The Book of Boar: Bounty Hunter

By James Galileo

The Book of Boar: Bounty Hunter is a genre-bending, hard-boiled crime thriller with a wicked satirical edge. It tells the extraordinary tale of William ‘Boar’ Summers, a washed-up-police-detective-turned-fugitive-recovery-agent who sets off in search of a senator’s prodigal son and uncovers a sinister conspiracy which leads him on a breakneck ride across a Mytho-modern American landscape and brings him into conflict with a cast of memorable characters from all walks of life. Along the way, Boar struggles with his many demons including anger, alcoholism and hypocrisy, as he grapples to make headway with the toughest case of his career.

However, his greatest challenge comes in the form of Lily Jane, his eleven year old daughter, the issue of his failed marriage, who is foisted upon him when his ex-wife enters a rehabilitation programme. In spite of himself, Boar discovers that he needs his daughter’s approval, and this dynamic creates a hilarious tension which lends a darkly comic tone to the narrative. As they hurtle along together on this compelling, picaresque odyssey, Lily assumes the role of Boar’s conscience and it soon becomes clear that the true objective of their mission is to salvage a broken family and to help the protagonist to face his mounting personal problems and take control of his life.

In the words of the protagonist and narrator of this volume-
"I have titled this story 'The Book of Boar', and although it may shock and offend some folks, maybe even break the hearts of some others, it will NOT bore you."

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Galileo
• Release date: Jul 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463961438

Book preview

The Book of Boar: Bounty Hunter

Copyright 2019 James Galileo

Published by James Galileo at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1: Beginnings

Chapter 2: Strong Arm of the Law

Chapter 3: A Lucky Break

Chapter 4: A Well-Oiled Team

Chapter 5: A Business/Pleasure Cocktail

Chapter 6: Picking up the Pieces

Chapter 7: Red Herring

Chapter 8: A Minor Diversion

Chapter 9: Tough Love

Chapter 10: Red Alert

Chapter 11: Southern Hospitality

Chapter 12: Sidewinder

Chapter 13: Trials in the Desert

Chapter 14: No Bed of Roses

Chapter 15: A Line Is Crossed

Chapter 16: Game of Chance

Chapter 17: Hot Pursuit

Chapter 18: County Blues

Chapter 19: Lily White

Chapter 20: Boar in a China Shop

Chapter 21: Wheels of Fortune

Chapter 22: Precious Cargo

Chapter 23: Like Father Like Son

Chapter 24: Love in the War Room

Chapter 25: Blood on the Battle Plan

Chapter 26: Ballroom Blitz

Chapter 27: The Infinite Mercy of Cold Steel

Chapter 28: A Changed Man

Epilogue

Prologue

The sun goes down over East Dodge Town, and already commuters are fleeing from their desks, rushing to get back to their homes; their lawns; their neat, well-ordered lives. Meanwhile, my day is just beginning. I step out of the car slowly and stroll past the drive-through hatch, stopping real casual-like under a sign that reads Burger Fast, just in view of the main entrance. I light up another Caravan and catch my reflection in the window: a tall, tattooed drink-of-water with a black, leather jacket and mirror shades to match. Like, not the kind of cat you want to meet down a dark alley, if you catch my drift. I rest one elbow against the glass, like I don’t have a care in the world, and blow smoke, taking long, leisurely drags, but never losing sight of the door. I smoke it to the filter and then drop the butt to the floor, crushing it beneath the heel of my combat boot. Take your time, scumbag, I got all night.

My hand comes to rest upon the extendo which hangs ready at my belt, and I’m reassured by its heft. I have the means to exact justice and I have the mission. I’m on a mission from God. I don’t mean God in a church sense, I’m talking about it in the old sense, the ‘hellfire and brimstone’ sense. The ‘making sinners see the errors of their wicked ways’ sense. If I got to break a few heads to bring people round to my point of view then so be it. But damn, it feels good to be back on the job again.

A minute later the punk saunters out with his value meal in his hands and I know that this is going be easier than I’d hoped. Raul Lopez, 23, a no-good, two-bit dope dealer with a tiny brain stuffed with big ideas about being a gangster. Just the kind of scum that I get sick and tired of running around after. Prick. He stops and fishes a fry from the cardboard carton, bringing it to his leering lips. I spear-tackle him, wrenching the wind from his lungs, and we both crash to the sidewalk in a shower of fries. He makes a grab for the burger but I pin him, giving him a few digs to the stomach for good measure.

Ow, he moans, my food – you jerk!

He starts to struggle, and it turns out he’s a slippery son of a gun, all knees and elbows, so I lock him in a chokehold, my huge forearm across his throat, and I squeeze.

Now, Raul Lopez, I say conversationally, We can talk. You’re under arrest for possession with intent to supply, you broke bail- I’m here to bring you in- your ass is mine. Do you have any questions?

