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S. A. Hunt
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Makes me heart hurt

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I am thankful for all my readers, and especially my Outlaw Army!
Thank you for reading my work! #HappyThanksgiving, folks!
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Somehow, every time I think Disney can't get me more excited about one of their properties, they prove me wrong. Civil War, Jessica Jones and Star Wars. Everything they are doing right now is wonderful.

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Unless it goes through your eyebrow, then it means you're the villain.

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Amazon recently price matched Episode One of THE MINUS FACTION to free -- that's zero dollars and zero cents -- and it cracked the top 100 in a couple subcategories over the weekend. Maybe I could ask you all to spread the word and help keep it going?
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Just re-upping a middle-of-the-night post.
For today's Saturday Scenes, I'm going to post a little bit from Malus Domestica II: King of the Road, the sequel to my bestselling horror novel Malus Domestica.

In this flashback, the future witch-hunter Robin Martine has walked away from her training after a particularly traumatic encounter to try her hand at more feminine pursuits.


Four Years Ago

JUNO REACTOR’S “PISTOLERO” POUNDED through the speakers, filling the Top Dollar Gentlemen’s Club with Spanish guitar and a driving beat.

Robin stood behind a curtain, her heart fluttering in her chest. She was already tipsy, but one of the other girls came dancing over with a shotglass. “Here, newbie, you’re gonna need another one of these,” she said, handing it over. She was dressed like Tinkerbell. “You got that deer-in-the-headlights look and Bobby ain’t gonna like it if you puke on his stage.”

Sniff, sniff. Smelled like varnish. “What is it?”

“The good shit. Just drink it. You’re on in ten.”

“Ten minutes—?”

“Ten seconds.”

“Well, hell,” said Robin, throwing back the shot. The whiskey went down like a red-hot cannonball. She coughed, covering her mouth with her wrist, and handed the glass back to the girl. “What was your name again?”


“Oh, right. Thanks, June.”

“Knock em dead.” The girl pushed her through the bead curtain.

Robin shuffled helplessly out onto the stage, her cowboy boots clip-clopping across the mirrored platform, and every muscle in her frame locked up. They’d given her the gunslinger routine and dressed her up in assless chaps, a leather bikini with fringe, and a pink rattan cowboy hat.

Strapped to her hips was a pair of holsters, each of which contained a realistic cap-gun revolver.

Pistolero was still rolling at top volume, vibrating the floor under her feet. A twenty-foot catwalk led to a large round dais, where a brass pole ran up to the ceiling, all of it illuminated by red footlights.

The audience—what there was of it on a Thursday evening—exploded with noise: catcalls, clapping, whistling. Between the bar and the tables, she estimated there were about thirty people sitting in the club. Most of the light came from the sun on the other side of the glass front door,
(the exit look for the exits)
which made the place look like a cave. That made sense, considering all the cavemen in it.

“Damn, baby!” shouted someone in the darkness.

Alcohol made her giggle fearfully. Robin put on her best hip-rolling strut and made her way toward the pole. June hissed from behind the curtain, “Slow down! This ain’t the hunnert-meter dash!”

Robin put on the brakes and had the crazy urge to start doing the Charleston. Getting down on her hands and knees, she stretched luxuriantly, arching her ass in the air, and crawled the rest of the way, pistols waggling against her thighs. The toes of her cowboy boots felt as if they were about to smash through the mirror floor.

She reached the pole after what felt like a humiliating six-hour crawl and pulled herself to her feet.

This close, she could see individual faces looking up at her. This didn’t help the anxiety at all. Robin closed her eyes and tried to focus on the pole in her hands, tried to pretend she was there by herself, all alone. “Dance like nobody’s watchin,” Darlene had told her yesterday, and that was easier said than done.

An insect fluttered against her thigh. Her eyes jerked open and saw a crumpled-up dollar bill.

