Scrivener for Windows Launches Next Week

For years, I’ve hung out in writing forums and endured the ridicule of MacApple authors, belittling me for using Microsoft Word to write fiction. They bragged on the speed and efficiency of focusing on plotting and characterization without the software slowing them down. They used Scrivener, software for writers only, and at the time, the product ran on Apple’s only. No Windows version.

For years, I’ve tried to get what they have. I’ve bought or installed trials for over fifty programs designed for writers, including a number of add-ons for Microsoft Word and Open Office, but with every set of features came annoying quirks, and none delivered the efficiency described by users of Scrivener.

That all changed last year, when I started beta testing the first-ever Scrivener for Windows.

I was afraid, at first. What if Scrivener for Windows wasn’t as good as the Mac version? Or what if it was? What if Scrivener didn’t live up to the hype? What if I’d wasted precious time searching for the perfect tool, when I could have been writing?

Like I said, that was a year ago. I am not afraid any more. My search is over, and I am glad I made the effort. Scrivener for Windows is the best writing software ever deployed on a PC. I can use it to organize my thoughts the way I think, and that’s no easy task, because—as you know—sometimes I’m really way out there.

I really love this product! I can use Scrivener for writing fiction and non-fiction, short-stories or novels. Nothing gets in the way, and I never have to switch programs to get my work done. Check out Scrivener for Windows. You’ll thank me a thousand times over. In fact, if you take my advice I want a cut of your next book sale, because with Scrivener you’ll finish it faster than you ever thought possible.

You’ll kill for my Sin City Omelet

This will seem odd to you. I’m not gonna talk about writing, and I’m not gonna give you an excerpt from some crime epic. Nope, I’m gonna tell you how to make an easy omelet you’re gonna love. I call it my Sin City Omelet, an omelet for men who like omelets—not that the ladies won’t like it too. It’s what we call in Louisiana a slap-your-momma omelet. Taste it, and you’ll be pissed your momma made you eat her nasty cooking.

For the record, all men from Louisiana cook. They may not all admit it, but they cook. Good or bad, they cook. In between wives, I actually learned to cook pretty well. Now, I’m happily married to my high school sweetheart. She won’t let me cook on any day that’s not a holiday, but this morning, she went shopping, and I dug out the skillet.

This dish feeds 2 on a date (or one real man by himself). The trick is to pour in the eggs and not touch them. Just pour them in, and cover on a very low flame.

Let’s do this.

Find a 12" non-stick pan, but if yours has lost its non-stick abilities, spray it with some of that non-stick fake butter stuff your wife buys or gob in a teaspoon of real butter, let it melt, and smear the pan with it. Find a cover that is sort of flat to keep the heat closer to the food. Use a heavy plate if you can’t find a lid. Look around. Your wife’s likely got some good china that’ll work just fine.

With a fork, whip up 6 eggs with about 1 1/2 tablespoons of water in a bowl—or a beer stein, that’s what I used. Add salt, cayenne pepper, and a shot of Pinot Noir. This will turn the eggs gray like a good black and white movie.

Crumble 8 ounces of Monterey Jack cheese and put that to the side. Incidentally, if you freeze the cheese first and then defrost, it will crumble faster. (My grandmaw taught me that.)

Anyway, heat your pan on a VERY low flame and pour in the eggs. Cover and don’t open for 5 minutes. When the eggs look done (not runny) spread on the cheese and some very thin onion slices. Cover again, and turn off the heat. Drop the toast and by the time it's buttered you can douse those black and white eggs with some blood-red, spicy salsa (or ketchup if you’re in Louisiana) then fold the omelet in half to hide the melted insides.

Your gonna love this. When you serve it, the egg layers are only 1/4" thick, perfect consistency, and a killer taste.

How does a hotel guest dispose of a corpse?

Finishing the third week of Killamazoo, Vivi and Maude are nursing their wounds, while John’s still trying to get rid of a corpse.

