Short Fiction - One Night at the Titty Bar (Explicit Content)

This short story features characters from my novels
Trailer Park Trash & Vampires and Dirty Southside Jam

One Night at the Titty Bar (Explicit Content)
by James Wayland

It was a hot and humid night, the kind that some might call muggy and others might call miserable.  The ones who pegged it as miserable were the ones to ask a question of if an honest answer was desired.  Mosquitos were hard at work, doing their best to make the soggy heat and the damp funk a bit more unbearable.  Wet clothes clung to flesh while faces dripped sweat, but none of this was uncommon for Tallahassee in the burning heart of summer.  Those who had endured some of the worst summers on record here wouldn’t have been impressed at all, but a boy from Bogut might think that he had stumbled into the seventh circle of hell.

Speaking of which, Billie Boyd, better known as Blue, was trying hard not to spray the interior of Bama’s prized ‘67 Nova with the contents of his stomach, but that had precious little to do with the heat.  No, the heat hadn’t made him queasy, but it damn sure wasn’t helping with the situation and Blue was thinking that he was probably going to lose this fight before the night was over.  There would be puke, and Blue really hated puking.      

His long hair was held back with a pink bandana and his eyes were bloodshot.  There were dark circles beneath those eyes and his weary gaze aged him beyond his years.  His clothes weren’t doing much better.  Blue’s tropical shirt might have made Magnum P.I. proud when Tom Selleck was in his prime, but it was now a relic.  It benefitted some when compared to the pair of cutoff jean shorts laced with holes and stains hanging low on Blue’s waist.  The stoner lurched forward, clamping a hand over his face to stop the vomit, but it was only a dry-heave.    

Bama eyed him with some concern. 

The big bastard was clad in a little tank-top, but the heat hadn’t stopped him from wearing his leather pants.  Per his custom, Bama had enough gold on to turn a rapper’s head, and he was dressed entirely in black.  Bama gave the wheel a spin, sliding his Nova into the parking lot.  The car was a vision in cherry red, a true classic that Bama loved more than he could ever love any person. 

Neon lights washed over them, reflecting a garish scene on the purring Chevy’s waxed hood and gleaming windshield.  The bar’s sign featured a naked woman twirling a lasso over her head, her proud breasts boasting enormous green dollar signs for nipples.  This garish pink, blue, and green monument to stripping only added to Blue’s discomfort.  He was not a fan of this sort of joint, but Bama practically lived at places like this.

Strip clubs weren’t all bad, but Blue preferred the nicer establishments where he didn’t find himself dwelling on germs and disease.  When he was surrounded by naked women and he couldn’t think of anything but hand sanitizer, well then, what exactly was the point?  He wouldn’t mind jumping some of the strippers at the classy clubs, but they weren’t dishing it out, and the dirty strumpets who were ready to go at these tawdry affairs weren’t getting anywhere near Blue’s jewels.  That was just the nature of the game.  Spending more for less gave him peace of mind.  Some say a single battle with scabies can change the way a man thinks, and two can scar him for life.

Occasionally, Bama took him someplace nice, but more often than not they found one of these tawdry places out in the boonies.  If Blue had to take a dump at some point, he was certain to use enough toilet paper to line the walls in his efforts to cover the seat.  It was either that or hover, and he had learned that drunk men don’t hover well.

 “You all right?”  Bama wondered.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re pondering some heavy shit over there.”

“Nah.”

Bama thought this over for a moment while massaging the steering wheel with his big mitts and squinting.  “What?  You don’t want to talk about it?”

“I said I’m fine.”

The big man shrugged.

Blue was learning a lot about the hard bastard sitting beside him, a brute who could be one mean son of a bitch.  Yet Bama was capable of many things, and for the most part he was a genuinely likable fellow.  He was warm and he could be surprisingly generous.  It was easy to forget that he could sink to deplorable lows with ease, just like he was shifting gears in his beloved car. 

Bama scared Blue because the wiry stoner knew the big man could commit any crime and spend the night at the bar without so much as a twinge of remorse.  He could go places that scared the fuck out of Blue and it didn’t bother the big mother.  It didn’t bother that fucker not one iota.  That was frightening.

Of course, that wasn’t all Blue was figuring out, he was also learning that he himself wasn’t cut out for this sort of life.  Truthfully, that was no surprise, and it didn’t count for much, seeing as how he had no way out that didn’t involve an anonymous grave at sea. 

It was a damn shame. 

He hadn’t asked for any of this, he had stumbled headlong into the life.  He had put his toes in the muck, thinking he would be able to wash it off, but it didn’t work like that.  He had been consumed by it, and ever since he took the money and his first lonely step down this wicked path, his luck had soured.  He had suffered one bad break after another, and the time had come when he clearly felt that he was on the cusp of execution.  Yes, he was in a bind when he took up with the big madman who was now parking his beloved Nova, but sometimes it seemed that the noose had actually grown tighter during the last several months. 

