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The King of Uruk
The King of Uruk
The King of Uruk
Ebook36 pages30 minutes

The King of Uruk

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The King of Uruk takes the Gilgamesh Epic through the looking glass and directly west.
LanguageEnglish
PublisherBookBaby
Release dateOct 5, 2015
ISBN9781483559544
The King of Uruk

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    Book preview

    The King of Uruk - Tim Worsham

    978-1-4835595-4-4

    1

    There’s a kinda man walks taller’n most.

    Walks taller.

    Draws quicker.

    Loves harder.

    Hates colder.

    He’s a man—leaves a boot print—rain don’t wash out.

    I know’d two sech men in my day. And Lor’ when they come together…

    I never sor a man so mean as ol’ Gil. Here he come, walkin’ tall ‘cross the desert, cuttin’ his way through the wilderness, raisin’ hisself right up over the mountains. Not a beast or savage could lick ol’ Gil. Not a man could look ol’ Gil in the eyeballs. When it came to irons, Gil’s sixers were coolin’ before t’other man cleared his hips. There’s an army of grinnin’ specters holdin’ Gil’s lead to heart, jes waitin’ on his reckon day, so’s they can spit in his ghosty eye. But they do wait.

    There’s a town called Uruk, jes as the west gets wild. My brothers and me hold a ranch jes south and a little west. Real nice stretch of land—a few head—couple nice huntin’ dogs. Gotta workin’ pump and all. We took the rails west, lookin’ to leave our mark. Few bumps along the trail, but we made out. Got our patch carved out right here by Uruk—quiet town, till ol’ Gil come back.

    Ye get the ol’ timers drinkin’ at the Ishtar Saloon—nice little waterin’ hole, middle of town—and they get to talkin’ ‘bout Gil. Whiskey runs and gums do flap.

    Tall as a tree. Slicker ‘n spit. Flap, flap.

    Sor him shoot a bullet clean outta the air, what was comin’ for him. Flap, flap, flap.

    Born of the devil. Strong as a god. Flap.

    Hot talk is what my pappy woulda called it. Tall stories. But crook’d or true, what I couldn’t suss was the age of the yarn. Even if all of it were true, Gil was old news. These graybeards were peach fuzz when they sweared they sor what they sor. Gil had faded west goin’ on maybe fifty years or more. Hot talk. I never swallered a word of it.

    Then he come ridin’ back into town on a black hoss. The legend made flesh. Gil’s hoss was tall as anythin’—intelligent eyes—teeth like a wolf. The man hisself was fit and fine. Lookin’ no older ‘n the day he left, I’m told. Black hat leanin’ lazy to the left. Dressed as if he owned the place. And quicker ‘n no time, he did.

    2

    Was a law man in those days. A fat man named Jameson. Kept the loosies in

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