Here’s this week’s recap…

Chapter Three

John Burrows crept through a side door and hopped into the elevator before anyone saw his sack of lime or his Wal-Mart bag. He'd spent the morning twice reading the paper and wandering about town. Finding nothing, no clues to the woman's identity or his own.

On the fifth floor, he stuck his head out into the hallway. Empty. Outside, he moved, stepping fast, but silent. One corner and he'd be at his room. As he made the turn, another elevator opened behind him, and the worst smell ever seeped under his door.

He opened the door, jumped inside, holding his breath, and locking the door behind him. A much stronger odor than expected, but he'd prepared. He pulled one of three Lysol cans from the Wal-Mart bag and began to spray.

Next, he removed a full-length laundry bag, unzipped it, and stretched it out beside the corpse. With a key, he slit open the plastic sack and poured lime into the laundry bag. After dousing the body with more lime, he rolled it into the plastic bag. After adding more lime to her backside, he zipped her up in the bag, and then someone knocked on his door.

"Yes?" John Burrows said at the door. He opened it six-inches, till the latch caught. "What's the problem, sir?”

"Housekeeping says your room hasn't been cleaned in a few days, and we've gotten reports of a foul odor coming from inside."

"Sorry, sir. This is embarrassing. I've got some sort of stomach virus. That's why I asked the cleaning lady to stay away..." John forced a gag from his throat. "...and like I said, stomach. I'm afraid that smell is from my bathroom..." He gagged again. Louder. "Sorry, I got some meds from the doc today and should be back to normal in no time. But thank you for your concern."

"Well, okay, Mr. Burrows," the officer said with his hand over his mouth, "Call the front desk if there's anything we can do."

John closed the door, put his back against it, and slid down to the floor. "How the hell am I gonna get rid of this body?"

Later, he slid open the glass doors to the balcony, cranked up the AC, and sprayed the room with Lysol for the third time. After an hour, the lime tamed the odor, but John felt exhausted. He set the alarm for 3AM and fell asleep beside the corpse.

At 3AM, he woke, pulled a miniature crowbar from his Wal-Mart bag, and walked to the elevator. Inside, he looked over the buttons and clicked the three, the number with the mop bucket sticker next to it. He hoped there was no overnight house-keeping staff, but he wouldn't know till he broke into their office.

Two flights down, he slid the mini crowbar between the door and facing, but before he shoved, he heard voices inside. Dropping the bar into his back pocket, he turned the knob, opened the door, and saw Maude and Vivi trying to open a first aid kit. "Excuse me, Ladies," he said, "Maybe, I can help."

"Ah crap. You scared the shit out of me, you freak," Vivi said.

"What do you want, Burrows?" Maude added, "Not more freaking towels?"

Killamazoo introduces the Derby Darlings

Finishing the second week of Killamazoo, some readers have met Maude and Vivi of the Killamazoo Derby Darlings.

Here’s a recap of the week…

Chapter Two

Maude Cradles shoved her cleaning cart from the elevator, dropping ashes from her cigarette then sweeping them into a crack.

"They need you up front," Vivi said, rolling up, "Some Yooper took a dive. You got blood and slobber with your name on it."

"What's broken on you?"

"I got laundry, remember?" Then Vivi pranced her scrawny little ass onto the elevator. "See you at the Snake Drill."

 

Vivi Smyte thought whomever came up with 'zig when you should have zagged' must have played in a roller derby. And most likely, they played on a team with Maude. Arm's length, always enough space for two Vivi's to weave in and out of the line, but not for Maude. She never weaved without slamming the women on both sides of her. "Watch it, Witch. Give me room," she’d say, like it was someone else’s fault she had the finesse of a bulldozer.

What’s worse, inevitably, Vivi would drive her home, because she’d break something in a fight. Ridiculous, since Snake Drills were with her own team.

This night was no different. "Another rib, Maude? Maybe you need one of those Kevlar vests, like swat teams wear."