The punk can’t speak because I’ve blocked off his windpipe but he makes a sort of gurgling sound, which I interpret as assent so, ever so slightly, I loosen my grip around his neck.

He coughs, Let go, man, I ain’t no Raul Lopez! You got the wrong guy, mister. I’m his cousin, Tito.

You what? You lying scumbag!

I told you, I ain’t him. I ain’t done nothing… His eyes are white and staring.

If you’re not him- where the hell is he? I thunder back.

There is a brief pause and the kid turns his head to look over my shoulder. I turn with him, following his gaze and there he is - frozen in the doorway, clutching his paper bag emblazoned with the dumb logo of a burger with wheels, Raul Lopez. The bag slips from his hand, and before it even hits the ground, he’s already away, sprinting down the block. I curse, and scramble after him, leaving Tito spluttering on the asphalt.

Why do these punks always have to do things the hard way? He’s fast, but I’m faster, and though he has a head start, I can feel myself gaining on him. Lopez tries dodging through the crowd, pushing people into my path, veering sharply to the side, but I know all the tricks. In an act of desperation, he dashes across the busy road. He gets lucky, somehow emerging intact from the terrible screech of brakes and the clamour of car horns, he scrambles onto the curb and accelerates away. I have no choice but to follow, vaulting over the bonnet of a taxi and dodging between a couple of swerving SUVs. My heart pounding, the yells of the drivers ringing in my ears as I sprint into the park after Lopez. Yup, it’s just another day at the office for William T. Summers.

Ahead, I can see that my quarry is visibly lagging now, his tread uneasy, his energy spent. In spite of the burning in my lungs, I’m still going strong; I dash past a couple of joggers idling along with earphones and effortlessly hurdle a Shih Tzu.

Freeze, Lopez! I holler at him, In the name of the law!

He glances back nervously, but like a fool, he keeps on going. Then, almost immediately, it’s all over. My cry must have attracted the attention of other bystanders, because a young guy on a bike suddenly swerves out in front of Lopez and slams the brakes on. The two of them collide and go tumbling and before the punk can get up, I’m kneeling on his chest and his I’ve got his right arm pinned. He can’t get free, but he keeps squirming and is dumb enough to try to slap me with his left, so I tag him twice in the face and he goes limp.

That’s enough, Lopez. It’s over. I announce coolly.

The cyclist crawls over to me grinning with a foolish kind of awe.

Hey mister, are you a cop? He simpers, Did I do, good? The nerve of these vigilantes!

Leave it to the experts, son. I advise him. Stupid stunts like that are liable to get you killed.

I haul the fugitive to his feet, sensing that the fight has gone out of him. I cuff him and push him on ahead of me. By this time, the cyclist has picked up his bike and is watching us with fascination as we turn to leave. A small crowd has gathered now and there are excited murmurings all around.

But who are you? The cyclist cries urgently.

I push through the crowd with the sullen indifference of a good man, just doing his job and start away down the path. However, I can still sense the anticipation, which hangs upon the air like a bad smell- they won’t be satisfied without a name. I give them one:

Boar, they call me- I’m a Bounty Hunter by trade. Y’all can just head home safe, now, folks. Justice has been served today. In the stunned silence that follows, we make our exit into the sunset.

So begins my story, which I have titled The Book of Boar. I can guaran-damn-tee that though it may shock and offend some folks, maybe even break the hearts of some others, it will NOT bore you.

Chapter One – Beginnings

So, my editor tells me that this is the part where I’m supposed to give you a sad but heart-warming tale of how I had a difficult childhood and a strained relationship with my folks, but ultimately triumphed over adversity to become a world famous Bounty Hunter. Apparently, I’m supposed to give touching descriptions of my family home, my school days and my first baseball game, and how my dad didn’t show up because he was working or some such BS. Well, The Boar don’t roll like that, and if I’m going tell the story of my life, I’m going tell it my way.

I was born tough and just kept getting tougher, ‘cause all my life I did nothing but fight. And I don’t mean fight in the figurative fight-for-your-rights kind of way, I mean fight as in the smack-you-in-the-head-then-keep-stomping-your-punk-ass kind of way. School was never of much interest to me you could say. I learnt my trade out on the streets, out where real life really happens. Not in a dusty classroom where some dude with a diploma thinks he can spoon-feed me theories about how the world ought to be.

Needless to say, I didn’t do well academically. Not because I wasn’t smart, but rather I was too smart, because I could see through all their lies and wouldn’t stand for any crap. I wasn’t interested in playing their silly mind games because I could see right away that they didn’t want me there- they were afraid of me in fact. Even then, I could feel that I was destined for action and to claw my way to the top by guts and determination alone. Good grades would have been worthless to me, so I pretty much did what I liked when I liked and no-one could touch me.