Robin went back to dancing, looking up at the ceiling, at the back wall, at her own reflection below her boots, the pole, anywhere but the faces of the men watching her. She threw her best moves into the mix, bending over to peer between her knees (luckily, her hat was pinned to her hair), sashaying in a circle around the pole, bending over backwards to flash her scant cleavage.

“Take your top off!” someone shouted from the bar.

She pressed one hand against her chest and reached behind her back with the other, untying it. The strings fell through her armpits, but she held the top on.

“You heard the man,” said a familiar voice from her left. Robin’s eyes darted in that direction and she saw him sitting at a table, nursing a beer. Heinrich’s eyes darkled in the red footlights. “Give him what he wants!”

What is he doing here?! she thought, dancing around the pole. She ripped the bikini top off—making a leathery whipcrack sound—and twirled it over her head like a lasso, her boyish breasts pale in the faint sunshine from the front door. Her nipples were tiny and dark, hard from embarrassment and air conditioning. She flung the top into the tables in one motion, careful to throw it in the other direction. Heinrich catching it would have been the cherry on the most awkward sundae, like, ever.

A man in a business suit caught it. He loosened his tie, pulling it out of his collar, and hung the bikini top around his neck like a towel. Robin glared at Heinrich. “Go fuck yourself,” she said, shouting to be heard over the music, strutting back up the catwalk. “I’m trying to work.”

All he did was light a coconut cigar and sit there in the red shadows, smoking it.

The businessman threw his tie onstage.

Robin picked it up, lasciviously flossed her ass with it, and threw it back, eliciting a wild cheer from the club patrons and a sprinkling of currency.

“What are you doing?” Heinrich asked her in a disapproving tone, as if he’d caught her with her hand in the cookie jar.

“The fuck do you care? You’re not my dad.”

“That much is evident.”

Pulling the six-shooters out of her gunbelt, she went through a series of sinuous action poses, shooting at the men in the audience. Some dark splinter in her relished this part of the routine; she could feel her face darkening, her brow tightening as she put imaginary bullets in their pervert heads. She bared her teeth at them and shot them with her heart, and they loved every minute of it. They’d be whistling a different tune if these guns were real. She blew imaginary smoke out of the guns’ barrels and shoved them back in their holsters, then lunged for the pole (the mirrored floor crackling cheaply along the way) and swung herself around it, throwing her legs wide and flashing her crotch.

Sliding painfully down the pole with sweaty hands, creaking the whole way, she landed on her knees. A year of this, Robin mused, and she’d have leather palms. Hand-jobs would be like masturbating with catchers’ mitts. She thrust her pelvis at the audience—what there was of it—and crawled toward the nearest man.

“Damn,” said a balding, red-faced man in a Steelers T-shirt. His breath was rank with liquor. “You are fucking amazing.”

She pulled a pistol and shot him in the temple. “Powww.”

“You blow my mind, baby.”

“I can blow more than that, you know,” she said, sitting up. It seemed her initial anxiety was beginning to drain away, and when she turned around and threw her feet over the edge of the stage, rhythmically flexing her ass for Baldy, she realized why. This whole display was making Heinrich uncomfortable. I can get you to do anything in the world, climb any mountain, swim any sea, he’d said. All I gotta do is piss you off.

Well, now she was pissed off. The gnarly witch-hunter glared at her from under his hat-brim, fidgeting with a bottle of Corona. His cigar smouldered in an ashtray.

Rumpled dollar bills danced across her bare back and over her knuckles. A mean smile spread across her face.

She got up and pinched one of the strings hanging out of the knot holding up one side of her bikini bottoms, showing it to Heinrich. Check it out, old man. She grinned at him, biting her bottom lip suggestively. It was Go Time, take it or leave it, last train to Omaha, buddy. You better say something if you don’t want me flashing my barely-legal pussy at these howler monkeys.

Wait, did she really want to do that? Did she really want to go back to Hammertown? Back to that dusty shithole of a—

“Look, I’m sorry,” growled Heinrich.

