An excerpt

I have been making steady progress on Chasing Filthy Lucre. We are about 3,500 words into the third section of the story. This won't make any sense, but Rexall and Berger are building their team and getting things in place to carry out the plan that they are about to develop. I have a couple more steps to write and Rung 10 will be done. I've already started setting up Rung 11.

Since I haven't done this in a while, here's an excerpt of something I just wrote. Literally wrote it today so it hasn't been edited or polished. If you like it let me know. If not, let me know that too.

The crowd that gathered on Fortson could only be described, if we’re being charitable, as rough. If we weren’t being charitable it was a bunch of liars and thieves. But they were smart liars and thieves. What had begun along Fortson Street as a place for people to trade services for goods had turned into something else. It evolved into a black market that was populated by the under class of New Eden, the desperate and the crooked.

Berger and I arrived just before the sun went down. I had the description of an explosives guy an Army buddy told me he knew. Said that our guy was also a former soldier, trained by the government in how to make big things into bunches of small things. He had dark hair, unshaven face with a medium build and average height. If I hadn’t known better I’d have thought he was describing me.

I was told that he’d be waiting near the shutdown drugstore two shops from the corner of Fortson and Fifth. When Berger and I arrived the only person there was an old man trying to bum a few dollars for a hit from the hothouse that was only a few blocks from our location. It was a small hothouse. The air here was still and there was no crowd gathered, no people coming or going.

Berger fished a dollar from his pocket and put it in the man’s eager hands. We waited in front of the drugstore for a few minutes and our guy never showed, but someone else did.

She put her hand on her hip and said everyone called her Simmer. Simmer Jones, full name. She twirled her gun on an index finger like some gunfighter from a western movie and smiled.

I shook my head. This one was good. Couldn’t see a seam or anything on the skin. Her eyes blinked slow, but not unnatural. And she had more curves than a typical Serve-O. Put crudely, this one was built with birthing hips. She had short chopped hair and olive skin. They had dressed her in green cargo pants and a white tank top.

“Keep moving, Simmer,” I said. “Not interested.”