"I ain’t gotta be bullet-proof to stop bimbo elbows. You giving me a ride or what?” Maude tossed her keys in the air. Vivi let them hit the floor. “Stop at Metro. I need a beer."

"Alright, Maude, but I'm warning you, this time, keep your hands to your self, or I take your bike and you walk home."

 

"Look at you, you gotta go to the hospital this time." Vivi held the stool, while Maude climbed up and ordered two Bad Frogs.

Before Vivi could sit, a red-headed gorilla of a woman came out of a dark corner. "Suck my left nipple," she said,  "If it ain't the Killamazoo Derby Darlings."

"C'mon, Tess, why can't you stay in Detroit?" Vivi said. "Maude's hurt, last thing we need is trouble with you Devil Dolls."

"Aw, my heart goes out to you." On the last syllable, Tess jerked at the leg of Maude's barstool, knocking her to the floor.

From the floor, Maude heard Tess scream, then saw Vivi, her teeth sunk into Tess’ throat vampire style. Vivi raised her head and grinned with blood dripping from her mouth.

Tess clamped monster hands around Vivi’s throat. Maude slapped her face with the barstool, then collapsed on top of it.

"No napping," Vivi said, "Let's get the hell out of here."

Before they reached Maude's Harley, Tess barreled out of the door, sliding to a stop, four-feet away from Maude and Vivi. "You ain't going nowhere, you freaking sluts."

With Maude slumped over the handle bars, Vivi stomped the starter behind her, then hit the gas, pushing the bike down the sidewalk and knocking Tess over a bout official onto a parked car.

When the Harley bounced to the street, Maude raised up. "What the..."

A white-haired man with a sack on his back stepped in front of them.

"Shit." Vivi jerked the handlebar, fish-tailing the bike, but missing the pedestrian. "That was that freak, Burrows."

"No shit? I thought it was Santa Claus."

Ready to join the fun? As before, send me messages or leave comments through Twitter or Facebook. Tell me what you’d like to see our characters do next, where you want them to go, and what you want them to do. Together, we’ll have one hell of an adventure, and when it’s all over, I’ll publish the novelette on Amazon and give everyone who helped a complimentary copy.

Here’s the plot we’re working with this time…

The year is 1987. A man wakes up in a hotel. He has no idea who or where he is. He soon learns he’s at the Hotel Elmore in Kalamazoo, Michigan and his name is John Burrows. The woman in his bed is gorgeous, but dead. John’s got a gun in his hand, and someone’s knocking at his door—Oh, and if that’s not wild enough for you, except for his white hair and beard, our hero looks identical to a guy who died ten years earlier, a guy named Elvis Presley.

Killamazoo poses many questions

As the first week of Killamazoo comes to a close, some readers are scratching their heads. This is a very different kind of tale, but I promise, it’ll be just as zany as Pay Dirt and just as thrilling as Early Departure, especially since you’re helping me write the story.

Here’s what we’ve got so far…

Chapter One

He woke staring at a mirror above the bed and at the .44 Magnum in his hand.

The white in his hair and beard looked pure, compared to the bluish white face of the beauty lying beside him. With three fingers, he touched her cheek, then jumped sideways off the bed.

On his knees, he fumbled for the phone, then punched the numbers 911.

"Housekeeping."

"Huh? No. Miss, I need an ambulance."

"Mr. Burrows, is that you? You can't dial 911 direct. This is Vivi, extension 91. Say, you need towels?"

"No-mam, I don't think so. Listen, what did you say my name was?"

"Last time I checked, your name was John. You OK, Mr. Burrows? What kind of emergency you having?" He glanced at the corpse on the bed, then down at the gun he'd dropped on the floor. "Mr. Burrows, are you there?"

"Yes-mam, sorry. I just woke up, a bad dream, that's all."

"No worries. Hey, call back if you need those towels."

"Sure thing, I will. Thank you very much."

He picked up the gun and stood, looking down at the body on the bed. "Where the hell are our clothes?"

Then someone knocked at the door.

"Housekeeping."

