Bill, Frank Donnybrook

ISBN 13: 9780434021536


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9780434021536: Donnybrook
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The raw and as-insane-as-anticipated first novel from Frank Bill, author of Crimes in Southern Indiana

The Donnybrook is a three-day bare-knuckle tournament held on a thousand-acre plot out in the sticks of southern Indiana. Twenty fighters. One wire-fence ring. Fight until only one man is left standing while a rowdy festival of onlookers—drunk and high on whatever’s on offer—bet on the fighters.
     Jarhead is a desperate man who’d do just about anything to feed his children. He’s also the toughest fighter in southeastern Kentucky, and he’s convinced that his ticket to a better life is one last fight with a cash prize so big it’ll solve all his problems.
     Meanwhile, there’s Chainsaw Angus—an undefeated master fighter who isn’t too keen on getting his face punched anymore, so he and his sister, Liz, have started cooking meth. And they get in deep. So deep that Liz wants it all for herself, and she might just be ready to kill her brother for it. One more showdown to take place at the Donnybrook.
     As we travel through the backwoods to get to the Donnybrook, we meet a cast of nasty, ruined characters driven to all sorts of evil, all in the name of getting their fix—drugs, violence, sex, money, honor. Donnybrook is exactly the fearless, explosive, amphetamine-fueled journey you’d expect from Frank Bill’s first novel . . . and then some.

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About the Author:

Frank Bill is the author of the story collection Crimes in Southern Indiana, one of GQ’s favorite books of 2011 and a Daily Beast best debut of 2011. He lives and writes in southern Indiana. Donnybrook is his first novel.

