Donnybrook: A Novel by Frank Bill (English) Paperback Book

Description: Donnybrook by Frank Bill The Donnybrook is a three-day bare-knuckle tournament held on a thousand-acre plot out in the sticks of southern Indiana. Twenty fighters. One wire-fence ring. Fight until only one man is left standing while a rowdy festival of onlookers - drunk and high on whatevers on offer - bet on the fighters. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description The Donnybrook is a three-day bare-knuckle tournament held on a thousand-acre plot out in the sticks of southern Indiana. Twenty fighters. One wire-fence ring. Fight until only one man is left standing while a rowdy festival of onlookers - drunk and high on whatevers on offer - bet on the fighters. Jarhead is a desperate man whod do just about anything to feed his children. Hes also the toughest fighter in south-eastern Kentucky, and hes convinced that his ticket to a better life is one last fight with a cash prize so big itll solve all his problems. Meanwhile, theres Chainsaw Angus - an undefeated master fighter who isnt too keen on getting his face punched anymore, so he and his sister, Liz, have started cooking meth. And they get in deep. So deep that Liz wants it all for herself, and she might just be ready to kill her brother for it. One more showdown to take place at the Donnybrook. As we travel through the backwoods to get to the Donnybrook, we meet a cast of nasty, ruined characters driven to all sorts of evil, all in the name of getting their fix - drugs, violence, sex, money, honour. Author Biography Frank Bill is the author of the story collection Crimes in Southern Indiana, one of GQs favorite books of 2011 and a Daily Beast best debut of 2011. He lives and writes in southern Indiana. Donnybrook is his first novel. Review "Yes, the mayhem quotient is off the charts in Bills debut novel, but there is much more to Donnybrook than characters maimed and murdered in nightmarish ways. The cast is memorable, the dialogue crackles, the tension is unrelenting -- and it all happens for a reason. . . Youll be riveted by the depravity while marveling at Bills skill at telling this testosterone-fueled tale." --Dave Astor, The Washington Post "Bill is a master of conveying life in rural, blue-collar Middle America without pandering to or stereotyping his subjects. Rather, he writes with striking compassion for the kind of casually violent people youd want on your side during the apocalypse." --Brittany Shoot, The Rumpus "In the world of faces punched, crank snorted, guts shot, and whiskey pounded, Frank Bill is king, and Donnybrook sets him up as the poet laureate of the apocalypse. Steeped in nonstop action, dark human need, and the coming end of civility in America, this novel is a stunning debut from an author more than willing to hold society still while it stares in the mirror." --Christopher Krovatin, Revolver "Bill is one hell of a storyteller." --Kirkus "With an authority that reveals his many years in these rural towns, Frank Bill shows us in vivid details the places and sensations of life on the fringe . . . Above and beyond the fighting and betrayal--the broken arms, shattered teeth, and bloodstained canvas--Bill is able to make us care about these men. . . With an unflinching eye, Frank Bill has created a dark world, one of desperation and loss, showing us a part of the country, and humanity, that we would be smart to avoid." --Richard Thomas, The Nervous Breakdown "Bills work is stark and visual . . . He crafts the books many fight scenes with the grace of a choreographer, placing each character in the right place at the right time . . . The thought of what might come next [after Donnybrook] speaks to Bills ability to hook his readers and keep them coming back. Just dont expect to leave him without taking a beating." --Jeremy Estes, PopMatters Review Quote "Yes, the mayhem quotient is off the charts in Bills debut novel, but there is much more to Donnybrook than characters maimed and murdered in nightmarish ways. The cast is memorable, the dialogue crackles, the tension is unrelenting -- and it all happens for a reason. . . Youll be riveted by the depravity while marveling at Bills skill at telling this testosterone-fueled tale." --Dave Astor, The Washington Post " Bill is a master of conveying life in rural, blue-collar Middle America without pandering to or stereotyping his subjects. Rather, he writes with striking compassion for the kind of casually violent people youd want on your side during the apocalypse." --Brittany Shoot, The Rumpus "In the world of faces punched, crank snorted, guts shot, and whiskey pounded, Frank Bill is king, and Donnybrook sets him up as the poet laureate of the apocalypse. Steeped in nonstop action, dark human need, and the coming end of civility in America, this novel is a stunning debut from an author more than willing to hold society still while it stares in the mirror." --Christopher Krovatin, Revolver "Bill is one hell of a storyteller." -- Kirkus " With an authority that reveals his many years in these rural towns, Frank Bill shows us in vivid details the places and sensations of life on the fringe . . . Above and beyond the fighting and