"Say what?" He opened the door six-inches before it hung on the safety latch. With his physique out of sight, he peered through the gap. "I told you, Lady, I don't need any towels."

"You’re tripping, Burrows. I just got here." The woman filled the area between door and jam, top to bottom. "Open up, I gotta clean your room."

He looked back at the corpse on the bed. "This is kind of a bad time. How long before checkout?"

"Six months at the Elmore and you checking out now, yea right. See you tomorrow." She shoved two towels through the crack and closed the door.

John Burrows picked the towels up from the floor and looked back at the bed, wondering how long it would be before the corpse started to smell.

In the bathroom, he stepped over a lace bra and a blue silk dress to stack the towels with four others, each towel the same, gold, monogrammed with the letter E.

On the counter, he found a rabbit's foot key ring holding three keys, next to a money clip keeping a folded stack of bills and a driver's license. He didn't know the face on the license, but he didn't know the face in the mirror either. The face in the photo had a beard, but brown not white. Holding the license closer to his eyes, the smoother face looked familiar, but still wasn’t a face he remembered as his own.

Donning jeans from the floor, he pocketed the clip and keys, then found a Wolverines sweatshirt and shoes in the closet. Dressed, he hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob and looked for the stairs.

If he could find a hardware store, lime would mask the smell of the dead woman, at least until he’d discovered who she was and whether he killed her. How did he know about lime? Hopefully, from working on a farm, or better, from some book or movie.

Down four flights of stairs, he stepped into a crowded lobby and found a woman standing with two men, but staring at him. He grinned and nodded, but she didn’t smile. Instead, she trembled, then collapsed on the floor, her face white.

Not another one.

“We need help over here,” one of her companions yelled, as the other worked to revive her.

When the crowd surrounded the woman, John grabbed a Kalamazoo Gazette from the front desk and checked the date, August 17, 1987. He began reading the lead story, about a child surviving a plane crash, then the woman gasped and someone in the crowd applauded. The woman sat and began to speak, rapidly, saying something about Elvis Presley, then John Burrows left the building.

Ready to join the fun? As before, send me messages or leave comments through Twitter or Facebook. Tell me what you’d like to see our characters do next, where you want them to go, and what you want them to do. Together, we’ll have one hell of an adventure, and when it’s all over, I’ll publish the novelette on Amazon and give everyone who helped a complimentary copy.

Here’s the plot we’re working with this time…

The year is 1987. A man wakes up in a hotel. He has no idea who or where he is. He soon learns he’s at the Hotel Elmore in Kalamazoo, Michigan and his name is John Burrows. The woman in his bed is gorgeous, but dead. John’s got a gun in his hand, and someone’s knocking at his door—Oh, and if that’s not wild enough for you, except for his white hair and beard, our hero looks identical to a guy who died ten years earlier, a guy named Elvis Presley.

Killamazoo Novelette Begins Tomorrow

After the success of the Twitter and Facebook novelettes, Early Departure and Pay Dirt, I’ve decided to keep the fun going. Beginning tomorrow, I’ll start a new story that you can help me write. I have a basic plot and some oddball characters, but no ending. The story can take us anywhere we want to go.

As before, send me messages or leave comments. Tell me what you’d like to see our characters do next, where you want them to go, and what you want them to do. Together, we’ll have one hell of an adventure, and when it’s all over, I’ll publish on Amazon and give everyone who helped a complimentary copy.

Here’s the plot we’re working with this time…

The year is 1987. John Burrows wakes up in a hotel. He has no idea who or where he is—but we do. He’s at the Hotel Elmore in Kalamazoo, Michigan. A woman’s in bed beside him, gorgeous, but dead. Johnny’s got a gun in his hand, and someone’s knocking at his door—oh, and in case that’s not wild enough for you, except for his white hair and beard, Johnny looks identical to a guy who died ten years earlier, a guy named Elvis Presley.

What do you think? Sound like fun? We’ll make it so together.

See you tomorrow!

