The Barrel: The Dirt Chronicles, #1

By August Birch

The Road to Hell is Uncorked

Imagine Holden Caulfield meets Leon—and hold on to your wine glass with both hands

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SHAWN WANTS MORE FROM LIFE THAN DEATH in a tiny cubicle—shoehorned next to the office bathroom, with a boss who wants him gone. A chance encounter with a mysterious woman forces Shawn to make the career choice of his life. What starts as a lucrative job in wine sales tumbles down a dark rabbit hole of world travel, murder, madness, and mayhem.

With his one-eyed partner, Shawn is thrust underground where the typical constraints of laws and money no longer apply. Exotic locations, hazing rituals, and a cast of misfit handlers take Shawn on a twisted journey towards the highest bidder. Will Shawn close the sale before time runs out, or will he fall to the dark side as others did before him?

The Barrel is a gripping thriller that will force you behind the curtain, revealing a gritty underworld invisible to average citizens. With a brilliant blend of dark humor, danger, and suspense, The Barrel will make you late for dinner and miss your bedtime.

Scroll to the top. Order your copy of The Barrel, and start your page-turning joyride today.

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Trigger Warnings:

• Torture
• Dark humor
• Violence
• Abduction
• Adult language

Series notes: The Dirt Chronicles series can be read in any order. They are written as stand-alone novels. Each book follows one of the Seven Deadly Sins, or Seven Virtues. There will be at least fourteen books in all. The Barrel follows the theme of greed.

(378 Pages)

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An Interview with August Birch:

How did you get started? “My journey isn’t a traditional one. I’ve written since I was a kid, but started my writing career with non-fiction and penned over a dozen books under a pseudonym. The world of fiction came later. I wrote more than two million words of non-fiction before I found my calling writing thrillers at age thirty-nine.”

Who are your influences? “My reading is very eclectic. When I was younger I read a lot of the Beats—Jack Kerouac, Allan Ginsburg, William Burroughs, and others. Lee Child, Michael Connelly, Raymond Chandler, and Craig Johnson all had a large influence on my writing style. I also appreciate dirty realism from authors like Charles Bukowski. I’m a real mutt when it comes to reading and I think those influences are a direct reflection in the way I write.”

Where do you get your ideas? “Ahh, the magic question. That’s kind of like asking where do leprechauns hide their gold. I get kernels of ideas from news stories, movies, and television. I write them down, let them percolate in my head, and the book ides usually come when I’m not forcing it—like when I'm walking the dog or taking a shower.”

How would you describe your writing style? “I’d say my style is choppy and conversational. I break a lot of grammar rules in order to paint the best picture I can. I try not to be pretentious with my word choices and I use as little description as possible. I put the reader to work.”

What is your writing process? “I try to write every day. If I don’t write every day I start to lose the thread of the story. I do my best work early in the morning, but I’ll write during the day, whenever I can steal a moment to hit my daily word count. I use a digital recorder while I’m driving.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: August Birch
• Release date: Nov 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386079965

Book preview

Chapter 1

DON'T FORGET THE TEETH, Shawn.

Damn, Silas. Doing my best, here. Not like I'm a dentist, or some amateur veterinarian. Plus, these pliers are rusty as hell.

The smell was deafening.

We were a couple days late getting the guy squared away. Silas and I didn’t like to wait so long, but we had a legitimate excuse for slacking on this one.

In my twenty-six summers alive, this was my strangest job. No lemonade stand, lawn moving, or career counselor could prepare a guy for this. Not that I had a choice.

Silas was a pain in the ass sometimes. But I was in too deep to find a new partner. His attitude was exceptional that day. There's something about stuffing a man’s body in a barrel that brings a couple guys together. Not too different than two buddies suffering busted knuckles over a frozen engine block, digging a ditch, or fly fishing in a wild river.

We worked in concert. By lamplight. The cellar was dark. And damp as hell, but familiar. I swear, if I had an asthma attack while I clamped and wiggled the stiff’s canines—I would’ve walked out right then. No matter how much money they stuffed in my bank account—wasn’t worth it. Everyone has their breaking point. Mine was close.