“Sorry about what?” Robin asked, letting go of the knot string. Pulling out a pistol, she put it between her legs as if it were a penis, then pantomimed jerking off, leaning back in feigned ecstasy. The bar went insane with laughter.

“About Lucky Luke.” Heinrich got up and knelt by the stage, looking up at her. “I’m just—well, I just wanted—I’m tryin to train the hesitation outta you, kid,” he said, taking off his black cowboy hat.


She pulled the trigger, moaning, giving it her best Sleepless in Seattle Meg Ryan, firing caps as if she were blowing a load over the audience’s heads. Pow! “Ohh!” Pow! “Ohhhh!” Pow! Pow! Pow! “OHHHH GOD YES!”

“I been lookin for you for weeks, Robin Hood,” said Heinrich, grinding his teeth. “This ain’t you. You’re better than this.”

“Oh, don’t start that, you old fucker.”

“Hey,” Heinrich protested, as Robin turned the pistol around, “who you callin old?”

“You, you dried-up old bastard.” She proceeded to slowly saw the cold gunbarrel in and out of her crotch like a credit card that just wouldn’t take. “I bet you can’t even get it up at your advanced age.”

Hurt and anger battled on his face. Heinrich sat back down at his table and puffed on his cigar. Maybe I went a little too far, maybe got a little weird with that one. She gave a mental shrug. Oh well. So what? He deserves to be uncomfortable. He deserves more than that. He deserves a good ass-kicking.

“Nice try with the After-School Special, but you’ve got a long way to go before I give a shit about what you have to say.”

“Hey,” said someone behind her. It was Baldy.

“Yeah?” asked Robin, crawling toward him. He had a twenty in his hand, but he wasn’t holding it out to her.

“Are those scars on your thighs?”

Old hashmarks shared space with fresh scabs, a dozen of them across the tops of her thighs. “So what if they are?”

“Well, like,” said the man, wincing sheepishly. “I just wanted to know if you were okay. Looks like you’ve been, I dunno, cutting yourself or something.”

She turned the pistol around and pushed it into his hands. “You too? I’m showing you my tits, and you want to psychoanalyze me?”

“I—I just, well….”

“Thanks, Dad, but I’m fine,” Robin said, climbing up the pole.

“I just care, man, you know? I give a fuck.”

“Good, I could use a few.” She grinned coldly. “I’m all out of those.”

In lieu of another thanks, she took another jaunt around the pole, untying the bikini bottom, and laid it gently over the top of his bald head. Her pubic bush glossed dark brown, almost black, in the footlights.

Laughing, she looked over at Heinrich to satisfy herself with the expression on his face, but his table was empty, his cigar stubbed out in the ashtray.


The western horizon was a slash of purple and orange by the time Robin came out of the Top Dollar Gentlemen’s Club, counting a wad of cash. Or, at least, she was trying to, because the minute she stepped out of the employee entrance, her eyes fogged up with tears. The teenager wandered across the back parking lot without watching where she was going, mindlessly flipping through the notes.

When she looked up again, she found herself standing at the edge of an infinite expanse of hardpan, furred with dry sagebrush. The full majesty of the Texas sunset stood expectantly over her.

“Did you get it out of your system?”

The hermit sat on the hood of his ancient Ford Fairlane, a devil-red land yacht of a car. In his hands glittered a long, thin dagger, and his hat lay open by his right leg, as if waiting for donations.

“What are you still doing here?” she asked in a low, miserable voice.

Heinrich shrugged. “I thought you might like a ride back to wherever you’re staying.” He stared at his feet, wagging the dagger in his hands as if it were a diving board and the pavement below his feet was a swimming pool. “Where are you staying, if I may be so bold…?”

“No…nowhere right now,” she said, dithering. “I mean, I guess I have my van, but I have some money, though, I can stay in a motel room if I want.” She squinted at the silver dagger. “What is that? Is that the thing you were telling me about, the—”

“The Osdathregar. Yes.”

