be moved.

The economy was fine, the news would say.

The economy was fantastic, the news would say.

Employment was up, the news would say.

And then there would be a bank holiday.

And riots.

Lots of riots.

It was very confusing.

Gabriel had recently become accustomed to hearing the words 'severe depression' and 'currency crisis' and 'banking crisis' and even 'worldwide economic collapse' from normally sunny faces on television when he strayed away from his sports and Spanish language Univision broadcasts.

Even though the economy was just so very fantastic.

It made no sense at all.

And even stranger things were happening.

Gabriel knew nothing about American politics.

But two attempts on the American President's life was very strange.

Somebody desperately wanted to kill the American President.

And had almost succeeded.

Twice.

Which meant they would surely try to kill him again.

Assassination was a common tool of politics in many countries.

But not here, not in the United States of America.

Not for decades.

It was all very strange.

The whole world was becoming very strange.

Strange small wars in distant countries were becoming larger wars, in big countries that even Gabriel could name.  When he watched television this last year, the screen was filled with foreign cities on fire, and skies full of smoke.  Gabriel was a creature of instincts, and his instincts told him that a great dark wave was coming.  He had a dim sense that the world was changing, and would never be the same, that the world had become like bright and shiny and glittering bubbles of light, drifting on an ocean of filth. And the very strange economy, up and then down, up and then down, that could help explain why the Deputy's murder was not properly investigated.  Just not enough money.  Good law enforcement was very expensive.

But if the old world was dying, and if the U.S. economy had problems, very severe problems, the Cartels mostly saw opportunity.  The Cartels could provide many essential services: organized violence and intimidation, women, drugs, cash, anything stolen because anything stolen could be sold at a discount.  A dying economy and a dying nation and a dying world by definition becomes a kind of black market.

And the Cartels were the ultimate black market.

The Cartels would swim freely, in this ocean of filth.

Gabriel was the farthest thing from an intellectual.

But Gabriel had an animal's instinct for the future.

And he was sure the future was very dark.

And in a dark future?

He knew the world would be ruled by gangs.

And he was a member of one of the world's most ruthless gangs.

The Sheriff's Deputy had been killed several days ago because in just the last year he had shot, run over, or beaten to death at least seven Cartel soldiers, seven of Gabriel's associates and friends.  And maybe two more men who had disappeared, two stone cold professionals, Los Zetas contract killers from Nuevo Laredo who had never shown up, never called in, but had simply

Disappeared.

Vanished.

The job of the Los Zetas men had been to kill The Deputy.

They had been sent to kill him because The Deputy had been the last functional law enforcement in Cochise County, Texas.  All the other deputies had quit, or been persuaded to leave, or been persuaded to park themselves in the shade and look the other way.

This Deputy had been the last one really working.

He had been working for free, it was said.

The Deputy had once been some kind of soldier, it was said.

Some kind of very special soldier.

Back from all these wars the gringos fought.
The Deputy had been a very unusual man.

Gabriel had seen The Deputy kill before, just once.

Gabriel had been at The Cantina when The Deputy had killed Luis.

The Deputy had killed Luis in a very dramatic and peculiar way.

Luis, mostly called just Luis, but sometimes very quietly and respectfully, Luis The Foot, and even Luis The Foot-Cutter, had been responsible for disciplining the girls at The Cantina Tejas.  Keeping those girls in line.  And on their backs.  When they arrived across the border, soft plump girls with hope in their eyes because they had been promised jobs as waitresses or motel cleaners or nannies, Luis tattooed their left feet with a small star.  Or sometimes, a flower. About the size of a dime.  Just inside their little toe.

That way when the girls ran away and Luis The Foot tracked them down, and he almost always tracked them down, the truth was the girls rarely got as far as San Antonio or the border, Luis did not have to bring back their bodies to show the other girls.  Moving whole bodies was difficult, and messy.  The closest mesquite thicket was good enough for girl bodies cut into pieces and folded into Hefty garbage bags, and west Texas was one big mesquite thicket.  So Luis just chopped off that left foot with the little tattooed star, or flower.  And then he would show that foot to the other girls in the trailers behind The Cantina Tejas.  You could fit a young girl's foot in a jacket pocket, rolled up in a Ziploc bag, Luis The Foot used to say

The Deputy had killed Luis on a Friday night.

At one o'clock in the morning.

Almost a year ago.

On Friday nights The Cantina Tejas was very busy, very loud, very bright.  As many as two hundred patrons might be dancing on the barn floor, boards creaking and dust in the air, another ten or twelve patrons down in the trailers with the girls.

The Deputy had come in by himself.

With a big bright picture on his phone.

A picture of a girl's foot.

With a small flower tattooed by the little toe.

The Deputy had shown his picture of a girl's foot to many people in the bar, and on the dance floor.

The Deputy had been very polite.

Just one week before, two girls had got away

Luis and Gabriel had caught one of the girls.

That girl had been punished.

She had not survived her punishment.

The Deputy's picture must have been of the other girl, the only one who ever truly got away, because the foot in the picture was still attached to an ankle.   The deputy had finally walked to the bar and shown the picture to Luis, who was tapping a keg of beer.  Then the Deputy had walked Luis outside to a truck.  An old Dodge Adventurer, four-wheel drive, lifted, painted the dull grey of primer paint.  The Deputy was using his own vehicle, because the county had so little money.

The Deputy had been slow and casual.

Luis The Foot had been slow and casual.

Gabriel had been sitting in this very same chair of steel tubes and plastic on that night almost one year ago.  Drunk on mescal.  Gabriel had been thinking about Luis and the soft brown girls, and how much fun he and Luis had with those girls when they tracked them down.  Luis always rented a motel room first.  The girls were so terrified that they would do anything.

Anything at all.

