Excerpt: Jack Jump Over the Candlestick

A bullet lances through the roach’s oversized head, insectoid viscera splashing against and soaking into parched earth, irradiated dirt and shriveled flora. He curses, but takes a knife to the joint anyway, separating it at the thorax and tying the damaged goods to the string about his waist, joined with its fellows once more.

Rippling muscles and a strong chin that juts from beneath his almost comically defined jaw-line make his silhouette an unmistakable one, cast down from the entrance of the shantytown from the sun at his back. He strides up to the barkeep, confidence bursting from every fiber of his being, and slams the chain of roach heads down upon the counter.

“This the ten you wanted, chief?”

The bartender cocks an eyebrow as if surprised, but shakes his head and slips the quarry beneath the counter, replacing it with a stack of ammunition.

“Close ‘nuff. Now git outta here. Spookin’ the guests.”

It is the waster’s turn to feign surprise.

“Gone? After all I’ve done for you folks, who would be scared of little old me?”

He punctuates this with a flex of his bare arms, caked in dust and grime, but still glistening with sweat and the light from the sky – his perfect biceps. A gaggle of florid harpies, wrapped in the pretense of shallow lust, gather around him and coo plaintively, stroking the firm musculature beneath his tank top. He smiles his best shit-eating grin and drapes his arms over them as the bartender fumes.

“So… Which one’s your daughter?”

The fist is interrupted by a loud chime and a small, gray box. The image of the hand in flight fades, replaced by a teal Windows desktop, effaced by the all-too-familiar error message that had been crashing Jack’s game for weeks. How was he supposed to conquer the wastes of the North-East at this rate?

“How am I supposed to conquer the wastes of the North-East at this rate?”