Pay Dirt: The Final Chapter

It’s over. We’ve survived a danger-filled 15 weeks with Bobby Grim, Kat LeRouge, DJ Ponchatoula, and Congressman Rube Rarick. Of course, the same can’t be said for all of the characters, but it was a great thrill ride.

Again, I want to thank everyone following on Twitter and Facebook, especially those messaging hints. Your directions steered the story down different trails than I originally expected, but ultimately your ideas made the adventure more exhilarating as we braced ourselves at each corner, expecting the unexpected. Thanks again!

The following is a recap from the final week of Pay Dirt…

"That perverted politician son-of-a-bitch."

"Can't you just kick the door down or something?"

"There's thirty people getting drunk on that porch, one's a cop and just a radio call away from finding warrants for both of us."

"Okay, Muscles, then tell me your..." Kat stopped, mesmerized by the yellow eyes inches above the hole in the floor.

Grim dove, his chest hitting the trap door hard, forcing the gator down. "Feel around for a lock, or something I can stick in the latch."

Kat crawled in the dark, in circles, chains pulling at her ankles. "Here." She picked up a metal U, part of a broken padlock.

Grim road the bucking door like a bull, while Kat crawled over him to slide the metal into the lock, then both fought the door till the noise subsided, leaving only darkness, heavy breathing, Irma Thomas singing in the distance with Kat and Bobby’s faces inches apart.

"Maybe we should focus on getting your chains off?" Grim said.

"Too rusty to pick." She touched his nose with hers. "I say we wait for the party to end and get the key from psycho."

"And till then?"

She looked down at the floor, then up again. "Rip some of those clothes off the walls. I'm not laying on this cold floor."

Hours later, Kat woke to a cold, somehow brighter room. The music gone, the camp quiet. Cricket and frog songs outside. "Welcome back," Grim said.

"Has everyone gone?"

"Rarick's still here. I heard the spring in the recliner about an hour ago."

"Now, do we knock the door down?"

"I think I've got a better idea.” He looked down at the trap floor and shook his head. “But you’re not gonna like it."

Rarick downed the last of his peach brandy and climbed from the recliner, where he'd sat sharpening his skinning knife since the TV crew left. He was anxious to get at the girl, but afraid of the stranger. Who was that asshole? Some friend of the girl's, some lone-nut political assassin? Maybe a cop, maybe one he couldn't buy.

Shaky, Rarick walked to the door, his keys jingling in one hand, the skinning knife gleaming in the other.

Kat, Bobby Imprisoned in Bayou Manchac

In case you’ve missed the installments on Facebook and Twitter, we’ve only got a couple of weeks left, and one character didn’t make it through this week alive…

As Rarick pulled another dead gator to the dock, Kat asked, "Where's DJ?"

"Sorry, Hun, he skedaddled on you, had me drop him at the landing with Leta, said you were gonna get him killed."

"If he takes the bike and leaves me stranded, he'll wish he was dead."

 

Grim sneered from the duck blind. He'd taken a chance telling Kat about Rarick, but she'd promised to get the hell out when Rarick got back, but he came back without the DJ kid. Grim watched him waving his arms, spewing his typical politician bullshit.

A week of mosquito, snake, and gator bites, then fever and fat chicks. All out hell, and Bobby Grim couldn't wait to get back to California. Maybe he'd swim over and rip the dude's tongue out in front of her.

Before he could climb down, he heard music, then eight boats and a party barge rounded the farthest bend in the bayou. "Now what?"

Rarick grabbed the girl by the arm, dragging her inside. Grim wanted to dive, but the boats picked up speed, bouncing on the water. He could make out the lyrics now, some foreign language, singing words like iko-iko, wild Tchoupitoulas, and Jockomo feena nay.

 

"Check it out." Kat pointed at the boats speeding down the bayou. "Leta said the TV crew'd be back to wrap up their story. Maybe she's riding along." Rarick grabbed Kat's shoulders and pushed her to the door. "No way, old man. I'm going to find out what you did with DJ."