It had been a lot of fun for Luis and Gabriel, not so long ago

About forty patrons had gathered on the porch of The Cantina Tejas.

Another ten or so on the gravel lot in front of The Cantina.

They were all waiting for Luis to kill the new Deputy.

They all knew in the deep dark Texas scrubland?

Such a crime would never be solved.

Of course there might be an investigation.

Flashing lights, police cars, road blocks.

But then the investigation would disappear.

Because no one who saw anything would speak.

Nobody would ever speak against the Cartels.

So, one more Texas deputy, down in the dark.

Gabriel knew of three dead deputies in just the last year

The Deputy had propped Luis up against his Chevy truck.

The Deputy was going to read Luis his rights.

Then The Deputy stepped back about three feet.

And The Deputy did not read Luis his rights.

Instead he reached into the right-hand pocket of his vest.

Found some gloves and pulled them on.

The Deputy was fairly tall, but mostly he was wide.  Wide shoulders, long arms, sinew and bone.  When he had passed Gabriel and stepped into The Cantina Gabriel had noticed mostly his neck.  The Deputy's neck was very thick, deep, and wide.  Gabriel had always liked small details like that.  He had always thought men with thick muscular necks deserved special attention.

And leaning back in this very same chair almost one year ago, Gabriel had recognized The Deputy's gloves.  Black.  A logo on the wrist strap: Mechanix.  Gabriel knew lots of people who used those gloves.  You could buy them at Home Depot.  But The Deputy's gloves had been changed.  Painted across wrist and knuckles were the bones of a hand, bright and white, like a skeleton.

The Deputy was wearing the hands of Dia De Muertos.

Bones of the Dead, to celebrate the Day of the Dead.

And The Deputy waited.

Still, but poised, maybe swaying just a tiny bit.

Like a soccer goalie, waiting to receive a penalty kick.

Gabriel had known that Luis would kill The Deputy.

Now he was not so sure.

Luis was a blade man, as well as a gunman.

Luis The Foot always carried two knives, filed down from French chef's knives.  Never stainless, always carbon steel.  Luis was very particular about his knives.  He carried one blade tilted right in the small of his back like an Argentine gaucho's facon, the other knife in a shoulder harness under his bright yellow bartender's vest.  At his right hip Luis carried a Colt Presidential .38 Super, a very shiny gun with a gold-plated trigger and hammer.

The Deputy had not handcuffed Luis.

The Deputy had not searched or disarmed Luis.

It was all very strange and interesting.
.    Gabriel had been waiting for Luis to show one of his knife tricks.

Luis The Foot was always playing with his knives.

Once Gabriel had insulted Luis "Chinga tu madre" he had said, which meant "fuck your mother," Gabriel had been trying to be tough and friendly in the manner of men, and Luis had turned with a smile on his face and kept turning, so fast it was like a strobe light and shown Gabriel a gold earring on the tip of his knife.

It was Gabriel's own gold earring, torn out of his right ear.

Gabriel had never again insulted Luis The Foot

So The Deputy had talked, head down low, relaxed.

Then Luis talked, his hands moving, lots of movement, like he was telling a joke.  Then Luis turned to his left.  Looked over his left shoulder with that big 'I'm your friend and you're my friend' smile on his face.

And like a bird twisting in flight

Luis turned the other way.

Just a glance of light on the knife in his hand.

And then

The Deputy was holding Luis' knife.

The Deputy's right hand up, like he was saying, "Halt."

And there was the knife in The Deputy's skeleton glove.

Gabriel was not quite sure how it was done.

And now very quickly they were both on their knees, The Deputy still behind Luis and holding Luis' right wrist in both gloved hands and now The Deputy was somehow up over Luis' back in a blur of quick-kicking dust and motion, The Deputy riding very high on Luis' back, and The Deputy spun twice, two complete turns, as fast as hands clapping, still holding Luis' wrist and arm.  The Deputy spun around Luis' wrist and arm like the girls in The Cantina spun around their poles.

Even over The Cantina music Gabriel was sure he heard a liquid pop.

Like a drumstick twisted out of a chicken.

The Deputy had pretty much torn Luis' arm out of his shoulder.

Maybe there was still some skin holding everything together.

Gabriel saw The Deputy was wearing cowboy boots with low heels.

Ropers, they were called.

But The Deputy's ropers had black rubber soles with those small crosses like Gabriel had seen on rich peoples' hiking boots, when he went up to Plano in Dallas to see how the rich people lived, and thought about robbing them and raping their vain blonde whores with the plastic faces and plastic smiles.

Gabriel had never seen cowboy boots with those black crosses.

As The Deputy spun Luis had screamed like a very young girl.

And now The Deputy and Luis were both back on their knees, Luis still screaming, and now finally The Deputy searched and disarmed Luis, the knife like the Argentinean facon removed and laid in the gravel next to the first knife from under Luis' vest, and then the Presidential .38 Super, all carefully laid on the gravel.  Luis was still screaming and The Deputy put his right hand on Luis' neck and slammed Luis' face and head into the door pillar of his truck, directly behind the cab.

Once.

And then again.

Maybe ten seconds had passed.

By now Gabriel was very intrigued.

Gabriel realized he was being mesmerized.

Like a snake, being charmed by the deliberate movements of a flute.

Gabriel knew he should have moved, somebody should have moved.

But everybody was watching.

Stunned.

And disbelieving.

And most of all: curious.

What would The Deputy do next?

Luis had fallen over, as limp as a wet cloth.

The Deputy carefully laid Luis down on the gravel, face up.

Then he reached into the bed of his truck, and removed a horse blanket.  The horse blanket was folded very thick, about the size of a phone book.

The Deputy carefully laid the blanket on the center of Luis' chest.

Then The Deputy swiveled lightly up into the bed of his truck.

The Deputy was very graceful for such a big man.