I felt my chest tighten—like a kid—caught with a hot fistful of M&Ms before dinner. Me and calm weren't friends.

I worked the pliers more. Back and forth. Adult teeth aren't like the ones you lose when you're seven. And shove them under your pillow for a quarter. You have to put your shoulder into grownup teeth. Those eyeteeth are supposed to stay in the sockets eighty years. As you maw through beef jerky, salt water taffy, gum balls, and carnival food. Adult teeth don’t pop out like hot candy corns. Shoulders and elbows were necessary for the dental work.

I should’ve used a better extraction method, but you know what they say about old habits. Amateur dentistry was no exception. I debated a hammer and chisel the next go-around.

This life was not the career I pictured as a kid. I wanted to be a rodeo clown, or the guy who hangs from ropes and washes skyscraper windows. Shit, I hope no kid imagined herself in my situation. Even the rodeo clown option had a longer lifespan.

Even before the pliers—I ruined the best parts of my life. Ass parked in front of a computer monitor—clickety-clacking away at a tiny piece of a smaller part, inside a minuscule project. All of which I’d never see whole.

Mom always said I was born with a keyboard in my mouth. But my last straight-job made it feel like a keyboard up the ass.

That nonsense was my life before the mess. Before Silas. Before the fat guy with the teeth. Before the girl and the toaster. Everything went sideways the day she entered the picture.

The girl was the catalyst, but Silas heaved my life over the cliff. That guy—we went through hell together. But nothing is permanent. Like summer ice cream flopped on the sidewalk—life is all smiles and tantrums.

I took a break, summoned a second wind and worked the damn pliers with some power behind them.

Silas supervised, called me names, and compared my level of usefulness to the night depository end of a rhino. Our banter was the usual stuff. Jabs from a buddy. Silas was OK, you’ll see.

I kept at it with the pliers until the job was finished.

Got all the pearly whites extracted. Not a bad job, either. But it was hell on my shoulder—thing throbbed something awful.

People look so strange without teeth. But protocol is protocol. It was either us or some other dumbasses they’d install to replace us.

I was about as tough as the silent kindergartener who sits in the middle of the rug. Where other kids throw wooden blocks and take pot-shots towards his head. I wasn’t even that kid. That kid’s tough. I was a vanilla pudding cup.

I rubbed my war-wounded shoulder with the opposite hand.

Pansy, said Silas.

He was not wrong, but not helpful.

Silas stood, arms crossed, and did nothing. Well, he did hold the teeth bag, but so could my dead aunt, Sharon. We took the teeth because they told us to. And so there’d be less to identify when it was over. If the day came when the whole mess got uncovered. Our employer wasn’t keen on evidence.

The top of the stupid barrel wouldn't shut. I swear it's never a smooth transition. Always some goddamned, unexpected wrench in the process. First, the dental work—supervised by the peanut gallery. Then, the lid.

Shawn, get useful real quick and sit on this thing, will ya?

The guy in the barrel was fat as hell. A life behind a desk will do that to the noblest of office mites. Believe me, I was one of them—before the international flights, the blood, the money, and the running. But this monster was exceptional. No way his non-regulation body would fit in a regulation barrel.

Most days the lid closed with a satisfying thunk. Old World craftsmanship collided with New World murder. But not that day. I squirmed my skinny ass atop the barrel and did my best to weigh the lid down. I bounced, jumped, and slammed myself. All hundred-forty-five pounds of me. Didn't work.

Silas, it's gonna take both of us.

"It's goddamned amateur hour. Why didn't you think about the size of this beast before we got down here?"

The barrels don’t come in different sizes.

Yeah, but there’s always the saw.

I ignored him.

Silas wasn't a mean guy at his core. I trusted him. He was worked-up, is all. Stress and Silas didn't mix. He couldn’t think straight under pressure—made him crabby.

I did my best to motivate our two man team.

Let's get this done so we can get the hell out of here. We don't get paid until Mr. Walker’s in the bucket.