betrayal--the broken arms, shattered teeth, and bloodstained canvas--Bill is able to make us care about these men. . . With an unflinching eye, Frank Bill has created a dark world, one of desperation and loss, showing us a part of the country, and humanity, that we would be smart to avoid." --Richard Thomas, The Nervous Breakdown "Bills work is stark and visual . . . He crafts the books many fight scenes with the grace of a choreographer, placing each character in the right place at the right time . . . The thought of what might come next [after Donnybrook ] speaks to Bills ability to hook his readers and keep them coming back. Just dont expect to leave him without taking a beating." --Jeremy Estes, PopMatters Excerpt from Book 1 I cant feed my babies, Zeek and Caleb, from jail, Jarhead Earl thought. But this was his chance to give them a better life. He thumbed two more 12-gauge slugs into the shotguns chamber. The click of the first slug had echoed in Dote Conrads ears after hed handed the 12-gauge automatic with a full choke to Jarhead. The barrel raised, Jarhead said, "Put your hands high. Turn to me, slow." Dote couldve grabbed any one of the rifles or shotguns that lined the wall in front of him behind the counter of his gun shop. But none were loaded. He raised his hairy appendages. Spread them like a football fields goalposts. Hands level with his ears poking out of his brown truckers cap, faded rebel flag across the front. He wore a gray T-shirt. Red suspenders going down over his keg belly. Brass clips pinched the waistband of his camo pants. Said, "We got layaway if you cant buy it today. Deer seasons still a ways off." Jarhead said, "I aint buying shit. You walk to the end of the counter. Ill follow you to the safe in back. Less you got enough in the register." Everyone in Hazard knew Dote only deposited his sales once a month. Kept a safe and register packed with big bills. Had never kept a loaded pistol behind the counter for personal protection. There was never a need to worry about being robbed in a small-town gun shop out in the hills of southeastern Kentucky where, after first grade, everyone knew who theyd marry and have kids with. Dote tried, "Know times is tough. People out of work with the economy bein in a slump. Hear the state be hiring for the road crews real soon. Whatever it is you dont have aint gonna be got by doin whatever it is you plan on doin with that shotgun." Zeek and Calebs grit-smeared faces branded Jarheads mind with their whining- Is hungry, Dada. He didnt have time for Dotes recommendations. "Lets see what you got in the register first." "Jarhead, I cant-" Jarhead veered the barrel two feet away from Dote. Blew a hole in the wall. The shell hit the counter. Another fell into place. Dotes ears rang as he reached for the gun barrel. Jarhead pushed into the counter. Butted the hot barrel through Dotes hands. Stabbed it into Dotes coral nose like a spear. Cartilage popped. Dote hollered, "Shit!" Tears fell from his blinking eyes. Jarhead said, "I aint asking." Dote bent away from the barrel. His camo pants went dark in the crotch. Loose skin hanging from his arms wavered. Sweat creased the age spots of his forehead. He felt weak and idiotic, knowing that if he had a gun, hed shoot this thieving bastard. He waddled to the register, cursing to himself, whod have thought hed bring his own goddamned ammo. Punching a few buttons, he opened it with one hand while the other pinched his nose. Pulled a wad of twenties from the tray. Then a wad of tens and fives. Laid them on the glass counter. Jarhead ordered, "Count it so I can hear you." When Dote counted out one thousand dollars, Jarhead shouted, "Stop!" Half a stack of twenties remained. Dote spoke through his clogged nose. "You dont want it all?" "Dont need it all." Held the shotgun one-handed. Reached into his back pocket. Laid a plastic Walmart sack on the counter. "Put the one thousand in the sack." Dote stuffed the money into the sack. Blood from his busted nose dotted the bills he pushed to Jarhead, who grabbed the sack, said, "Lace your fingers behind your head. Back up. Turn around. Go into the back room." The thought of never seeing his wife, who ate fried chicken livers breaded with her mothers secret recipe and watched the Home Shopping Network on satellite while he ran the gun shop, sent a shock of worry through Dotes body. And he pleaded, "Come on now, wait!" Jarhead motioned the gun barrel. "Turn around!" Dote did. Walked sideways to the counters end, where Jarhead met the rear of his head. Pressed the barrel into it. Walked Dote through the curtain into the back room, where boxes of ammunition were stacked among crates of unopened rifles. Here was the fucking ammo he needed and Jarhead told him, "Get on your knees." Dotes face warmed with tears. Clear mucus mixed with blood. "Please!" he begged. "Please!" His knees cracked down onto the cold, hard concrete floor. Jarhead followed him with the still-warm barrel of the gun. Touched the rear of Dotes skull. Then Dote fell forward from the loud shudder that rippled through his body. * * * The mans flesh was charcoaled jelly. Flat dragged him from the house screaming, dropped him into the yard