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   Chapter 8 No.8

Black Sunrise By Christina Engela Characters: 4972

Updated: 2018-06-30 12:01


A smile came to his lips as he hauled the errant wife-beater from the Jeepo and led him towards the steps. He could just about taste that cold one already. He'd had enough of the hot sun, the dust and the water from his bottle – it tasted like plastic.

The local Sheriff was there to meet him at the counter. She looked up from where she was sitting behind a desk, nodding at him as he nudged the trussed-up and struggling Corrigan towards the gate that led inside.

"So, the famous Ike Corrigan." She said in way of greeting. "Brought in practically hog-tied by the even more renowned Beck the Badfeller. Will wonders never cease?"

"Hi, Peggy-Ann." He greeted, nudging his prisoner over to her. "Nice to see you again too."

She grabbed him by his ropes and passed him over to one of the stout looking deputies who had just been idly flexing his knuckles.

"Mike, pay the man."

The deputy called Mike appeared shortly, thousand credits in hand. Peggy-Ann leaned closer to him over the counter.

"Why do they call you that, anyway? Beck the Badfeller." She asked him coyly. "You can't be all that bad – can't even beat up an escaped wife-beater properly!"

There was a general rumble of appreciative laughter from the deputies. Someone started calling out 'knock-knock' in the background and continued to tell jokes. He knew she was pulling the piss out of him. It was their usual thing. He smiled coyly.

"Well now, Peggy-Ann, if you were to join me for a cold one at th

living with his dad, who was a lumberjack on Gorda, back in the pre-industrial days, when people were still throwing up temporary wooden structures – not unlike parts of Lugaluru when he first arrived here. It happened one day while he was out in the forest with his dad. Dad told him to cut down a specific tree by himself, just the way he'd shown him – and he did. Trouble was, the timing. Er – and the direction he cut it in. The tree, six feet thick and almost a hundred feet high, came crashing down – right on top of the boss's car. His old man was somewhat pissed at him for that – but not as pissed as his Dad's former boss (who was inside it at the time). For a twelve year old kid, it wasn't an easy thing to forget. Or live down. He'd been known as 'the Bad-feller' ever since, even though he never went near a laser felling torch again. So I guess, it meant he was a bad feller – not really a bad person, as it sounded. It just kinda followed him around even after he left home.

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