Always the voice of reason. Shawn, I suggest you shut your hole. If I want your candy-assed opinion I'll reach down your throat and yank it out with a meat hook.

All you have to do is sit. You’re good at it. Something more your speed.

Go to hell.

Just get your ass up here.

Silas hopped-up, next to me. His ego deflated a bit. Silas gave a groan-sigh combo that made the sound of a wheelbarrow full of bricks with a wicked flat tire.

Sam Walker’s extra juice spilled over the edges and onto the stone floor. Soaked my shoes and smelled like a week-old dead guy with no teeth, shoved in a barrel. You get one whiff of that smell and you remember it for life.

I couldn’t wait to move up a rank so we could stop barrel duty for good. The heavy lifting raised hell on my body. But the work made me feel important. Pliers or not.

The barrel quit complaining as the body gave up the fight. Somehow we fit four hundred pounds of shit in a five pound bag. Or however the saying goes.

The lid closed. We dropped the last hoop on the barrel and climbed back on. Silas pounded it shut as we sat, back to back, with corpse-soaked pants and socks. Silas was better with the hammer. My father never let me touch his hardware. Dad told me I was too weak to handle a man’s tools. He made me stand in the corner and hand him stuff. I always grabbed the wrong tool and he’d hit me with it as a lesson.

"I can’t wait ‘till they assign me a new partner. You’re as fun to work with as this guy," said Silas.

He heel-kicked our wooden-cased friend and then slapped his palm against the side, as if proud of the handiwork.

My partner hopped off the barrel and made a beeline for the surface elevator. Silas left as fast as he could and never looked back. Didn’t ask if I needed help. He left me holding the proverbial mop.

I’m positive Silas ran to puke in private. But I didn’t confirm.

I couldn’t hold my puke like Silas could. If I ran into something nasty, my body told me instantly. Right there on my shoes and the floor. No warning. Instant feedback. Open like a valve on the Hoover Dam.

I might not’ve painted Silas in the best light just now. But you want him on your team. Trust me. He’s loyal. And when it comes to a tight spot, Silas has your back. Sure, he makes you work the pliers and swab the mop over the floor, but he’ll watch the door.

Someone had to watch the door.

You'll like Silas when you meet him.

He's an acquired taste. Like the rotten cheese fancy people enjoy with those dry, dishonorable crackers. Silas takes a minute, but he's OK. I wouldn’t invite him to family dinner or anything. I’d leave him in the car. But he’s alright for this kind of thing.

We were kids back then—compared to the masterpieces we created later. Silas was the closest thing I had to a friend—that guy. Before all the crazy shit started and we got into real trouble. The two of us were family. You can’t pick ‘em. You work with the people you get. But Silas was a guy you could trust ‘till the end.

A Quick Pause

I’D LIKE TO GIVE YOU a Reader’s Bundle to enhance your experience with my books. If you visit the link below, I’ll give you a FREE thriller novel, instantly.

Not only will you get my Nine Pines thriller collection (solely available through me), but I’ll also send you five custom thriller bookmarks, and give you access to my reader’s letter—the Sheriff’s Report.

You’ll get the inside scoop on future books, peculiar crime trivia, discounts, a chance to join my inner-circle of beta readers (The Daring Deputies), and more! I promise never to take your time and attention for granted. Now, back to the novel!

-August Birch

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http://www.augustbirch.com/the-barrel/

Chapter 2

I’D LOVE TO START FROM the beginning. You know, where I grew up. Things I ate for lunch. How I restored antique cars. What my old man did for a living and how I was supposed to rebel, evolve, and be different from him.

I’d toss out random vignettes about my mom. Tell you all about the rock collection I kept stashed under my bed. Or that time I won the big game and the town cheered my name as I wore the crown in the homecoming parade.

But that wasn’t me.

Truth is, the beginning isn't much worth telling—waste of paper and ink. So, I’ll keep it short.

What really happened?

I ate cereal in front of cartoons. Every morning and afternoon—until I turned twelve. Then I ate cereal in front of a computer—until the day I met Shannon.

