On Friday, I killed a coworker.

It wasn’t an accident either, it was 100% intentional.

The day prior, he managed to throw me under the proverbial bus in front of the majority of our management crew. I expected better from a teammate, and someone I considered a friend. And a reader of this site…

So I killed him, and what better way than by immortalizing his death in my novel?

Besides, no one will really miss him.


I fired the Winchester over the water trough, as the obsidian tipped arrows rained down around me.  The large .45-70 cartridge did its work, sending the 500 grain lead bullet through an inch thick oak board that made up the siding of the General Store.

The scream was satisfying as the bullet and its wood splintered shrapnel found its mark. Never one to leave an ape alive, I fired again, this time at the bottom of the wall above where the boardwalk met the store. Another hit and the screaming and thrashing stopped.

An arrow flew by too close and I felt the wind part my hair as it thudded into the porch rail behind me. Ducking down lower, I took stock of our increasingly hopeless looking situation.

Our defenses were being overwhelmed, and several wooden buildings and tents had caught fire. The smoke adding to the confusion of gun shots, screams of the wounded, and roars of rage. The sights and sounds of battle was overwhelming to the senses.

Perhaps it was battle rage, or pure foolhardiness, but the blacksmith’s courage was unequaled.

The big man charged out into the middle of Main Street. Clothed in denim overalls and a stained red bandana tied around his neck, with wild black hair plastered across his brow, he clenched his large forging hammer in one massive fist and an old Colt Dragoon revolver in the other. Stopping in the center, with arms spread wide, he screamed in challenge. His face went red, as the veins throbbed, and the scar that stretched from his right eye to temple showed white.

At the end of the street a trike whirled, as its rider tugged on the reins to turn it about. It stomped around to face him, bellowing in protest at the sudden change in direction. The ape raised his stone club above his head and roared before jerking back on the reins.

The trike reared back on its hind legs, its three horns shaking back and forth menacingly before dropping and sprinting forward as the ape swung its club forward. Each heavy stomp of its large feet sending small showers of mud spraying as it picked up speed. Behind the sloped bone shield, the ape stood tall and brave, screaming a battle cry.

Even then, the blacksmith didn’t move. He stood his ground, not giving an inch in fear. Instead he raised the heavy four pound revolver, carefully aligning the sights before beginning to squeeze of shots.

The hand cannon fired, throwing out a massive blast of white gun smoke as flame belched from the barrel.

It was a magnificent shot at an impressive distance.

The .44 caliber ball hit the ape with devastating effect. Splitting its head open like a watermelon, with bits of blood, brain, and bone spraying. Its limp body left a bloody smear along the trikes flank as it tumbled like a rag doll off the side and into the muck that made up the street.

I cheered silently as I pushed myself up from behind the trough and sprinted through the bat wing doors of the saloon. Throwing myself against the window, I smashed the glass out with the butt stock of my rifle, seeking targets and watching the battle of wills unfold before me.

Because it wasn’t over.

The Triceratops didn’t stop.

It didn’t waver, it didn’t turn, it simply charged onward towards the blacksmith.

He fired again, and again, and again. The heavy lead balls pounding the trike about its face, bone shield, and shattering its center horn.

The beast shook its head, bellowing, and charged even faster. You could taste the pure animalistic rage that radiated from the beast. Twice the size of a wagon, it ran towards the blacksmith like an unstoppable freight train.

It was a frightening sight to behold.

The blacksmith, dropped his empty revolver and raised his hammer.

With such bravery facing down against brute force, my hopes began to rise that we would win this battle.

The blacksmith stepped to the side and began to swing his hammer.

The trike shifted its horns and ran him through.

He screamed in mortal agony as the horn penetrated through his belly and out his back. The trike slowed and turned, prancing while jerking his horns back and forth to try and dislodge the man. Even under what must have been immense pain, the blacksmith still held onto his hammer. He swung it, screaming obscenities, over and over against the face of the trike. The solid forged hammer breaking the hide and bone between the top two horns. In desperation it jerked its head back and forth faster, but the blacksmith gripped the horn with his free hand and holding on with what little strength remained.

Screaming in pain and agony, as the blueish white loops of his intestines began to fall and drape over the trikes head, he began to swing frantically as his own death drew near. The thick bone skull shattering and exposing the pulpy brain matter beneath. The trike took a step and staggered to the side. He swung again, and the trike dropped to a knee.

Rearing back to swing again, the trike stopped then toppled over onto its side. Pinning him with the horn into the ground.

The blacksmith dropped his hammer, grasping at his intestines and the horn that filled him, and screamed wretchedly.

I turned away and closed my eyes for a moment, as his screams turned into a gurgle than silence.

There was a battle to be won, and I wasn’t about to let some fragile pansy blacksmith ruin my mood.

Breathing deep, I gripped the heavy rifle tightly.

A hero’s work is never done.


Yes, I RED SHIRTED him in my novel.


Red Shirts are from Star Trek, while all the main characters wear blue/green/yellow. The Crew wears red shirts are always expendable and always die. So when you intentionally add a character in who will die… Red Shirt.

I hammered this out in about 20 minutes, emailed it to him, then cleaned it up a little after I tickled him to death with it. (Fragile Pansy wasn’t the words I used, but it’s similar enough.)

He demanded one of the first copies when it goes to print, and I agreed.

I’ll even draw a stick figure of him dying like in the story, right above my ‘You Suck, Josh!’ message and autograph.

Since I had been meaning to start putting up some excerpts of what I’m working on, what better way than getting sweet fictional revenge.

So yes.

My novel includes, Winchester rifles, Confederates, Colt Peacemakers, Triceratops, Tyrannosaurs, Injuns, Railroad Tycoons, and blood thirsty Apes.

Because if it’s not entertaining, then who cares.


EDIT – So, apparently a coworker of mine actually had a heart attack this weekend. My bad, I didn’t find out til after I posted this.  :/ But he’s alive, and should recover quickly.  My prayers are with you!

(Geez – what horrible timing)


If you like this, if it entertains you, if you thirst for more – feel free to email subscribe to the right of the screen. It sends the posts directly to your email.  No one will have to know you feel the same way as me. You can be discrete. And feel free to share it to your friends and family, and even those of the opposite political persuasion who may be offended. Heck – SIGN THEM UP! (Christmas is coming up – What a gift of joy!) Bwhahahaha…. 🙂


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