"Listen, you little tramp. Get inside, do exactly what I tell you, or I gut you and use your intestines for gator-bait. Got it?"

Rarick pressed the hunting knife against her throat, opened the door, then shoved her down the hall with his body.

At the room Grim had warned her about, she heard a click behind her and the padlock fell to the floor. He pushed her into the blackness and bent her arms behind her back.

Handcuffs. Chains rattled. Cold at her ankles. She couldn't move.

Death by Gator in Bayou Manchac

In case you’ve missed the installments on Facebook and Twitter, we’ve only got a couple of weeks left, and one character didn’t make it through this week alive…

All three ate in front of the TV, DJ sprawled on a duct-taped orange sofa, Rarick in a folding chair, and Kat on the remains of a Lazy Boy. They didn't know the name of the movie. Some ex-wrestler and an ex-rapper trying to be action heroes.

They had just reached the darkest before dawn part of the film, when the spring in Kat's recliner creaked. She hit the floor, half-crawling down the hall and fell through the bathroom door.

"Shit." DJ jumped from the sofa, going after her.

"Relax," Rarick said, "That's normal when you're not used to spicy alligator."

Later, DJ stood outside the locked door of Rarick's bathroom. "No way, Kat. If it were food poison, wouldn't we all be puking? Oh, God. You don't think you're pregnant?"

Through the door and the gagging, he thought she said, "Morning sickness not afternoon sickness, you stupid Duck." But knowing Kat as he did, DJ must have gotten that last word wrong.

 

Late evening. Across the bayou, the skinny kid and Rarick were climbing into the boat. The girl wasn't with them. They weren't leaving yet.

Bobby Grim squirmed in his tree stand, rubbing his arm. Not healed, but close. Still, he was ready to leave this God-forsaken swamp. He couldn't finish his business with witnesses around, and the longer these two followed Rarick, the less chance they had of seeing twenty-five.

Ten minutes after the boat's rooster tail slid around the bend, Grim stood at the front door of the camp, this time an unlocked door. Inside, the TV blared, but no sign of the girl. The room where the gator latched on Grim's arm, locked again. A shiny-new Masterlock.

He made three steps on the creaky Cypress floor before the girl, Kat, stepped out of another room. "Who the fuck are you?"

Rarick serves bloody trouble to Kat and DJ

In case you missed this week’s action on Twitter and Facebook…

After breakfast, Rarick chopped bell peppers and celery, then loaded more gear into the boat, including four white-paper packages, one dripping with blood.

 

When Bobby Grim got back on the bayou, Rube and the two Leta called Kat and DJ were hanging a raw chicken on a hook, three feet above the water. Neither of the three had seen him before, and if they had, they wouldn’t recognize him now, under the LSU cap and sunglasses he'd bought from Leta.

He cast a line and pretended to fish, wondering if people caught anything without feet or fangs in this stinking muck.

 

"What's that bag you're pulling out of the chickens before we hang 'em?" DJ asked.

"Livers and gizzards," Kat said, "Yea, I cook sometimes."

Rarick dropped another set of innards in the gallon-sized Mason jar he'd brought along. "I'll freeze these for crawfish bait later."

"What are you looking at, Rube?"

"That fisherman over there. I've never seen him before, and he doesn't have any bait on his line."

 

Rarick cranked his motor and disappeared around the bend. Grim saw them looking and decided not to follow. Not that it mattered. He couldn't finish the job until Rarick hunted alone.

Leta said the kids would be gone before dark. He hoped that meant on their way back to New Orleans. Bobby headed in, climbed back up to the tree stand and was just dosing when Rarick, Kat, and DJ got back from baiting the traps.

 

"Okay, I'm getting sick of this little water safari," Kat said. "When do we go to the bank?"

"Be patient. This evening, we've gotta circle around, pop any gators that took our bait, then skin'em up. If I leave the swamp before then, folks will know something’s up. Tomorrow you two will get money and get out of my hair."