Mom did her best to ignore me unless I needed medical attention. Dad ignored me unless he needed a reason to punch his work stress away. Dad always found a reason.

I squeaked through elementary and middle school—more off the pity of my teachers than any cerebral advantage I had over other kids. I was average as hell and I lived like it.

My life’s story, from birth through high school, would fit on a half-page of notebook paper. Double-spaced. I was a guy born to make others look better. A floater. Kind of guy you go to school with for eighteen years, sit next to daily, and have no idea I existed come graduation.

If you got all reminissy and dug up your high school yearbook, had you run across my picture, you’d do a double-take and give a blank stare. Even my obituary would look like a misprint—if I had finished my old life. They’d copy/paste the same message on my tombstone.

SHAWN WAS BORN. THEN HE DIED.

The middle part of my life would’ve been filler. Those days between the umbilical cord and the oxygen tank. There would’ve been two thousand grilled cheese sandwiches and three thousand Slurpee’s-worth of filler during that time. The rest of my time spent breathing and sleeping. Both of which I didn’t do well, either. I served no purpose for the greater-good. I was a bookend to prop-up those who gave a shit.

Someone's got to be average, so there can be people before and after the bell curve, right?

I was so average I would’ve hopped in a time machine and kicked my own ass. Had I met myself at a party or something. But Old Shawn wouldn’t go to a party. Old Shawn would’ve hung himself in his apartment closet before he hit thirty-five.

But I did have a single exception to my bland-ness. The supernova in my black hole of existence.

The one notable thing I did early in life was the Stevie Black incident. I don't remember much. Three teachers had to pry me off him. I went red. Out of my body. Stevie made some crack about my fashion choices and next thing I was on top of him.

Fourteen years shoved in lockers, tripped in hallways, books tossed, fingers pointed, sabotaged, and laughed-at. The teasing. The violence. The isolation. It all rained down on old Stevie’s face that day.

The boy won the revenge lottery. My engine went from a tiny moped to a Harley V-twin in two seconds. There was nowhere for the pressure to go, but out. I exploded. Poor Stevie almost died. I don’t know if he deserved it or not, but it happened. And I’m not ashamed to say I felt better after the release. Like after you puke when you get body juice on your socks.

Stevie Black gave everyone shit. But the shit he gave me was exceptional. The guy shook people down for lunch money. He stole homework answers, broke into desks with a screwdriver, and smoked cigarettes out the girl’s bathroom window (it was farther from the office). You really didn’t want to be near him in the locker room.

Stevie must’ve caught me on a bad day.

As soon as class was over he spotted me and swooped-in, like fake relatives on a lottery winner. Stevie berated my new yellow pants. He finger-pointed and name-called—gathered quite a crowd too.

Stevie’s reward for insulting my JCPenney wardrobe—I took his eye. The right one. I jumped him in the middle of the goddamned hallway. During the bell between math and history. Hall filled with people and everything. Stevie’s screams and shouts sounded like we were underwater. Hearing gets swirled and distant when you go red. The world shrinks to a pinpoint. You focus on the target. It wasn’t the last time anger got the best of me.

I jumped on old Stevie before he got a chance to insult my shirt. He made it so far to sing a song about the color of my new yellow pants—straight off the clearance rack. I loved those pants.

Stevie sang his little jingle and then it was on. No one bothered to pull me off until my handiwork was complete. Kids leaned against lockers and watched. Some sat on the shoulders of tall kids in the back. If the times were different, there’d be phone video plastered on the six o’clock news.

Stevie and I filled the hall with an audience. They made a nice circle to give us space—or to keep the splatter off their clothes. Stevie was a nice representation of everything wrong with school. I would’ve watched too.

When I hit Stevie I climbed from my soul as if I unzipped a Top Gun flight suit. All my rage went straight to Stevie Black’s face.

I punched Stevie all the way to unrecognizable. After I socked his face to hamburger I held up my fist real slow, flicked-out my thumb like a switchblade, and stuck it in his eye socket. Left a real mess on the lockers and floor. Old Stevie screamed like a newborn. They hauled me away soon after.

