McCutchen’s Bones

“Ten.” I squeezed the trigger smoothly. His steely look of anger fizzled as lead buried into the meat of his thigh, dropping him unevenly to the hospital floor, his pistol still in his belt. The deafening roar of my .45 flooded the tight confines, gratefully washing away the horrors for several seconds, replacing them with … Read more McCutchen’s Bones: p.13