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Writer's pictureMark Sanders

Chapter Nine: Handcuffs

Blogtober 2023

Carl, blood from his scalp running down his face like war paint, turned and punched his assailant three times in the face. The other two from the bar stumbled into the fray, each landing blows upon Carl, which only angered him further. He grabbed a barstool and swung it at their heads, both men ducking down in time.


The bartender brandished a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun and fired off a blast. The fighters froze in place. Murphy, on instinct, started to draw his handgun, but Clarkton stopped his hand.


“That shell was just powder,” Phillips shouted. “The next one’s gonna be birdshot right in your ass!”


“Settle down, Brandon,” Clarkton ordered. “If you shoot one of these assholes, I’m going to have to take you in, and I don’t have time for this nonsense.”


Murphy pushed the three drunks up against the bar and zip-tied their hands behind their backs, as he only had one pair of handcuffs, which he was saving for Carl.


“Cuff him in front and put him in the car,” Clarkton said. “Carl, you be calm, and this will all be fine, you understand?” He handed Carl his handkerchief to wipe the blood off his face.


“Don’t call this in,” he told Murphy. “We don’t need the hassle when there’s bigger fish to fry than these idiots.”


Clarkton turned back to Phillips. “Keep them restrained as long as you like. Shoot them if you want to, but just wait until we leave.” The bartender grinned and nodded.


Photo credit: https://www.vecteezy.com/free-photos; Natalia Lucinschi at Free Stock photos by Vecteezy

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