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HILL CLAN CROSS
 
HILL CLAN CROSS 3
Pitchork and Darnel burst through the scufed motel doorlike two barrels o buckshot. Using the daisy-patterned bedto divide the dealers rom the buyers, Pitchork buried a.45-caliber Colt in Karl’s peat moss unibrow with his righthand. Separated Irvine’s green eyes with the sawed-of .12-gauge in his le, pushed the two young men away romthe mattress, stopped them at a wall painted with nicotine,and shouted, “Drop the rucks, Karl!”Karl’s towline arms contorted in a broken epilepticrhythm. Dropped the two heavy military backpacks to thecarpet. Irvine stood with his chest rising and alling in ahyperventilated rush and, sounding like a southern Indianahick, he said, “Tis here is our deal.”Behind Pitchork, big brother Darnel kicked shut themotel door and corralled the two buyers to the right o thebed, into the nightstand, slapped a leather blackjack downonto Dodo Kirby’s widow’s peak. Helped his knees discoverthe cigarette-holed carpet. Dodo’s little brother Uhl steppedorward, and his checkered teeth o bad dental mouthed,“What the shit, man, you can’t—” Darnel obliged Uhl withthe blackjack. Beat his nose into chips o int. Mashed hislips into blueberry stains. Slid the blackjack into his bibs,
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