"Besides, Kat, I'm starting to like this," DJ said, "Rube, maybe you can let me shoot one of them when we go back?"

Rube Rarick lifted his jar of chicken innards from the boat. "I suppose that's possible." Then he and DJ followed Kat inside.

Swamp, hot, steamy in more ways than one

Another week of Pay Dirt in the swamp. Let’s review what happened…

"Leta, let me apologize. I do appreciate you delivering my friends here. Let me follow you in."

Rarick cranked the Evinrude and thought he heard the F word somewhere in the fog.

At Rarick’s camp, Kat climbed up to the dock. Leta handed her Rarick's bag. And DJ stayed in the boat with Leta.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm not cool with this water shit, and Leta's pot of Jambalaya's got my name all over it. We'll pick you up later."

"Bullshit..."

Before Kat could continue, Rarick's boat coasted in. "Son, you'll throw rocks at Leta's rice, once you've tasted my Gator Sauce Piquant."

"What time you need me to pick'em up, Rube?"

"Forget it, Leta. You've got enough to do at the shop. I'll take care of my friends here."

 

Halfway back to the bait shop, Leta noticed the boat following her. Muscle boy with his tattoos and tight ass. She wondered if he had anything against drinking at 6:AM.

Bobby Grim followed Leta into the shop, and she said, "So what can I overcharge you for today? Coffee. Beer. Dynamite?"

"Nope. Information."

Leta slapped two whiskey glasses on the counter and filled them with Seagram's Sweet Tea. Grim raised an eyebrow. "The sun's barely up."

"Depends on what you're willing to pay for this information."

"What makes you think I'm willing to pay what you're gonna ask?"

She clinked her glass with his as he raised it. "You're drinking, ain't ya?"

Rarick dipped half a bread slice, triangle cut, into egg and vanilla, then dropped it into the deep fry. "French Toast?" Kat asked.

"Almost, my momma called it Lost Bread. I think of it as French Toast, done Cajun-style."

"Your mother was coon-ass?"

"Yes-mam, I was born and bred a pirogue ride from the Atchafalaya Basin."

Hunting Gator, Human in Louisiana Swamp

This was the first full week in the swamp. Our adventure is just starting to heat up…

Bobby Grim watched from his tree stand, as the last of the television crew's boats disappeared around the bend.

Rube Rarick stood, hands on hips, at the edge of his dock, admiring the five-footer hanging above him. Grim thought the gator's head looked too big for the body, like it had swallowed a garbage can that got lodged in it's skull.

Rarick detached the metal head and slid the bloody arrow from the giant head. Then he popped an electric cigarette between his lips, pulled a Rambo knife from his belt, and began to cut the hide from the beast.

He finished before sunset, then rose early the next morning, ready to hunt again.

And on this day, he'd hunt alone—as would Bobby Grim.

Rarick left the dock before dawn, his bateau loaded light, leaving plenty room for a couple of big ones. He raced through the dark bayou, grinning. Twenty years, he'd been hunting here, no one knew the area better. Around the bend from where he expected the first tag, he killed the Evinrude and started the troll motor.

Even in the fog, where trees and beasts appeared and disappeared with every turn, Rarick still believed he was the swamp's most dangerous predator.

"Huh?" Somewhere behind him, another troll motor started up in the fog.

 

Saturday morning. Leta found the padlock on the bait shop door missing, along with bandages, antiseptic, and Albon—dog antibiotics. The bald muscle guy with the tattoos and ass. She knew, looking at the hundred dollar bill on the counter. She thanked God he hadn’t drowned in the storm. She wanted to get him drunk before he left the swamp.

She heard a sound in the woods, a chainsaw. She walked out on the porch. Not a chainsaw, a motorcycle.

 

When the first rays of sunlight danced over the bayou, Rarick spotted a spinach green forehead skimming open water. Fastening 500 lb test line to his custom arrow, he took aim.

Behind him, hidden by fog, Bobby Grim loaded his bow with an identical arrow.