The whole thing had reminded Gabriel of a rodeo.

Like when the calf-ropers were tossing the calves.

And then twirling their hands around the calves' ankles with rope.

Gabriel wondered if maybe The Deputy was once a rodeo cowboy.

The Deputy was somewhat bow-legged

And then The Deputy jumped off the edge of his truck.

Lifted his knees high to his chest as he jumped.

And stomped both feet into the folded horse blanket as he landed.

Stomped both feet practically into the ground through Luis' chest.

It was a very unusual way to kill a man, Gabriel had thought.

It suggested disgust.

And contempt.

And a very deep and calculating mind.

The way The Deputy had laid Luis out so carefully.

The horse blanket, already folded to the perfect size.

And The Deputy's timing:

His timing was brilliant.

Just fast enough to startle

Just slow enough to enchant

Like a dream.

Or a flawless seduction.

It had seemed like The Deputy was dancing with a willing partner.

Or it was a kind of ceremony, like the Aztecs on their stone pyramids.

Killing with their obsidian knives.

Holding hearts to the sky.

I am killing with great deliberation here, The Deputy was saying.

Because I can kill you, I can kill all of you, all of you who are like this man, this man Luis The Foot-Cutter?  I can kill you whenever I want.  Wherever I want.  However, I want.  Do you see me?  Because I see you.

Gabriel knew that is what that elaborate killing meant.

Then The Deputy reached down for the folded horse blanket.

And tossed it back into the bed of his truck.

And a spark lit to fire in Gabriel's mind:

Maybe The Deputy did not care about witnesses.

But maybe The Deputy cared about evidence: those boots.

Those boots would have engraved Luis forever with those hiking soles.

Engraved Luis with those little crosses, stamped into his chest.

Then the same hand that tossed the horse blanket came back.

With a very large rifle.

Scarred and silvered with use.

A big fat square magazine.

Gabriel had spent two years in the Mexican Army.

Gabriel had been instructed by the Cartel to join the army.

So he could learn about weapons, and learn how to fight.

They had been issued a German gun, the G3, and the Deputy's gun had a magazine exactly the same size.  So, 7.62 NATO, they had been taught.  Very powerful.  A car killer, a truck killer, a penetrator of buildings and people in a row, big holes that went all the way into the future.

But the magazine was not the only thing that interested Gabriel.

There was a small handle, a stub, really, attached to the forend of the Deputy's rifle.  And above the handle and to the left was a light, a dull bronze color, about the size of a 7-ounce Coca-Cola bottle.  And as soon as he brought the rifle out of the truck bed The Deputy switched the light on and swept the crowd of watchers and witnesses.  Gabriel immediately closed his eyes but it was too late.  He had seen such lights before, you could buy small ones at Walmart, about the size of a roll of quarters, but this was the brightest ever, it was like staring into the sun, and Gabriel was blinded even through his closed eyes.

Through his closed eyes Gabriel could feel this shattering light bouncing around him, high, and low, and for a two-second period of darkness in which Gabriel assumed The Deputy had turned all the way around.  Or aimed up. To blind anyone who might have been watching from darkness.  Or from the three windows on the second floor of The Cantina Tejas.

For the first time Gabriel was afraid.

This Deputy was no longer interesting.

This Deputy was terrifying.

Gabriel kept his eyes closed.

He didn't want to see anymore.

He wanted The Deputy to go away.

To disappear like the spirits of the dead.

But closing his eyes did not work at all.

Gabriel could hear a few shouts, a few women screaming.

And footsteps on gravel.

And the sound of something being dragged.

The light got brighter and brighter through his closed eyelids.

And he felt something sharp at his throat, his right eye, his left cheek.

The light dimmed but he could still feel it pulsing to his left.

"Hello Gabriel.  Open your eyes," The Deputy had said.

And Gabriel had opened his eyes.

He considered himself a brave man.

But his guts were boiling, he was clenching himself.

And still he knew he was leaking a thin stream of shit.

When he opened his eyes he saw the tip of The Deputy's rifle.

It had been sharpened somehow.

Tiny sharp triangles.

Like a fish scaling knife.

The Deputy's rifle tapped him over his left eye.

Gabriel's left eye was immediately filled with blood.

Tap, tap, tap, more blood in his eye.

Gabriel could just barely see Luis The Foot below him.

Luis had one eye looking this way, one eye looking that way.

Luis The Foot exhaled a last clotted breath, full of snot and blood.

A jet of blood out of Luis' nose had coated his chest bright crimson.

"Look at me, Gabriel.  Look at me now."

Gabriel had looked.

Seen calm grey eyes.

A wide, weathered face.

A broad, ragged mustache.

A short-brimmed grey Stetson.

The eyes very clear behind glasses with yellow lenses.

Then the Deputy laid his rifle on Luis' bloody chest.

Shifted his gun belt with the big square pistol.

Slid an old tape-wrapped framing hammer from the gun belt.

And a six-inch nail from inside his vest.

And nailed Gabriel's left foot to the porch.

The nail going in just inside Gabriel's little toe.

Exactly where Luis had tattooed The Cantina girls' left feet.

Then the Deputy held up his right hand, showed the palm of his glove.

Gabriel was going numb with terror, but he saw a pattern of fabric.

Glued or stitched somehow into the palm and fingers of the glove.

"Kevlar.  Go home, Gabriel.  Keep the nail," The Deputy said.

And then The Deputy spun away behind the light on his rifle.

The Deputy's truck engine roared to life.

And as he left, his truck would stop, and idle.

Stop, and idle.

Stop, and idle.

Because The Deputy was doing one last thing.

When the patrons of The Cantina Tejas finally made it to their cars and trucks and drove down the access road to the farm road and to their homes, they stared straight ahead.  They did not want to look or talk or think about anything.  They had already seen enough.

