Archive for November, 2014


Bad trailsThe Mexican/American Border can be a strange place.  There is a lot of confusion over property rights and right-of-way.

Mexican cartels have taken over some of the trails that penetrate the southern part of California. The picture above shows some of these well-worn paths that wind around and over each other.

There’s a rumor that the tracks that criss-cross our property are franchised by the Arellano-Felix cartel. Supposedly they are the only ones who could run goods or illegals on these trails.

My name’s Wally Runnels and I write Border Pulp.


Here’s an excerpt from my latest novella: Death Karma.

DEATH KARMA COVERW copyNow late afternoon he was looking for something besides his car to sleep in. Stranded in Yermo, California, he scratched his nose and brought up the scent of catsup from sticky fingers. Yermo was a sprawling desert community in California, where he had spent his last buck at Tita’s Burgers.

Low on gas, he cruised Palm Vista Road in his Chrysler K Car. Dirt, the path was next to the Yarro Ravine Rattlesnake Habitat. The thought of snakes made it creepy.

Turning north off Palm Vista, he bounced onto another unpaved track with no name that put him closer to the rattlers. He saw a snake and swerved at it. Missed. He wasn’t stopping.

In the distance he saw a low rock house surrounded by refrigerators, tires and junked out cabinets. The place looked deserted. Parking by the front door, he sat in his seat until the dust passed.

The shack’s door was open. He got out of his car and walked into a kitchen. It was a dustbin. Empty Jack Daniel bottles were everywhere, and the sink piled with unwashed pans, dishes and utensils. The stove was wood burning. A wrench gripped a water spigot at the sink. He pulled it and a dribble of water came out.

Rock band posters and black and white photos of groups covered the walls; some he recognized. Eric Clapton, The Who, Jefferson Airplane and The Beatles, it was a who’s who of sixties rock.

“Who’s there, goddammit?” A throaty feminine voice growled through beaded curtains. Plastic beads on strands made an image of John Lennon.

Clattering sounds announced an old woman that clumped through the hanging strands. She wore leg braces that rattled and held a sawed off Remington pump. A cigarette dangled from her bottom lip.

“What the hell are you?” she asked.

Clyde stood, transfixed. Someone lived in this place? She was really ugly. Over her wrist hung a cane with a metal point at the end. She wore no pants. Sagging breasts pendulated behind a pink tie-dyed T-shirt that fell off one shoulder, exposing a peace sign tattoo, and dropped just below her crotch. She looked like an old time hippie chick.

“Paid my property taxes, got the money.”

Money. The word sent up a signal inside Clyde. Didn’t look like she’d been in a bank for years. Might keep it here. Doubted she could drive. Where was her car? Was she alone? Be careful, Clyde.

“You’re a Beatles fan I see,” he said in his best charming manner. He shook his long blond hair. He could see he was a favorable comparison with  with some of the guys in the pictures.

“Fucked John Lennon in London,” she said.

“Lot a girls did,” said Clyde.

“But not many worked as a producer in Abby Lane Studios.”

“That’s cool.” Clyde had a natural inclination to disarm people with his friendly candor. “Lucky John, I’d say.”

“Did him up and down,” she said.

“You must have been hot.”

“I was. Did the clubs, swung with the rock groups.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Clyde looked at the photos covering the walls. Appearing to be interested, he wondered where the money was. Same girl in the pictures with different groups, Lou Reed and the Velvet Underground; was that Eric Clapton and his guys?

“You a Brit?”

“Naaa, from Salinas. But I had big pointy tits then.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Clyde really couldn’t tell, but what the hell.

“Last husband was a country singer,” she said. “Left me out here.”

“Awww, this ain’t so bad.” Clyde knew it was a hole but he needed to work her. He smiled and shook his hair again.

“Backed over me leaving a bar in Bakersfield,” she said, and tapped her braces. She shifted the pump into the crook of her arm. “Drunk, the bastard.”

“Jesus,” said Clyde.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Just passin,’ looking for a spot to sleep.” Clyde sized her up. He guessed she was probably alone, with no neighbors for miles. Probably didn’t get around much.

Maybe get her T-shirt off, or just up and see what’s left of her chest. Had to be in her sixties, maybe seventies. Had been rode hard.

“Mebbe I got room for one night,” she said.

“Been a while for me,” said Clyde. “How ‘bout you?”

“You talkin’ ‘bout a party at the Y?”


“Sure baby, peace and love.” She nodded to the door behind her. “Why don’t you come on back and we’ll make something happen.” She stared at him, lowered her eyes and smiled.

“Not with that shotgun in my face.”

Grinning, he felt himself getting hard. She was a real dog, but would be warm and that’s all he needed. His wants were always just below the belt.

He never asked her name, but did get her T-shirt off. Her braces rattled a lot during sex. He had a hard time coming, but did, finally.

“Arrrrrrrruuuuh, hu, hu, hu,” she groaned.

Like fucking a robot, she made those metallic sounds, swore, scratched and bit his chest. Nearly killed him scraping with her braces. He had all kinds of cuts. She marked his face, back and his ass.