where he now lay with his arms spread like a deity next to a rusted tricycle. Swing set with no slide, no swings. Memories long abandoned. Smoke erupted from the flames behind them. Yellow and orange opened the night and devoured the old house. Flat spoke. "Got to take him to an ER." Angus cut his words. "ER will call the authorities. Two of you shouldve knowed better." Liz and Angus had left Beatle and Flat to watch a batch of meth cook while they met the second shift going, the third shift coming on, at the local auto parts factory. Itd be shutting its doors in six months because of a dying economy-men and women who skipped groceries, car payments, and rent. Passed eight-hour shifts jonesing for an escape, their next dopamine rush. The pinch-faced blisters with cooking-grease scalps, eyes punched into skulls like recessed lights, approached Anguss goose-shit green Pinto. Passed their wrinkled wages through the rolled-down window of his car. Angus sat like a shadow while Liz took the cash, obliged the workers with a gram of marrow-clenched godliness, wiring up each buyer with the feeling of macho-supremacy. It was how Angus had lived since the accident, and the surgery that had jumbled one side of his face into flesh puzzle pieces that no longer fit. Angus and Liz returned to the farmhouse. Found Flat out in the yard yammering that he and Beatle had crashed hard after too many days of tweaking. Left the lithium strips pulled from batteries boiling with Coleman fuel. Before Flat could rattle Beatle awake, the fuel overheated. Off-gassed. Ignited Beatle. Next thing he knew he was pulling the poor bastard to the yard. Now, Beatle lay digging at his oily burn and knifing their eardrums with, "Help me! Please! Help!" Liz questioned, "So what we gonna do with him then?" Angus ran a hand into his bibs. Removed a tool for killing. "The shit you doing?" Flat demanded. "Putting your mutt brother out of his misery." Beatles begging moistened and bounced from the soil. Angus turned the pistol to Beatles singed hair and words found silence. Flat stutter-stepped. Said, "Motherfuck-" Angus raised the .45 to Flats ash-smudged face. Pulled the trigger. Red parted white. Flat lost his shape, fell to the earth. Liz turned away. Shook her head of chocolate-vanilla-swirled dreads. Fought tears and rattled, "Now … what?" Angus slid the warm piece of protection back into his pocket. Said, "We gotta get before the county boys show up. Finger us into a long jail sentence. Go find another abandoned house to squat. Go get with your pill man. We gotta start over fore theres no jobs left down here, fore peoples money runs out." * * * The shotgun blast had rattled the old man from his sleep that morning. The face on the receiving end had been unclear. The person whod held the gun was the same one hed been dreaming about for some time now. A sturdy male that laid miles to back road stone, jogging in the evening sun. Then hed chiseled a beating into a stuffed military bag strung from a tree or peppered another humans build with his fists, knees, and elbows to a host of splinter-faced men sloshing booze and laying down the wagers for a winner. He was a fighter associated with the nickname Jarhead Earl. Thered been days when hed dreamt of sunken faces with growling bellies. Two infant boys and a female. The woman had been pained by her family. Shed thumbed a lid from a bottle. Shook pills into her palm, chewed them like Chiclets. The kids had sat in a yard of soil patched by dead grass. They played on a makeshift swing-set with a bad case of rust that had come on like acne. But when the fighter came to them, they kindled warm, as if nothing else mattered. It was now well after dark, Purcell twisted the cap from the bottle of Kessler, poured it into his coffee mug devoid of coffee. Placing the images that he knew were pieces of a puzzle together in his mind, just as hed been doing for months. He lit a Marlboro, knowing there was a shit-storm forming and hed be right in the middle of it, but he didnt know how, he was still waiting on that to take shape. * * * Flies nested and gnats hummed around the dark odor that floated from the bodies lying in the late-night humidity. Flames had taken the houses walls and roof, replaced them with a carbon Description for Library Bills debut story collection, Crimes in Southern Indiana, raised a collective gasp. So pay attention to this first novel, which portrays a bloody three-day bare-knuckle fight in isolated southern Indiana called the Donnybrook. As bettors clamor, 20 fighters open the fight, but only one is left unbowed. Details ISBN0374532893 Author Frank Bill Short Title DONNYBROOK Language English ISBN-10 0374532893 ISBN-13 9780374532895 Media Book Format Paperback Birth 1974 Year 2013 Publication Date 2013-03-05 Imprint Farrar, Straus & Giroux Inc Subtitle A Novel Place of Publication New York Country of Publication United States AU Release Date 2013-03-05 NZ Release Date 2013-03-05 US Release Date 2013-03-05 UK Release Date 2013-03-05 Pages 256 Publisher Farrar, Straus & Giroux Inc DEWEY 813.6 Audience General We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:51059455;

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