And because every fifty feet down the service road.

They had to pass a lit candle.

In the shape of a skull.

Candles of Dia de Muertos.

Lighting a day, and a night, of the dead.

Business at The Cantina was not so good for a while...

~
Leaning back on his porch chair Gabriel could tell his time was over.

He had remembered what he could about The Deputy.

It had only taken a second, or two

The pocket litter had sifted through his fingers.

And now his hands, and his mind, were empty.

Gabriel's last seconds were almost up.

And he knew it.

He knew he should try and move, very soon.

But he was numb with alcohol, and fear, and sorrow.

And he knew it would not make any difference, if he moved.

He could hear Hector thumping and burning to his right.

Gabriel could smell chicharron, the smell of fried pork rinds.

Gabriel had burned people before, and knew this smell.

He could also see the face and hands of Dia de Muertos.

This figure before him, who had just lit Hector on fire, this figure which now swayed gently behind a heavy square pistol, swayed and twitched just like a praying mantis, this figure was wearing the skeleton gloves of Dia de Muertos.  And a mask painted with a perfect skull, the face of Dia de Muertos.

The face of the Day of the Dead.

So this would be Gabriel's day of the dead.

Gabriel studied the skeleton gloves.

And the big square pistol.

Of course, he had seen them before.

When speaking of The Deputy amongst themselves, Gabriel and his friends had just called him "The Deputy."  But everyone had known The Deputy must have been some kind of soldier.  A very good soldier.  In private, many people thought of the Deputy just as, "The Soldier."

And this was exactly the same figure now.

Standing before him.

Maybe a bit shorter, and thinner.

But otherwise almost exactly the same.

The delicate precision of the painted skull mask.

It reminded Hector of the perfectly folded blanket.

That perfect leap into the air.

The Deputy with his knees up high on his chest.

Before he dropped down and stomped Luis The Foot to death.

The skeleton gloves, the poise, even the same heavy square pistol

Gabriel was deeply superstitious and felt he was having a premonition.

Gabriel was quite sure he could only be looking at one person.

That person could only be The Soldier's Son.

So cue up "Thus Spak Zarusthra" from the opening scene of 2001?
But if the cats "left on their own.", who would know? 

GENERAL NOTE: been moving people, animals, stuff.  Almost done. 

--kjwagner much thanks and please post more.  Wish I could draw out the lurkers.  I think this story will
meet your/our collective expectations.  Still the same, but very considerably expanded/polished/justified.

--STJ your update or my update?  Please update promptly!!!

--GreenGiant, cats left on their own, very wicked.  Actually lost one of the cats, chronic kidney disease, and very sad:
perhaps the most personable, courteous, dog like cat I have every known.  Not really a cat person, although find
them tolerable--generally they are like moving art, unsympathetic, selfish.  This cat was quite exceptional.  Rest
in Peace, Sid.

--highstepper, appropriate, funny as hell.  I console myself by hoping that when this story is viewed intact, longer
than "Salem's Lot" or a number of other Stephen King novels, it will satisfy.  Most of it is seen here, but it has been
tuned up considerably over the last year.  We shall see.

And a meaningful 4th to all, and may we never need another.

I never thought of it that way, but absolutely.  As I get older I find myself thinking more about why we have our national holidays and less about what to do with the day off.  I am doing my best to help the little ones understand what the holidays are for, as I think it's important and not taught enough in school.

Hope everyone has a safe and happy 4th.

Yes, Rest in Peace Sid.   I too have known "dogish" cats and they are generally the best kind of cat.  I like all animals generally, often more than I like most people.

"And a meaningful 4th to all, and may we never need another." -- I hope that we do never need another, but I suspect that we will have one sooner rather than later.  And it may not be the righteous side that starts things this time!

GENERAL NOTE:  I think everyone here would not be surprised if I had a pretty good idea who is reading this thread/story/
footnotes.  I have mentioned the word/concept "design" many times, and the meaning of "design" is buried/structured
deeply in the text itself: watches, statues, gates, weapons, actions, planning, books and texts as artifacts, the behavior
and history of Gehr Waffenfabrik, the concept of "practice"--and one cannot practice anything
without a design.  Let's say then, for the purpose of this paragraph, that we are ..... seasoned.  And interested in
non-trivial things.  I hesitate to use the word "mature"--but it would be appropriate. 

This would not be an accident, then.  Me writing this, and who reads it.

Moving quickly now, because this paragraph(s), like any other artifact of thought, and design, could be a book:
there are common severe disadvantages to this level/extent of "seasoning"/maturity. 

I choose one here: Rigidity.

Meaning: what has worked before, will work again.  That history only moves so fast.  That because one
has managed before, one can manage again.  That the future will always be some version of the past.

The 4th, for instance.

I'm getting there...

In the context of the 4th, then.

Just passed, and historical:

Very Very Very Unlikely.

Pay the closest possible attention to the now incessant drumbeat on top down structuring
of EVERYTHING:

A.I., and universal income, for instance.

They know.  They knew when they used Chinese labor as robots.  That was thirty years ago.
They know every time Amazon/Google/Tesla codes up another "productivity increase" ( and
I will be trading with this new tool of The Devil, and I loathe it )...They know when they alter
the meaning of common historical words and phrases and phrasing and rhetoric.

They are ratcheting down very hard and quickly now.

Yes, there is a "Them."

Perhaps someday someone should write a book titled "A Traitor To His Class."

Nuff said at this time.

--DFarm, "about our national holidays"--exactly.  "Taught in school"--maybe they are still learning
to count to five.  Not much else.  It is up to you, then.

--GreenGiant, losing Sid very affecting.  Such a good little dude.  Yes, we like them because at their best
they have all the qualities we wish for in humans, beginning with loyalty.  Losing Sid hit a very non-trivial
woman very hard.  She freely admits her other cats are thugs, and GSD/s are angels in disguise.

