Fig Street

The year is 1969: In the city of Glennville the streets, even in the poorest of neighborhoods are safe for children to play. But the city has its secrets, and those secrets have their dangers. #Horror #Crime #Fantasy #DellSweet #Series

FIG STREET

Fig Street is Copyright © W. G. Sweet 2020

All rights foreign and domestic reserved in their entirety.

Cover Art © Copyright 2020 Wendell G. Sweet

Some text copyright 1984, 2010, 2014, 2015 W. G. Sweet

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This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual living person’s places, situations or events is purely coincidental.

This novel is Copyright © 2020 Dell Sweet.  No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic, print, scanner or any other means and, or distributed without the author’s permission.

Permission is granted to use short sections of text in reviews or critiques in standard or electronic print.

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Turk Hayley drove slowly down Old Mill road, searching carefully as he went. If the little bitch was out this way, she better just pray to God he didn’t find her.

He’d woke up, still half drunk, not more than ten minutes after Christine had slipped out the back door. She was here, he could smell her, right fucking here, had to be.

Turk Hayley was one mean mother-fucker. If you were dimwitted enough to ask him, and more than one young GI from the nearby base had, he’d tell you just like that. ‘I am one mean mother-fucker.’ And then he’d show you why. If by chance you should ask one of his drinking buddies, down at the Rusty Nail where he did his drinking they would tell you the same thing.

Turk only had two drinking buddies, John Calloway-Big John, and Randy Weston. Everyone called Randy, Dusty, Turk was just Turk, Mister Hayley to any smart-ass that wanted to push things too far.

The three of them had spent more than enough time in county lock-up for drinking and fighting. But out of the lot, Turk was by far the worst. You could walk into the Rusty Nail any night of the week, and find the three of them holding down bar-stools, but it would always be Turk who turned ugly first.

Turk hated his life. It didn’t seem fair that he should be stuck in this dead-end town, working like a slave at the paper mill, and married to a woman who didn’t have enough sense not to get pregnant back in high school.

He’d dated May for six months and just as he was ready to move on to other conquests, she tells him she’s pregnant and they have to get married.

Fuck that bull-shit, Turk had replied, he had no intention of marrying her. And he hadn’t thought anything could, or would change those intentions. At least not until her father had threatened to have him arrested for statutory rape if he didn’t. Given those two choices, he had given in. He hadn’t been happy about it, but he had.

Turk stared closely at the ditches that bordered Old Mill road, as he drove along. Still nothing, it would be nice to find her, even though she wasn’t the most important consideration now. Steal his drinkin’ money? Oh, if he caught her, would she pay.

He’d had other plans, big plans, for himself after graduation and they hadn’t included May. He’d had to change everything. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, when she gave birth she’d had a girl. A fuckin’ girl! Turk had figured it would be a boy. If it had been, he thought now, at least he’d have had some consolation. Of course he did have a son, but only Rhonda and him knew it.

It would have been nice, he often thought, to have raised a son, and taught him how to be a real man. Not like some of these kids burning flags, and protesting Vietnam. Canada? Canada could keep every fuckin’ one of them that wanted to go up there, as far as Turk was concerned. Glennville didn’t need no chicken-shits that couldn’t even stick up for their own friggin’ country. And Vietnam wasn’t even no fuckin’ war at all. If they had wanted to see a war they should been in the Korean conflict. Turk himself had been there. That had been a war. If he’d had a son, his son wouldn’t have been anything at all but a real man. But he hadn’t, May hadn’t, and most likely, Turk thought she’d done it just to piss him off.

As the years had slipped by, he’d sunk deeper and deeper into a rage that at times overwhelmed him. More than once it had come damn close to murder. Both at home, and down at the Rusty Nail. Sometimes he even thought that prison would be worth killing the both of them just to get the fuck away.

The last time he’d let that little slut have it, the sheriff had promised to arrest him for assault and battery on a minor and make sure that he did time for it. May had been the one who had called the sheriff on him and by the time he’d gotten there, Christine was in bed, so the sheriff hadn’t seen the mess he’d made out of her, and by that point Turk had convinced both of them to keep their fucking mouths shut. They had, and May had refused to sign a warrant. The sheriff had gone away pissed off. Pissed off, but he had gone. Christine hadn’t said a single thing about the other thing either. And that had just proved a point to Turk. She liked it, hell, maybe even needed it. And they both needed a swift kick in the ass occasionally, any woman did.

Now the little bitch had run away and taken nearly all of his drinkin’ money with her. If he got his hands on her, he knew he’d kill her this time she’d gone too fuckin’ far…

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