And like I said, there were plenty of fights to keep me occupied along the way. Tall kids, short ones, fat kids, skinny ones, black ones, white ones, I didn’t discriminate: I smashed them all. Hell, I even beat up a few girls in my time, just for kicks. In case you’re searching for some deep-rooted psychological motive for all of this excessive violence in my personal life, allow me to explain- there wasn’t one. I was just good at fighting, and I enjoyed it. I was pretty tall, even back then, and somehow I never seemed to lose.

So that was my childhood in a bombshell- short, sweet and full of beatings. Only I wasn’t the one taking the beatings so there’s no trauma there, and all you therapists can go shove an electrode up your ass if you don’t believe me. I was happy, carefree and bursting with murderous tendencies, just like any other normal kid.

It was later, in adolescence, where things began to take turn for the worse. I continued to break heads and kick butts but it was then that I began to have trouble with the law. I suppose that the police had been aware of me for a while but had dismissed my random acts of aggression as childish horseplay. However, as soon as I turned eighteen, then the cops started pulling me into the station and using words like ‘aggravated assault’ and ‘grievous bodily harm’ whenever I got into scuffle with somebody. It seemed that my little bouts of ass-whupping were now deemed a ‘criminal offence’ and I spent more than one night in a cell over some minor misdemeanour.

Things could have gotten worse still if it had not been for the intervention of a certain Officer Warren Fink who was one of the few people who seemed to understand the flow of my youthful energy. I remember that he took me to the side one day after I’d just laid down a particularly brutal beatdown to a pair of cocky latinos with a tyre iron. I can still recall the piercing wail of the ambulance as it drove the away, and Fink’s weary smile as he shook his head and prepared to lecture me.

Well, well, well, what are we going to do with you, Mr. Summers?

Sir, I’m not sure I understand the question. Am I under arrest?

We’ll get to that in a minute. But I’m not talking about some little difference of opinion you had with those Mexican boys. Try to look at the bigger picture here, for a moment, son. His manner was patient and avuncular, and he looked me dead in the eyes. What do you want to make of your life, son?

I’ve already got a job at the garage, sir. I’m not sure what you mean.

Fink sighed, I mean, if you don’t want to end up behind bars facing that 25 with an L then you gonna need to find yourself some burning cause to put that heart of yours into. You got a lotta heart, kid, and I respect that, but you ain’t got an angle. Right now, you’re striking out at random, trading blows but you ain’t never gonna land a knock out. The system is too strong and the system is gonna kick your ass.

I sized him up: he was big and that nightstick was no toy, but I thought I could probably take him. I decided to humour him. Then what can I do, sir?

Have you ever thought of joining the force, son? We could use a guy like you.

What? I couldn’t be a cop- I hate cops. And I don’t give a damn about the law.

Fink laughed, That’s how I felt too when I was your age, son. But being a cop ain’t just about upholding the law, son, think about it… He smirked. It’s about this badge and this uniform and this gun. And it’s about being on the winning team. It’s about being one of the good guys... Am I getting through to you, son?

I got it all right- it was the old adage- if you can’t beat ‘em join ‘em. Part of me wanted to smash his grinning face but instead I just nodded.

So I want you to go on home now and think about all this. And bright and early tomorrow morning, you go on and report to the local station and tell ‘em old Officer Fink sent you and that you want to join up and we’ll see about getting you your own gun and shiny badge. Now how’s that sound?

I remember walking home that evening feeling distinctly confused, still carrying the bloody tire iron in my fist. Sirens raced past in the haze of the night and as I walked it was as if I could feel the path of my destiny beneath the soles of my feet.

Chapter Two – Strong Arm of the Law

For reasons I can’t explain, I followed Fink’s advice, and the very next day I was shipped out to the Police Academy in New Jack to begin my training as a law enforcement officer. It was all new to me: the whole idea of civic duty, and the policies and procedures that were required to ensure the correct and proper cracking of bad eggs. However, I took to it like a pig in the mud and I was soon sitting at the top of my class, rattling off the phrases like:

"Cease and desist or I will be forced to take action!"

And:

"If you are carrying a concealed weapon, I will take steps to defend myself!"

Of course, when it came to practical exercises, I excelled. Being an exemplary specimen of youthful masculinity, with my wide experience of wrestling and bare-knuckle boxing, naturally I distinguished myself and quickly earned the respect of my peers and my instructors alike. Maybe because of my fierce arch-back stance in the wrestling ring, or perhaps due to my bristly handlebar moustache, they started calling me ‘Boar’ and the name sort of stuck.

You might wonder perhaps at this transformation from the hopeless dunderhead at school to the toast of the academy, but to me it was not so strange. The training classes all made sense to me, there was a clear and definite purpose to all our learning. Whether we were swatting up on some obscure traffic law or arguing over the exact definition of ‘probable cause’, it all amounted to ‘protection’. Like the reinforced Kevlar vest that shields the duty officer from stray hollow point rounds, this ideological bumf would provide me with the armour I needed to fulfil the true business of my job, that is to say, Kicking Ass and Taking Names.

However, by the time