--GreenGiant, on the 4th, speaking particularly in response to your post.  The cohesion, technology,
geography, and many other things, no longer exist to replicate "a 4th."  We are already too significantly
compromised, and surrendered.  It this sounds defeatist, please read between/beneath the lines.
There are and will be other solutions to keeping a good library, in Some Pllaces, and For A Very Long
Time.

Captain's log, 17th, July

The year of 20 and 17.

Once again, rations have been exhausted.

I boiled and consumed a good portion of my left boot this evening. Though chewy and tasteless, it proved to be an adequate source of sustenance.

I see the echoing reverberations of distant visions. Heroes killing shitbags wholesale. Evildoers conspiring and failing.

I know these visions are based on some past knowledge.

Its been so long, I'm not entirely sure if these visions are of something real or imagined.

A dragon and a spear?

A gate and fire?

An ancient machine gun singing the song of it's people to a deserving audience?

The second boot is steeping. It will soon be ready. I have some off brand steak sauce and a packet of Burger King butter flavored margarine product I've been saving. Tonight is the night.

There was once a creator in this thread. Has the creator abandoned us?

I sometimes hear the chatter and footsteps of others in this wasteland. I have clear memories of posts speaking of FALs, power hammers, and other really cool shit. I'm pretty sure the posts were real. If so, where are the follow up posts about all of that cool shit?

Presently, the halls are abandoned and forlorn. Could these visions be only hopeful and desperate imaginations?

I pray not.

Off to my dinner and the echoes of faded memories.

End of report.

LOL @pfunk

I was planning some forge work yesterday, but ended up spending HOURS installing a winch I got cheap onto the truck.  

The bolt on front hitch did not bolt on.
After taking it on and off 5 times, I eventually chucked it up in the mill and cut new slots where it needed them.
I did have to hack on the bumper a bit.

Maybe later this week I can get some forge time in.

--PFfunk, left boot, awesome!!!!

--greyguy, yes, awesome!!!!!

GENERAL NOTE: Two worlds: 1. Patient readers waiting four years for a book.  2.  Writer trying to figure out how
to negotiate/manage/steer giant slightly off kilter genre twist in competitive fucked up unbelievably corrupt market
dominated by one giant river in South America.

Readers want/deserve their book.  They will get it.  But writer has ONE CHANCE to figure out how to introduce
multi-thousand hour project/future into....this: "Scammers Breaking The Kindle Store"--

http://www.kboards.com/index.php/topic,253302.0.html?PHPSESSID=0oi9fnks70lbk3m7u2u1886482

This shit is a fucking nightmare. 

It affects everything: title, blurb, layout, pricing, hard copy when and how, blah blah blah, how/if to "promote"--
this/the other forum are literally Holy Lands of purest intention/honor/integrity compared to the cesspool this
story will inhabit very shortly.

GENERAL NOTE:  If anyone wants to know how this/these external issues affect promoting/pricing/the future of
this book/books, just ask.  I will be happy to discuss.  But you have to ask.  But as a topic/concern/discussion,
this continuing nightmare is completely unlike/in opposition to, the general holy vibe of "best story I can do,
for the people I want to write for"--

You have no idea.  Just ffffing unreal bullshit out there, once this thing gets off these forum.  I'm not sure you
want to know.  But I HAVE TO KNOW/UNDERSTAND THIS SHIT.

Ok, rant over.

I am literally proofing/formatting the "title" pages this weekend.  Every chapter has a title page/set-up phrases/relevant
quotes.  These pages "do not format" correctly/visually on a Kindle reader/e-book format.  My tech guru says she has a solution.
But it mean EVERY FFFING PAGE has to be adjusted/html'ed INDIVIDUALLY.  Stuff like that.  Tons of stuff like that.

You have no idea how much I loathe/detest the tool I will have to use to get this book out.  Impossible to describe.
Impossible. Impossible.

--STJ!!!!!  "spent hours putting winch on"--yep and about around last Christmas I was planning on publishing
a best version/good enough version/because this story could/should be about oh 650,000 words ( and published
in 2020 ) but then the big river did some Very Radical changes on how books/pages can be promoted/read/paid,
and I made some changes, which made some other changes, and then some other life shit happened, and then
a Very Important Female Person made some changes, and then I stubbed my toe, and so on and so on--

And.

Ok, title pages, this weekend, THIS BOOK WILL GET DONE/PUBLISHED.

It is freaking 165,000 words.  Longer than Salem's Lot, or Firestarter.  It is not going away, and neither am I.

In for an inch in for a mile. 

--BigDam, much thanks.

--Designated/M, and likewise.

Just FFFF the big river, FFFFing mind blowing.

Truth: EVERYONE likes sausage!

Truth: making sausage is MESSY (and sometimes gross depending on what quality of sausage).

Truth: MOST folks DO NOT want to know how you make it OR what's IN it, they just want to fry and EAT it!

Truth: WE are NOT most folk here and we only like the BEST SAUSAGE!

Now, get the VIF (Very Important Female) to kiss your wittle tosey, give her a big hug of understanding for loosing Sid, put the Big Boy Pants back on (as if you still own any other kind! ), and go TURN THE CRANK on the Big River Sausage-O-Matic!

Definitely, "In for an inch, in for a mile!"

Am I reading this correctly? As news of impending publication?


Also, careful in that big river there are piranha in there...

GreenGiant--very seriously considered using sausage analogy--

greyguy--title pages a last step--I make no promises because of sausage making issues, could write 10,000 words right here--
small sample: this/other forum must be edited word count to satisfy amazon TOS, other forum requires co-ordination with
forum moderators--text checking, blah blah blah.  Additional: just found out very recently that formatter/proofer/SO finds
reading text "extremely disturbing/unpleasant/depressing"--she is a realist, has known me a long time, but still prefers
not to wallow in various unpleasant truths.

