His legs ached as he cleared each oversized stair, the taste of acid burning the back of his throat. Slowly he climbed the face of the foothill known locally as The Incline.
He fought the steering wheel as the old Pontiac struggled to keep its footing in the dense falling snow . . .
He stamped the snow off his boots, brushed it off the shoulders of his jacket, and hit his Stetson against his thigh, leaving small puddles where the snow hit the warm floor and melted. He looked around the bar and saw the only empty stool next to the guy that had been sitting in the row ahead of him on the bus. He took the seat . . .
Full disclosure was the term they used. Before I moved my family, my life, everything. It’s an easy job really, being sheriff. Quiet most nights. Some drunks, wife abusers, the occasional meth head. And the mutilations. We don’t expect you to solve them or anything, but you need to be aware . . .
Join Les Claypool and Larry LaLonde as they celebrate the release of Primus, Over the Electric Grapevine: Insight into Primus and the World of Les Claypool, the definitive oral history of Primus compiled by journalist and author Greg Prato. On Thursday, September 18th, at 7:00 PM, stop by Tattered Cover (2526 E. Colfax Ave.) in […]
The cop’s fingers were as thick as the sausages he stabbed with the fork and stuffed in his mouth. Probably as greasy, too, Tual thought as he drank coffee in a booth. He watched the cop sitting at the counter . . .
Cow town? Fuck. You could call it that till the crows came home, still didn’t make it true. Maybe once, long before that pissant reporter had even been born. Shit, nowadays, Denver was further from cow town than anyone on the squad was from ever solving this case . . .