Excerpt. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

I can’t feed my babies, Zeek and Caleb, from jail, Jarhead Earl thought. But this was his chance to give them a better life.
He thumbed two more 12-gauge slugs into the shotgun’s chamber.
The click of the first slug had echoed in Dote Conrad’s ears after he’d handed the 12-gauge automatic with a full choke to Jarhead.
The barrel raised, Jarhead said, “Put your hands high. Turn to me, slow.”
Dote could’ve grabbed any one of the rifles or shotguns that lined the wall in front of him behind the counter of his gun shop. But none were loaded.
He raised his hairy appendages. Spread them like a football field’s goalposts. Hands level with his ears poking out of his brown trucker’s cap, faded rebel flag across the front. He wore a gray T-shirt. Red suspenders going down over his keg belly. Brass clips pinched the waistband of his camo pants. Said, “We got layaway if you can’t buy it today. Deer season’s still a ways off.”
Jarhead said, “I ain’t buying shit. You walk to the end of the counter. I’ll follow you to the safe in back. ’Less you got enough in the register.”
Everyone in Hazard knew Dote only deposited his sales once a month. Kept a safe and register packed with big bills. Had never kept a loaded pistol behind the counter for personal protection. There was never a need to worry about being robbed in a small-town gun shop out in the hills of southeastern Kentucky where, after first grade, everyone knew who they’d marry and have kids with.
Dote tried, “Know times is tough. People out of work with the economy bein’ in a slump. Hear the state be hiring for the road crews real soon. Whatever it is you don’t have ain’t gonna be got by doin’ whatever it is you plan on doin’ with that shotgun.”
Zeek and Caleb’s grit-smeared faces branded Jarhead’s mind with their whining—I’s hungry, Dada. He didn’t have time for Dote’s recommendations. “Let’s see what you got in the register first.”
“Jarhead, I can’t—”
Jarhead veered the barrel two feet away from Dote. Blew a hole in the wall. The shell hit the counter. Another fell into place. Dote’s ears rang as he reached for the gun barrel. Jarhead pushed into the counter. Butted the hot barrel through Dote’s hands. Stabbed it into Dote’s coral nose like a spear. Cartilage popped. Dote hollered, “Shit!” Tears fell from his blinking eyes.
Jarhead said, “I ain’t asking.”
Dote bent away from the barrel. His camo pants went dark in the crotch. Loose skin hanging from his arms wavered. Sweat creased the age spots of his forehead. He felt weak and idiotic, knowing that if he had a gun, he’d shoot this thieving bastard. He waddled to the register, cursing to himself, who’d have thought he’d bring his own goddamned ammo. Punching a few buttons, he opened it with one hand while the other pinched his nose. Pulled a wad of twenties from the tray. Then a wad of tens and fives. Laid them on the glass counter.
Jarhead ordered, “Count it so I can hear you.”
When Dote counted out one thousand dollars, Jarhead shouted, “Stop!”
Half a stack of twenties remained. Dote spoke through his clogged nose. “You don’t want it all?”
“Don’t need it all.” Held the shotgun one-handed. Reached into his back pocket. Laid a plastic Walmart sack on the counter. “Put the one thousand in the sack.”
Dote stuffed the money into the sack. Blood from his busted nose dotted the bills he pushed to Jarhead, who grabbed the sack, said, “Lace your fingers behind your head. Back up. Turn around. Go into the back room.”
The thought of never seeing his wife, who ate fried chicken livers breaded with her mother’s secret recipe and watched the Home Shopping Network on satellite while he ran the gun shop, sent a shock of worry through Dote’s body. And he pleaded, “Come on now, wait!”
Jarhead motioned the gun barrel. “Turn around!” Dote did. Walked sideways to the counter’s end, where Jarhead met the rear of his head. Pressed the barrel into it. Walked Dote through the curtain into the back room, where boxes of ammunition were stacked among crates of unopened rifles. Here was the fucking ammo he needed and Jarhead told him, “Get on your knees.”
Dote’s face warmed with tears. Clear mucus mixed with blood.
“Please!” he begged. “Please!”
His knees cracked down onto the cold, hard concrete floor. Jarhead followed him with the still-warm barrel of the gun. Touched the rear of Dote’s skull. Then Dote fell forward from the loud shudder that rippled through his body.
*   *   *
The man’s flesh was charcoaled jelly. Flat dragged him from the house screaming, dropped him into the yard where he now lay with his arms spread like a deity next to a rusted tricycle. Swing set with no slide, no swings. Memories long abandoned. Smoke erupted from the flames behind them. Yellow and orange opened the night and devoured the old house.
Flat spoke. “Got to take him to an ER.”
Angus cut his words. “ER will call the authorities. Two of you should’ve knowed better.”
Liz and Angus had left Beatle and Flat to watch a batch of meth cook while they met the second shift going, the third shift coming on, at the local auto parts factory. It’d be shutting its doors in six months because of a dying economy—men and women who skipped groceries, car payments, and rent. Passed eight-hour shifts jonesing for an escape, their next dopamine rush.
The pinch-faced blisters with cooking-grease scalps, eyes punched into skulls like recessed lights, approached Angus’s goose-shit green Pinto. Passed their wrinkled wages through the rolled-down window of his car. Angus sat like a shadow while Liz took the cash, obliged the workers with a gram of marrow-clenched godliness, wiring up each buyer with the feeling of macho-supremacy.
It was how Angus had lived since the accident, and the surgery that had jumbled one side of his face into flesh puzzle pieces that no longer fit.
Angus and Liz returned to the farmhouse. Found Flat out in the yard yammering that he and Beatle had crashed hard after too many days of tweaking. Left the lithium strips pulled from batteries boiling with Coleman fuel. Before Flat could rattle Beatle awake, the fuel overheated. Off-gassed. Ignited Beatle. Next thing he knew he was pulling the poor bastard to the yard.
Now, Beatle lay digging at his oily burn and knifing their eardrums with, “Help me! Please! Help!”
Liz questioned, “So what we gonna do with him then?”
Angus ran a hand into his bibs. Removed a tool for killing.
“The shit you doing?” Flat demanded.
“Putting your mutt brother out of his misery.”
Beatle’s begging moistened and bounced from the soil. Angus turned the pistol to Beatle’s singed hair and words found silence.
Flat stutter-stepped. Said, “Motherfuck—”
Angus raised the .45 to Flat’s ash-smudged face. Pulled the trigger. Red parted white. Flat lost his shape, fell to the earth.
Liz turned away. Shook her head of chocolate-vanilla-swirled dreads. Fought tears and rattled, “Now ... what?”
Angus slid the warm piece of protection back into his pocket. Said, “We gotta get before the county boys show up. Finger us into a long jail sentence. Go find another abandoned house to squat. Go get with your pill man. We gotta start over ’fore there’s no jobs left down here, ’fore people’s money runs out.”
*   *   *
The shotgun blast had rattled the old man from his sleep that morning. The face on the receiving end had been unclear. The person who’d held the gun was the same one he’d been dreaming about for some time now. A sturdy male that laid miles to back road stone, jogging in the evening sun. Then he’d chiseled a beating into a stuffed military bag strung from a tree or peppered another human’s build with his fists, knees, and elbows to a host of splinter-faced men sloshing booze and laying down the wagers for a winner. He was a fighter associated with the nickname Jarhead Earl.
There’d been days when he’d dreamt of sunken faces with growling bellies. Two infant boys and a female. The woman had been pained by her family. She’d thumbed a lid from a bottle. Shook pills into her palm, chewed them like Chiclets. The kids had sat in a yard of soil patched by dead grass. They played on a makeshift swing-set with a bad case of rust that had come on like acne. But when the fighter came to them, they kindled warm, as if nothing else mattered.
It was now well after dark, Purcell twisted the cap from the bottle of Kessler, poured it into his coffee mug devoid of coffee. Placing the images that he knew were pieces of a puzzle together in his mind, just as he’d been doing for months. He lit a Marlboro, knowing there was a shit-storm forming and he’d be right in the middle of it, but he didn’t know how, he was still waiting on that to take shape.
*   *   *
Flies nested and gnats hummed around the dark odor that floated from the bodies lying in the late-night humidity. Flames had taken the house’s walls and roof, replaced them with a carbon structure.
Deputy Sheriff Ross Whalen stood patting a frayed blue hanky to his forehead with one hand, honing his Maglite with the other. Thinking how the town had thrived on the factory that produced profits from car and truck parts for Ford and GM but bred addiction in the laborers who found blurs in time from smoking, shooting, or snorting man-made dopamine. What would ...

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