GENERAL NOTE: on repeat: one week missed on a deadline/pub date is extremely uncool.  But a week here can blow
by with one phone call where I never see this/any computer.

GENERAL NOTE: publication will be announced ONLY AFTER THIS/OTHER FORUM HAVE BEEN 'EDITED'--THIS WILL BE
PRETTY OBVIOUS.  AND WHEN THE FULL TEXT/TITLE PAGES/COVER HAVE BEEN TESTED ON BIG RIVER'S KINDLE
FORMATTING TEMPLATE.

GENERAL NOTE: in other words, it will be announced as "published" within a two three day window of my actual e-publishing
on the big river.  This will be to allow for big river delays: it can take anywhere from twelve hours to one week for Amazon
to process a "publication" document.

GENERAL NOTE: fairly soon, within "weeks/maybe days" of publication, there will be several more UPDATES here on this/other
forum.  THESE UPDATES WILL NOT STAY UP FOR VERY LONG, for obvious reasons.  And they are nothing but spoilers/pay-offs.
I have been holding off on posting these updates for the last two months while I FFF around with titles, formatting, title fonts,
and general life shit.

Good to hear P-Day is nigh.  Can't wait!  When you do dead free versions, will there be an ARF signing by our esteemed author and compatriot?

mnmiv--good questions, worth another general note, sure this will be repeated as pages go back in time--

GENERAL NOTE: Sausage and sausage-making.  Messy messy business:

1.  Hard Copies.  There HAVE TO BE HARD COPIES of this book at some point.  Theme wise, story wise,
my intent, everybody interest.  These are freaking Librarians, yeah.

So, sausage-making--

2.  When this FFFFing monster is published, I have 2 (Two) hand made hard-copies to make, for members here
who stepped way the FFFF out and beyond--one everybody knows is Piddler.  I already have leather, wood, silver
dollars, some brads/grommets/tacks I made by cutting/filing .45 ACp brass.  These hard-copies will be templates
for something I can MAYBE have made somewhere/commercially.  And sell directly/on Big River/I have no FFFing
idea.

2A.  I have no idea how this stuff will 'cost out' per unit/hour/life.  Like most here, I don't have "a lot" of time.
It is inconceivable that hand-making books is/will be economical.  I can't imagine the template hard copies
not taking 10--20 hours a piece.  Have no idea if custom order bulk hard copies price out/for what/when/how.
BUT THAT WOULD BE MY FIRST CHOICE.  How to "sell"/hand off/sign, I have no idea.  But I would very much
like to do so.

2B.  I will have a lot more to say on this and related issues over time.  Stepping way the fuck out of line: I just read
a "very famous" spy/thriller/violence author for the first time.  Name begins with maybe....a "B".  He is worth, according to Fortune,
about 150 million dollars.  I think he sucks.  I think I fucking crush him as a writer, a mind, whatever.  I had a great
deal of trouble reading the first five pages of twenty year old cliches, ridiculous physics, preposterous stunts, and
paper characters.  it is crystal clear the author has never fucking changed a tire in his life.  So, I think this book should
do "real well"==that has many implications.  BUT GUESS WHAT????? It could totally crash and burn, disappear, fade
to nothing.  Famous Rich Author is also deliberate, methodical, predictable, formulaic in the extreme "he is writing
what the readers want", obviously.  I am not any of those things. In fact, I fucking hate those things with every molecule
of my tire changing body.

2C.  Less rant, more clarity: if I do "well enough" I will custom make hard copies at cost and figure out a way to distribute
to forum members/posters.  Pretty much a karma issue.  Have several steps in mind, and so on.

3. If I have to, I will use Big River Createspace, which is another FFFFing monopolistic clusterfuck of globalist fuck.

4.  I also have to figure out how to price this thing.  There are no/zero equivalents in "post apocalyptic fiction" which is
pretty much owned by 2.99 EMP/zombie serial "novels/novellas" of about 60-80,000 words, that can be borrowed
on KU.  This is about 165k words.  And KU is more FFFing monopolistic deceptvie globalist FFF.

4A.  Price high for dedicated careful thoughtful readers?  ( And burn forum members....) Price low for "everybody"--
and get shitty reviews/ranking from "should I grab the Ar15 with the LaRue microdot thermal spasm locator, or the Ak-47
with the pink cerakote unicorn to kill them zombies out chondah there )  Put in KU for borrows, so I stay visible, get
rich, and help Big River fuck the world....

Sausage.  Anybody wanna make some more sausage?

Nice that your still at it D.C.

When I see this pop up in my feed I'm like sweet, D.C. Is still alive.

--z0e17, totally FFFing alive.  Pissed off.  Good to see you, zoe17.  And your boy will need a paper/dead tree/hard copy someday.

Sorry to hear what you've been dealing with, DCB.

Take a deep breath bro.

--(edit)Former/11b, first world problems.  Oh noooo!!!  My custom porch awning is fading!!!  Oh nooooo...!!!

--the functionally "bad" part, as in metaphysical 'pain'/distress, is dealing with Big River, and associated
implications.  Some concern also doing justice to the readers here/for four years.  Will sort it all out.

--I'm generally accustomed to a considerable amount of irritation.  It has been rumored that if I am
insufficiently irritated, I will seek out further, more expansive forms of irritation.  This might even be
a habit.

I'll take a different tack and say...I am heartened to see someone like DC running loose inside the machine with a claw hammer and logical thoughts.

Giant controlling systems like these DESERVE this treatment as often as sufficiently qualified and pissed off people can manage it.

...and remember to swing through.

This paints an awesome picture. Lol

Great analogy.

