How The West Wasn't Won

By DB Bray and Walt Allen

A Hilarious Story: The Hateful Eight Meets Tombstone

 

Henry "Preacher" Blackwell is an old bounty hunter with gas problems and an addiction to strong whiskey, asparagus, and Mexican hot sauce. After surviving the Lincoln County War, riding with Billy The Kid, he did what he did best....killing outlaws. After the war, he went into business with his tall, ugly (a face only the Devil's asshole couldn't nor wouldn't love) bestfriend Flash. The uncordinated drunk pair venture out in the New Mexico frontier to collect a shitty bounty worth less than their shirts.

 

If only the outlaw they accidentally killed had slid another inch out of the window, they wouldn't be in the bucket of shit they now find themselves in. But "Fish Eyes" Mack is worth five hundred greenbacks, and once they recruit the perfect band of other unruly insane bounty hunters, they know they'll get a rich payday...and hopefully enough greenbacks to drink and get laid.

Chapter 1 Intro:

How The West Wasn't Won

Part 1 of Series: Shouldn't Have Shot That One

DB Bray

&

Walt Allen

IG: @dbbraythewriter

IG: @waltallenvocalgiant

Chapter 1

Henry "Preacher" Blackwell stared over the scope of his winchester rifle and hiccupped. He blinked his only eye several times, spat a stream of tobacco juice from his pursed lips, and leaned back to the scope. He used to be a Baptist preacher before the Civil War, but once he saw the blood spilled, he lost his faith. He never carried a bible anymore….only ammo.

The sand that tickled his white scraggly beard made him sneeze. He held it in and farted. The man beside him, Josiah "Flash" Gordon, wrinkled his nose. "What you eat, Preacher?" he hissed, turning his head with a gag.

"Speragus," Preacher said with a chuckle.

"Why we even out 'ere?" Flash asked in a hush tone.

"You know why, dangnamit," Preacher hurried to say before a tight fart escaped his cheeks again. "Sorry," he muttered.

"Fuck's sake," Flash hissed, attempting to hold in his laughter.

The reason the pair were on a rocky outcrop in New Mexico down by the Mexican border was simple. They were bounty hunters….well bounty hunters in the general sense of the word. They were washed up gunfighters from a bygone age, mostly drunks who hunted down worthless outlaws to make a living, both too old to be cattle rustlers, two decades after the Civil War.

Preacher was the smarter of the pair, but had serious gas issues with his stomach, and his addiction to asparagus and hot sauce. He preferred both at the same time. He stood a few inches over five feet and weighed well over three hundred pounds with deep, sad blue puppy dog eyes. He was bald with grey hair flowing in a long matted ponytail just behind his ears with a slight overbite.

If folks thought Preacher was ugly, his best friend of thirty years, Josiah "Flash" Gordon, a loud Irishman, was even uglier. A look the Devil's asshole couldn't nor wouldn't love. He was a zero on a scale of twenty. He was named Flash because he could procure an alcoholic beverage anywhere he stood. A true alcoholic.

He was bald, his hair falling out in early childhood. He had a few whiskers on top that he combed over with an obsession. He was a worthless drunk with capillaries that looked like rivers of blood running throughout his large nose, crisscrossing at every available intersection.

His teeth had fallen out, some from a solid punch, but most of them with a disastrous drunk fall, usually from escaping a jealous husband from a hotel balcony. If it was one thing God did bless him was an abnormally large cock.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fjord Horse Publishing
• Release date: Feb 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393982760

DB Bray

DB Bray spends his days dreaming of anything that will make other people laugh. He spends his time chain smoking and spending time with his wife Dolores and their dogs, Chin, Juno, and Sushi (Japanese Chins.) You can find him on: IG: @dbbraythewriter Facebook: DB Bray

Book preview

How The West Wasn’t Won

Part 1 of Series: Shouldn’t Have Shot That One

DB Bray

&

Walt Allen

IG: @dbbraythewriter

IG: @waltallenvocalgiant

Chapter 1

HENRY PREACHER BLACKWELL stared over the scope of his Winchester rifle and hiccupped. He blinked his only eye several times, spat a stream of tobacco juice from his pursed lips, and leaned back to the scope. He used to be a Baptist preacher before the Civil War, but once he saw the blood spilled, he lost his faith. He never carried a bible anymore....only ammo.