“The dagger that will help me get the witches that killed my mama?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“I thought you said you were keeping it in a safe deposit box.”

“I went and got it. I thought it was high time you saw it, got a look at it for yourself. Held it in your hand.”

Her feet carried her over to him. She wore the bikini top again, hadn’t bothered to put her shirt back on, and wore her jacket over her shoulders like a cape. The algiz tattoo stood out on her white chest like a cattle brand. She held out her hands and Heinrich put the dagger into them.

Might have been her imagination, but Robin thought she felt a peculiar heat in the handle, a subliminal static charge that might have passed between them.

Or perhaps it was just the heat of Heinrich’s hand.

“This can kill a witch?”

“It can pin one down like a butterfly in a case, so you can burn em good. They can’t get out from under it. You jab a witch with this and push it all the way through into the floor, and they’ll be there until the end of days.”

Hair blew across her face. She tucked it behind her ear.

“I have a headache,” she said, and he said, “I’m sorry,” both of them speaking at the exact same time.

“I got some Tylenol,” he tipped a thumb back at his car, “rolling around in there somewhere.”

She stared into his weatherbeaten brown face.

All I gotta do is piss you off.

“No more Lucky Lukes. No more of that shit.”

“Cross my heart—”

“Never again,” she said a little more forcefully, “You—”

“—hope to die.”

“You do that to me again and you—you’ll be lucky if I leave again. I might just catch you asleep and use this on you.” She offered him back the silver dagger, but he didn’t reach for it. She thrust it out a little more. His hands went up in mild surrender. “You want me to keep it?”

“Yeah. Keep an eye on it for me, will you?”

Robin watched the wispy, starry clouds glide back and forth across the flat of the blade. She nodded solemnly. “I’ll take care of it.”


If you enjoyed this #saturdayscenes excerpt, maybe you would enjoy the horrific first volume, Malus Domestica!
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I love +MediocreFilms's shopping list pranks. I still remember Daddy Butter from his first set of them.

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All day today, the book that pushed me into Amazon's Top 100 Horror authors is only 99¢! Tomorrow it'll be $1.99, so if you're planning on getting a Kindle for Black Friday and you like horror, now's the time to grab it! #HappyThanksgiving!

Fans are calling it " #JessicaJones vs. the Evil Dead." From the award-winning author of the Outlaw King series comes another harrowing adventure in the grand tradition of Stephen King, Clive Barker, and Charlaine Harris.

Robin Martine has come a long way.

She's not your usual college-age girl. More often than not, Robin's washing a load of gory clothes at the laundromat, or down at the lake throwing hatchets at pumpkins. She lives in an old van, collects swords, and dyes her mohawk blue.

Also, she kills witches for a living on YouTube.

You see, Robin's life was turned upside down by those hideous banshees from Hell. She spent high-school in a psych ward, drugged out of her head for telling the cops her mother Annie was murdered with magic. Magic from a witch named Marilyn Cutty.

After a 3-year warpath across America, she's come home to end Cutty for good.

But she'll have to battle hog-monsters, a city full of raving maniacs, and a killer henchman called the "Serpent" if she wants to end the coven's reign over the town of Blackfield once and for all.
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....this is a setting just begging for fightsex.

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Can we have a war on education too?

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Welp, I guess I'm into twerk videos now. At least, Lexy's, anyway.

(damn, son)
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Whirlwind in the Thorn Tree, Whirlwind, Thorn Tree, Sam Hunt, Writer, Author, Artist, Indie, King, Outlaw King
Horror & Fantasy Author
I am a 33-year-old Afghanistan veteran and an #author of #horror and #fantasy inspired by authors such as Stephen King and Neil Gaiman. Grumpy, opinionated, and hard to like, but I'll never lie to you, censor you, or candycoat the truth.
Author and illustrator