--STJ, yes, claw hammer, various acids and bases, adhesives, abrasives, and....fire.  Problem is,
no critical mass.  A bunch of us, right here.  Probably do a pretty good job of "taking care of
ourselves."  But the medium in which we live is thoroughly corrupted, and corrupting.  Down
to the dollars we are forced to use, let alone the Big River, which is just one more dude
with no "off" button.

--DFarm I bet there is a whole shitload of stories here: jobs lost, promotions lost, early retirements,
odd career choices, "get the fuck out of Dodge NOW" type stuff because, um, reasons.  Uh-huh.

"Readers want/deserve their book.  They will get it.  But writer has ONE CHANCE to figure out how to introduce
multi-thousand hour project/future into....this: "Scammers Breaking The Kindle Store"--

http://www.kboards.com/index.php/topic,253302.0.html?PHPSESSID=0oi9fnks70lbk3m7u2u1886482

This shit is a fucking nightmare. "

-DC

The solution seems obvious.

Whatever clickfarming is, do that.

There have been no repercussions to those that have employed this practice, and The Great River is apathetic.

I've heard it said many times by some very real-deal, high speed dudes; if you aren't cheating you aren't trying. They make a good point.

You'll play by the rules the house sets up regardless. Apparently clickfarming is within their rules.

The only difference is, when people read your story because of its rank, they'll get what they paid for. You didn't make the rules, you just have to play by them.

Or don't and let the douchebags win...

Keep on

ETA: If enough people game the system, The River will have to respond. Then you'll be playing on a level field once again.

Seems to be a win/win.

Sic semper.  

Clovis point union.

I prefer the lunatics and madmen among us who see the truth.  Hard to find.  Often hard to court.  But worth the effort.

We assume our efforts are pointless because we only look ahead...we rarely understand and usually cannot see what ripples our wakes cause.

Swing away, DC.  I can't see you dancing, but I can hear your laughter.

I fail to see how pricing high to protect your reviews burns any of us here. We have had access to this story FOR FREE for years now and had the chance to watch as it was formed into what it is now. Don't hurt yourself out of a sense of loyalty to this group or the other forum (wherever that is). Most here want to see you be successful with this venture.

i don't understand the "borrowing" economy on The Big River so I can't comment there but my default position is:  Do what it takes to be able to make this your job. Keep your focus on that...

I agree on the pricing.

Spread the cost over the 4(?) Years it's been on here, and the price won't seem as bad.

DCBourone, I don't know how I missed this story for so long, but I just found it last week and read the entire story and most of the thread in a few evenings. Long hours at work and small kids at home so that's saying something! Count me in for buying the first release, whether Kindle, hardback, or paperback. I am far from a pricing strategist but I have read several thousand books in my life.

Price it at a point that it will make the most money for you, I wish I could tell you what that is. I'm buying the first release if it's $20!
You think very highly of your writing. In nearly every other instance of an author, especially survivor-related, saying this it has been massively false. Your writing feels like the magical "detail that doesn't bore" and depth of plot of a Cornwell. You need to write full time and I hope the readers here can help you.

Also, I'd offer my services as a proofreader if you are interested. I know you don't know the real-world me from Adam but the offer is there. I read in the pages-per-minute realm, but spelling and grammar mistakes as well as technical errors pull me right out of the story. It makes me cringe when I find obvious mistakes in published copies, I find them in books all the time regardless of publisher. This includes authors who have told me they "have a great editor, but no thank you".

Keep writing!

Had to do some chiropracty on the spine.  Sort of frustrating.

Here's the hardware roughed out and one of the bone scales.

Attached File

FFF...I thought that bait would take.

Stimpy - just keep slow trolling that and DCB will HAVE to come up for a bite!

DCB - Illegitimi Non Carborundum.  Keep on Swingin', Writin', and Assaultin' the Innards of the Big River! 

PFunkk has it right, game the system and give Big River indigestion!

That is All.....for now!

GENERAL NOTE: free day today, lots of titles/formatting, crawl a few more inches of this mile.

--STJ--"inside the machine"--will say I got a pretty good look.  "pissed off and qualified"--very, and sort of.  "logical thoughts"
yes, and thank you.  Now, imagine this: T.E. Lawrence used to be required reading for "understanding some parts of the world"--
and also many of his contemporaries--of course today one cannot mention his name.

--DFarm, much thanks and STJ as well--I have a few reading lists I will post somewhere at some point, but anyone who has
made it this far has already read them/or equivalents.  My only addition might be to increase a sense of "scale"--how deep,
how long, how far, how "bad" things might really be/have been.  There are a zillion things I/we/us could point to: just one,
forever in our faces: the multi-decade effort to mainstream women into the infantry.  Infantry.  Obviously: insane.  Who
is behind this effort?  And why?  Easy to find, easy to see.  My point here would be "scale"--this is very expensive, organized,
multi-generational campaign.

--PFfunk, understand fully your point of view, and those in support.  But using some available tools would be a karma negative.
Long long subject, more later.

--STJ--clovis point union--exactly.  Ripples/wakes--if I look out ten years--all I can say is, I have a plan!  ( keep making knives STJ....)
...and so on....

--greguy--GENERAL NOTE: yes 'burn' a bit extreme--but I do have an 'off' button, have a list of needs, extreme by some standards,
modest by others, and don't have the instinct to extract every possible dime from my environment, and certainly not my friends.

--DFarm--on pricing over four years, understood and thank you, but outside this thread/forum---pricing/timing has some very specific
and well studied components/requirements/attributes: for instance, people price/compare within categories: I/we/us will be perfectly
happy to risk 40 dollars a person on a new restaurant, accepting some possibility of disappointment--because a decent restaurant is
assumed to cost minimum 20-40 per person, but risking 4-10 dollars on a new writer/indie writer/ebook is/will be compared to other ebooks,
in this genre, which generally float between 2.99-4.99 and and and FREEEEEEEE, which is KU borrowing, so anything over 4.99/FREEEE
is subconsciously very very risky, and so on.  More on this later.  Sausage making, for those who like sausage.

