Every Shallow Cut
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He's nameless, faceless, and has nothing left to lose—and now he has a gun.
Alone except for his beloved bulldog, Churchill, a despondent man who's failed at his career, his marriage, and his own simple hopes makes his way across the fierce American landscape and the spectacle of his own bitter past. As he heads home to his distant brother, he witnesses various tragedies and crimes which bring out the killer in him.
Tom Piccirilli brings us a suspense story for our current struggling times, taken directly from a broken heart. It is full of realism, grit, and a depth of the dark streets that give voice to the fears most of us can barely imagine. The terror of loss, the overwhelming dread of failure, the desperate push towards crime, the horror of missed-out, mediocre dreams. And the all-too-average explosive rage.
change and it added up to five bucks at a shot. “This prick is crazy,” one of them said. I sipped air through the pain and clenched my eyes against the tears and wondered if Sweetie was a fan of chick flicks and vanilla incense. Then they opened the car door and Churchill hit the ground beside me with a thirty-five pound belly-flop. Our gazes met and he gave me such a look of confusion and unconditional love that a sob welled in my chest and nearly broke from my throat. He snuffled at my neck
drugs.” “I put some Prozac and Xanax in there too.” “Christ, man, can you mix those together? You couldn’t have just picked up a six-pack? How’d you get all these drugs?” “Stole them from work,” he admitted. “Can you just drink this shit?” “I think so.” “You think so? Oh Christ.” I was so angry I almost kicked him in the shin. “You really aren’t properly trained to medicate people, are you.” He shrugged. “It can’t make you feel any worse, can it?” He had a point. My vision began to cloud
me in a rubber room. I would have butted my head against the soft walls in a straitjacket, rocking like a newborn myself. Christ fuckall, if only. I sat in the waiting room with young men who looked expectantly relieved. Some of them were boyfriends, some only one-night stands. Some might’ve been husbands who, like me, thought about bills instead of baby booties. At that moment I realized, This is the thing I will never be forgiven for. This is what is now being written in the great Book of
showed up on daytime talk shows explaining how their characters had whispered in their ears and the books had written themselves. One bestseller called it a divine cathartic expulsion. She claimed God had moved through her body and into her fingers and had tapped out her novel about a werewolf waitress who falls in love with the sous-chef. Her next book was about an alien who comes to earth to coach a pee-wee football league and gives up his homeworld to court a divorcee with a chip on her
stack of pepperoni pies in his arms, the top box empty except for a semi-automatic. He’d dump the boxes and point the weapon and scream for me to put my hands up. And all I would be able to do was look at the wasted pepperoni pies on the floor, my mouth watering. The thunderstorms started to hit in Missouri but I bulled my way through hour after hour while the rain smashed down. Even with my wipers on extra high they could barely keep up with the torrent. Visibility was practically nil.