The sand that tickled his white scraggly beard made him sneeze. He held it in and farted. The man beside him, Josiah Flash Gordon, wrinkled his nose. What you eat, Preacher? he hissed, turning his head with a gag.

Speragus, Preacher said with a chuckle.

Why we even out ‘ere? Flash asked in a hush tone.

You know why, dangnamit, Preacher hurried to say before a tight fart escaped his cheeks again. Sorry, he muttered.

Fuck’s sake, Flash hissed, attempting to hold in his laughter.

The reason the pair were on a rocky outcrop in New Mexico down by the Mexican border was simple. They were bounty hunters....well bounty hunters in the general sense of the word. They were washed up gunfighters from a bygone age, mostly drunks who hunted down worthless outlaws to make a living, both too old to be cattle rustlers, two decades after the Civil War.

Preacher was the smarter of the pair, but had serious gas issues with his stomach, and his addiction to asparagus and hot sauce. He preferred both at the same time. He stood a few inches over five feet and weighed well over three hundred pounds with deep, sad blue puppy dog eyes. He was bald with grey hair flowing in a long matted ponytail just behind his ears with a slight overbite.

If folks thought Preacher was ugly, his best friend of thirty years, Josiah Flash Gordon, a loud Irishman, was even uglier. A look the Devil’s asshole couldn’t nor wouldn’t love. He was a zero on a scale of twenty. He was named Flash because he could procure an alcoholic beverage anywhere he stood. A true alcoholic.

He was bald, his hair falling out in early childhood. He had a few whiskers on top that he combed over with an obsession. He was a worthless drunk with capillaries that looked like rivers of blood running throughout his large nose, crisscrossing at every available intersection.

His teeth had fallen out, some from a solid punch, but most of them with a disastrous drunk fall, usually from escaping a jealous husband from a hotel balcony. If it was one thing God did bless him was an abnormally large cock.

Flash stood nearly seven feet in height and wore mix matched clothes. Today it was a Native American headdress, a stolen woman’s tight pink shirt and a kilt....typical drunk shit.

They were the very worst bounties hunters in the Old West, as it came to be known. The pair and their different bounty hunting companions were why the West was almost never won.

Preacher aimed at the figure on the horse in front of him and leveraged himself up on his elbow. When sober, he was a hell of a sharpshooter, having honed his craft in the Civil War. Today was not that day. He’d been boozing since eight in the morning....it was now four forty-five in the evening.

Preacher belched, his lips flapping a little. Flash groaned, knowing all too well, Preacher couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn in his shape, and took the kill shot. Flash actually shot better when drunk. The bullet flew down range and hit the man square in the back, flinging him from the saddle.

Bullseye, Flash hissed, standing up.

Tarnation, Preacher shouted, reaching for him. Get back her——

Several bullets hit the rocks in front of them. Flash tried to get down. His left foot caught on a rock and he let out a girlish scream and then tumbled back down the rock-strewn hill.

Preacher....help......

Preacher glanced over his shoulder and shrugged. He scanned the house in front of them and noticed a barrel sliding further out the window. Preacher slid his rifle over the rocks and took his shot, just aft of the windowsill. The rifle dropped from the window.

That’s a bullseye. Where are the rest of you sons a bitches, he spat with another stream of tobacco juice.

Preacher leaned to the side and worked the cocking lever the best he could. It was rusted to the core. He managed to reload and slid the barrel over the outcropping again. Several more shots peppered his location. Preacher spat again and watched the last muzzle flashes escape a thatch area on the roof just behind the A frame in front of him.

Got ya now, Preacher hissed.

He aimed, fired, and missed his intended kill zone. The bullet fragment caused the man to rear up. It was all the time Preacher needed. He cocked the gun again with a loud clang and fired again, taking the man off the roof. His arms flew wide as he fell back with a shout.

Preacher waited, and as the sun set behind him, he smiled. All he could hear now was the wind and tumbleweeds blowing across the prairie. After several tense moments, he stood up and snatched both rifles.

He hurried from the outcropping and down the hill behind him to Flash who happened to be without underwear, his kilt mid waist. Preacher approached, laughing out loud. He extended his hand.

Hope you didn’t hurt your ten-foot cock, Preacher managed to gasp.

Flash shook his head and felt his crotch when he stood up. Yeah, that’s fine, but my ass hurts like a bastard. He flipped the kilt