A Cure to Die For by Stephen G Mitchell

Author:Stephen G Mitchell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: romance, thriller, adventure, mystery, love story, medical thriller, political thriller
Publisher: Stephen G Mitchell

MUSIC IS A LANGUAGE THAT everyone speaks.

It was 8 PM and the gravel parking lot outside the Snake Snot Saloon in Pablo was already full with many of the same pickup trucks that were part of the cavalry charge up Bigfoot’s knoll. Robert, Cyd and Alex had to park out on the street, it was so crowded. Walking toward the bar, Alex glanced up at the marquee. It read:

Happy New Year!

THE CUSTER BUSTERS BAND Tonight Only

He turned to Cyd. “Custer Busters?”

“Little Big Horn?”

“Oh.”

The place was packed with more cowboys than a rodeo on the 4th of July. Crowds of men were marching their ladies around the dance floor, parading them in time to a two-step. Tables jammed with people and covered in beer bottles surrounded the dizzying swirl of dancers. They stood three deep at the bar. Balloons hung from the ceiling, and feathered plumes and confetti streamers and sparkly New Year’s signs decorated a sea of cowboy hats.

Robert seemed to know everyone in the place, and after what had happened at Clarence’s house, everyone seemed to know Cyd and Alex. They were greeted with cheers and applause, chairs were shuffled and they were quickly wedged into the ongoing celebration. The men at their table were all from the pickup cavalry. Cyd and Alex were introduced around to their laughing, giggling, hollering wives and girlfriends, who were excited to meet the couple they had heard so much about.

For the benefit of the newcomers, enthusiastic lies and exaggerated war stories were retold about what had become known as “The Great Swimming Pool Massacre.” As it turned out, it was not two cowboys that were captured in the pool three days ago but more like twenty—or was it thirty?—all of whom had to be subdued with nothing more than fists and knives. It was a brave band of warriors who had won honor and glory for the tribe that day at Bigfoot’s house; the stuff of legend.

A cocktail waitress was making her way between the tables. She was sexy as a pear with an ass that Betty Littlehorn, had she been there, might have described as three axe handles and a snoose box wide. Watching her maneuver with her tray of drinks was like watching a farmer plow a field of boulders; she cut a wide, uneven swath.

The waitress was known as Puffin, but it was a subject of some debate whether that was her first or her last name. She wore a midriff shirt and low cut camouflage pants that hung off her hips with lace on the rear pockets. She bent over a table to set her tray down and Alex could see her butt crack as well as a tattoo that stretched all the way across her backside. In elaborate two-inch tall letters, it read:

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