I heard the kid was in the hospital three months—wired, screwed, plastered, and casted. There was talk about making him homemade, get well cards, but the teachers let that project fade before it happened. Maybe the teachers cheered for me on the inside.

I almost forgot about that day until now.

I guess talking about it might be therapeutic. To help you understand how I became a monster later. But the rehabilitation ship sailed long ago. I shared the story so you’d think I was tough.

Stevie’s eye didn't help my education or my self-esteem. I got sent to a work camp for terrible kids. Amongst the other misfit toys and cast-offs. The judge could’ve hammered me harder, but I was underage. And maybe he saw hope in me. Or pity. And maybe he knew I did everyone at school a favor. Who knows—I did my time and graduated with a work camp issued GED.

Stevie’s parents didn’t press charges. They were probably secretly disappointed I didn’t kill him. I assume they were pleased I slowed Stevie down, by an eye’s-worth. He was the worst kind of human at school. And that couldn’t help but translate to his table manners at home.

I pictured Stevie’s mom begging him to take out the trash as Stevie slapped her face, stole her wallet, and broke a window with her expensive dress heels.

Or maybe Stevie’s parents kept him in a crate near the furnace. With a bowl of gruel and an empty bucket for the output. Either way, Stevie’s eye was gone and I couldn't put it back. Now Stevie’s probably a rich, malpractice attorney, or the night janitor at a bowling alley. I like to imagine the latter.

Been awhile since I thought about that day. In hindsight, Stevie was the gateway drug to my current vocation. But at fourteen I had no way to know it. Stevie’s eye was years before I met her.

The rest of my story makes the Stevie incident look like a family trip to a petting zoo—with ice cream after. Where, if you behave, your parents get you one of those silver balloons, shaped like a gorilla’s ass or something.

Now I measure my life before and after Shannon—BS and AS. The fateful day I met her in the office cafeteria. She hooked me the moment we spoke. Shannon was perfect. That’s why they planted her.

...all that killing over one hippie bagel and a broken toaster.

Chapter 3

THAT OTHER STUFF WAS my life before the pliers. Before my yellow pants, Stevie’s popped eye, and all the mayhem. The life I would’ve lived until I died. Center of the bell curve. Average as hell. Probably a couple notches below the middle. Had it not been for a bagel, a busted tin toaster, and one captivating woman.

THE PUBLIC BUS WAS late as hell the morning it happened. Damn thing was a crapshoot whether or not I’d get to work on time. I was one write-up away from a pink slip. My job was something the papers called a Golden Handcuffs situation. They paid me enough to eat and sleep without food stamps. In return, I gave them a solid forty minutes of work per eight-hour shift. I didn’t dare look for a different job.

The city bus was a piece of undiscovered art. Dented stainless steel. Diesel soot and worn-out brakes. Rumbling, squeals, graffiti, and rubber. You couldn’t scrub the traffic taste from your tongue with a wire brush. Commute long enough and it left a permanent scar in your mouth.

I got rid of my dad’s old Volvo when I moved to the city. It cost more to park the car at the office than the pennies I earned in a day’s salary. But public transportation was a real pain-in-the-ass alternative

I hung my monthly transportation pass from my neck like a little kid, traveling alone on an airplane his first time. I was the last person on the bus each morning and the last one off at night. The bus stunk of BO, tacos, and coffee breath. Ruffled papers, loud talkers on cell phones, and leaked noise from headphones.

The bus divided my life in ten minute chunks. Ten minutes to down cold coffee and brush my teeth. Ten minute hike to the bus stop. Ten minute wait once I got there. Twenty minute ride to the first transfer. Thirty minute ride to the subway. My schedule was enough to drive a person insane. But I can't blame the bus I'm a sociopath. That part happened naturally.

I stood clenched-fisted, clock-watching, and jaw-chomping as I watched the soot cloud approach my stop. I saw the cloud before the damn bus.

Something rubbed against my