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Elliot Armstrong, the owner/operator of this particular ScatterGum franchise has been far too busy thinking up evermore ingenious excuses to keep his manager off his back by doing something other than the things he should be working on to post pointless blogshite.

Fortunately our readers won’t be left bereft because our good friends at Rhenium Press said they will pay ScatterGum a penny per page view if we chuck up this short extract from a forthcoming publication of theirs. ScatterGum stands to make about fifty pence out of this, too great an opportunity to pass up selling out on.

Take it to the bridge and all that Rhenium press.



Dead Six Times Over With the Bullet Dogs
A Colt Buchanan Western Yarn
From The Desk of Suede M. Loco




Colt Buchanan knew that fame and gunfightin’ were to be his dual vocations in life. Hell, he was even named after a kind of gun, which was itself named after a kind of wild and crazy horse. In Colt’s mind that’s what he was, deadly and untamed, a little reckless even.

In 45 years time the Groffst brewery will re-christen its flagging Shclappenshlager brew in the hopes that a second baptismal will wash away the beer’s reputation for resembling piss in both taste and appearance. Back then folks weren’t too fond of the Dutch (that’s what they called the Germans at the time because American folk have always been about as dumb as a sackload of putrid clams) or anything that came from the same place as the Duchies. Groffst needed a name thatwas tough and American. They chose the name Colt because it was tough and American; they named it after a kind of gun and a kind of crazy horse.
What they didn’t name it after was Colt Buchanan, who wouldn’t ever be famous for gunfightin’. Or much anything else for that matter.
The brew formerly known as Shclappenshlager’s similarities to a hobo’s butt sweat on a hot day was forgotten because it was cheap and people are stupid, lazy, tasteless and fools for a cool name. Colt was forgotten because he was cheap, stupid, lazy and a sucker for a cool name.
His life story was kinda tasteless when you got right down to it.

The juxtaposition between the two was so damn convenient it could’ve been made up by a lazy dime novel writer.

Back East Colt had called himself Bernie “Knuckles” Mckracken. His bare-knuckle fighting career had been spectacular in that only six fights had left the fool with only six teeth in his head. He decided to call it quits on the fight game the night he found out that on future fight cards he would be known as Bernie “Shitnuts” McKracken, after that time “Tiny Tartan” MacTavish had slugged Bernie in the guts with such force that Bern’s bowels gave up the ghost and he crapped all over his own balls.

The way Bernie saw it a man was only about as good as his name and if he could square off against a dude with his fists, lose and still get paid then the rewards for squaring off against a dude with a gun must be even greater.
Besides Colt Buchanan was a very good name. Especially for a gunfighter.

He hadn’t reckoned that the consequences of losing against a dude with a gun could be a lead addition to his head. This was on account of him getting punched in the face so many times that he only had six teeth left in his head. Which is a lot of getting punched in the face in only six fights.




Award winning author of the "Badd Acid Voodoo Texas Chili Cookout Maaan" series of crime novels (currently the the only novels in the burgeoning Freakadecious Wire genre) and acclaimed after dinner speech maker, Suede M. Loco is a highly respected innovator and compulsive liar He works exclusively in the yarn telling media because “telling stories is a bitch, a bitch that’ll fuck and suck a buck ‘till his balls are shrivelled like a couple of sticky prunes. This buck ain’t got the strength in his back nor the juice in his pecker to take on a mistress. Luckily for Suede tellin’ stories is the bitch with the sweetest smellin’ cootch juice out there.”
When not masturbating whilst wearing a lab coat at work or doing writerly stuff, Suede M. Loco can often be found making up elaborate stories about his fighting prowess, training primates, crying in the street, writing hate mail to captive pandas, eating soup or inventing impractical crowd control weapons. He resides at his uncle's house in Stevenage, he is twenty seven and really likes writing about himself in the third person.