--Cpn/Ron very good to see you, and much appreciated.  I can only ask you/and others, when published, please post a review, tell
a friend, etc. On proofing, much thanks, major issue is that proofing must be done in conjunction with formatting, on this text
even more than most--page layouts/titling/title headings/quotes are not remotely "normal" for this genre, and many etc./s.

--STJ more knives!!!!  And what is material guard/bolsters?

--STJ what bait? ah....madmen and lunatics?  Or the knife?  Lots of good bait here.

--GreenGiant, assume I have a few more decades of swinging.  And dancing.  And laughing.

Ok, free day today, let's see what I can get done.  Will check this thread regularly.

Still trying to decide how to connect everything.  Pinning the bolsters is simple enough, but then also pinning the scales seems too much pinning.  I think I may hide a partial pin behind the scales and then dovetail the bolsters to hold the ends.

OOOOOOOoooo...had a better idea.  Something I haven't seen done before and solves problems while being simpler.

You'll get a review from me, for sure.

I live with a graphic designer so I can understand formatting issues(though zero experience with laying out books, not claiming expertise!) I figured it didn't hurt to offer, no worries. Your "drafts" in this thread have surprisingly few errors anyway!

--STJ understood on choices knife.  You may/probably have seen this article:

https://truewestmagazine.com/fighting-blades-of-the-frontier/

Pics at end include my favorite color pic of Musso.  Several other knives, from
primitive to Sheffield/Tiffany ornate.  The pinned coffin handles have always appealed.
Quite a few pins, there.  But.  Your knife, your design.  Can't wait.

--Cpn/Ron, much thanks.  Normal formatting most books not so big a deal.  Problem with this book
is "pagination"--way pages 'scroll'--lines designed to 'fit' 'one line' for visual effect/reading 'timing'/
and therefore comprehension--setting off chapter title pages--chapter sub-headings--and relevant
historical quotes.  The quotes may not make it, very sad, much work there, but they do not 'fit'
e-book visually.  A consequence might be, that if all goes well, in a print/dead tree book, I can
make it "look" the way I want, include quotes on chapter heading pages, etc.  Some other issues,
but these are the main.

DCB:
Another author who got his start via Internet forums and has published seven (I believe) books appears to be charging $11.99 per installment of his survivalist story. For the Kindle edition...

His work isn't this good, but he's selling lots of copies.

Decided to move the guard forward to get a bit more handle.

--tigglesworth, have I missed you before?  Thank you for your comment, and more as you see fit.
I pay very close attention to the "sci-fic/post-apocalyptic/prepper" genre these last years, and am
not aware of the author you reference.  If you are comfortable doing so, would you please IM me
the author's name/works?  Stepping lightly: 1.) I respect any effort to compose/publish anything.
2.) Specific comparisons could be seen as overly critical. 3.) I am quite sure I am doing something
"very different/unusual."  Nuff said at this time.  Thank you, TG.

--STJ, are you interested in some file work?  Your overall design is looking like a very fine platform
for this kind of guard/choil treatment plus rustic/functional/frontier....

1.  http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7135/7736711710_4417f9f9dc_z.jpg

2. http://www.swordforum.com/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=50053&stc=1&d=1143587357

3. http://www.svalbardrepublic.org/ebay/notch.jpg

As you wish.

---STJ stepping lightly there I hope, it is your knife.  But length and 'whip' and file and hammer marks
make me think of an 1840's Texas knife and a smith that would have been immersed/surrounded
by the Spanish blades of his era, from swords to poniards.

Not for much longer.  

I hadn't thought of the e-Reader formatting issues with things like quotes, poems, songs, etc. Non-paper devices add text type and sizing, page size, and more to the puzzle. Sounds like a headache!

GENERAL NOTE: The Big River has released version (3) of reading/e-book software.  Watching closely.  Might solve some
problems, might not.

GENERAL NOTE: Everything on track, but slow, obv.

--Cp/Ron, yes, the formatting issue for this book/style/etc. is a giant freaking pain.  Tech guru only intermittently
available, even though she lives here.  Lots of sparks flying when I micromanage over her shoulder.  Funny shit.

--STJ more forging/grinding/shaping/polishing/admiring blade, if you please.

Sure!

Got a little work done today.  Kind of spinning in circles a bit trying to decide how to proceed.   The guard is causing me fits, on the spine side it wants to move even when the bolsters are in place.  So I am going to add the folded piece (not sure what to call it) that the Musso blades always seem to have on their blade spines and use that to hide a piece of weld to have the guard bear against on that side.  This will be steel.

In this pic, you can see the front bolster installed.  I will probably also silver solder those to the guard just to add more strength.  The guard will be rolled forward on the spine and pulled back on the blade side.

You can also see at the back the sketched out rear bolster, which will have a hole for a lanyard.  Halving the width of the front bolsters and moving the rear bolsters back a bit gives much more bone handle, there was not enough of it IMO before.

What isn't shown is the plan I have for attaching the scales so they don't need pins.



Next time I work on it I will clamp, drill, and pin the rear bolsters. Also plan to extend the blade edge back to meet the ricasso and add the cute cut in the choil discussed earlier.

Beveled bolsters and hidden pins on the handle scales, or no pins at all?  This will be interesting to watch either way.

What do you mean about bringing the edge back to the ricasso? It looks like it's there to my very amateur eye.

Thanks for the update!

Looking at it again, I am going to move the ricasso section further forward until I reach the existing blade edge.  It needs more space there anyway or sharpening will be difficult.

I see.  That makes sense.

The way I read it made it sound like you were going the other way. Lol