Bama checked his reflection in the mirror, using both hands to tidy up his unruly black mane.  “Lookin’ good, baby,” he purred.

The big man chuckled as he exited the sleek vehicle, pausing long enough to run his hand across the Nova’s smooth finish.  “This is my kind of night,” he said as he started forward, his boots echoing on the asphalt.  He was obviously feeling it.  That was one of Bama’s gifts.  The man could always find his groove quickly.  “Care to drown your sorrows, amigo?”

Blue had no choice but to follow, so he did. 

 “You sure you’re okay?”

“Biscuits and gravy.”

The big man stopped, frowning.  “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means I’m just fine and dandy,” Blue answered, offering up a shit-eating grin. 

“Biscuits and gravy.  That’s fucking retarded.”

The two men started walking again.

Bama put his arm around Blue’s shoulder, pulling him close.  “Listen up, kid, ditch the shit.  Ain’t nobody got time for that.  We’re going to have a good time here.  This is a cool joint.  Lighten up, my man, you know, live a little bit.”

“Sure thing,” Blue mumbled.

“I’m serious.  There’s a girl who works here, Blue, her name is Cindy, and she has the goods, my friend.  She has the goods like no other broad you could imagine.  I’m telling you, this woman is unbelievable.  Smokin’ hot!  If she’s out there working the floor, you have to get a lap-dance from her.  I demand it.  Unbelievable, this chick is, just amazing.  And if she likes you, she’ll bite your fucking cock right through your pants.”  Bama arched his eyebrows.

“That’s just what I look for in a woman.”

The big man laughed, shoving Blue away.  “Sometimes you can be a real asshole, you know that?”

For an instant, Blue thought the moment had arrived, and he braced himself, knowing that he was about to throw up.  The moment passed, and Blue almost managed to grin.  “Yeah, well I ain’t the only one here with a card to that club,” he said at last.

“Shit.  I’m not an asshole, Blue.  I’m the big winner.” 

Four beers later, Blue was definitely in a better mood, and he was no longer feeling the urge to vomit.  He still felt a little off, but he was fighting through it.  What else was there to do? 

He was ready for another frosty, but he wasn’t keeping pace with Bama.  The big guy was truly in his element surrounded by booze and cheap broads, rubbing shoulders with hoods and swindlers who enjoyed the life just as much as the killer in black.  He hit every girl who passed with a line, an insult, or a little pat on the rump.  He gave every man who dared to give him a second glance an earful.  Basically, he was the baddest man in the building and he knew it, so he behaved as such.

Blue drifted in his wake, looking down when crooks eyed him with disdain or approached as friends.  He made nice with the ladies (this wasn’t the appropriate term for women who worked at this dump, but Blue was raised proper) and he didn’t dare put his hands on any of them.  He was a country boy at heart, but he wasn’t just being a gentleman.  He was thinking about his personal hygiene as much as anything else.

A wisp of a girl with a haunted gaze and a colony of fever blisters just below her nostril told him that she would “party down” with him for sixty dollars.  He told her that he wasn’t feeling all that hot, which was the truth, and even added a “maybe some other time” with no real effort to be convincing.  She uttered a bored goodbye and set off in search of another mark.

The music was loud, an aggressive thump that was devoid of style or grace.  It seemed appropriate for the girls gyrating on the stage, but the combination of the electronic rumble and the strobe lighting made Blue queasy all over again. 

He closed his eyes and saw that poor bastard they had deep-sixed this afternoon, unable to shrug off the frumpy little guy’s pleading eyes as he begged them to let him go, going on and on about his wife and his little girl.  Blue wanted to forget all about it; he didn’t want to keep picturing Bama humming nonchalantly as he trussed the crying man up and dumped him overboard with a cement block for company, but he couldn’t help it.  Blue was having a hard time tearing his thoughts away from that grim scene, and he kept coming back to that one little detail that unnerved him more than anything else.  Bama had hummed.  He had hummed while the poor guy begged.  He had hummed the whole time.  He had clapped Blue on the shoulder when it was finished, still humming, and he had hummed while Blue sat mute during the return trip to shore.     

He didn’t know if he was going to be able to drink it away this time, and he knew he wasn’t cut out for this kind of life, but he didn’t have any choice.  Maybe he would keep faking it until he was no different from the savage killer who had taken him under his wing, if such a thing was possible.  Maybe he was damning himself to hell with every second that passed.

Maybe he was already there.

“There she is,” Bama said, taking him by the arm and directing his attention toward an absolute beauty with short blonde hair that appeared white under the bright lights.  Her body was a marvel in the flesh, her face was fit for an angel, and she moved with a sense of purpose.  Her sure gaze suggested that she owned the men she was dancing for, and her charisma was impossible to ignore. 

Well, maybe it was possible to let the grim scene from this afternoon go.  For a little bit, at least.  “Holy shit.”

Bama winked at him.  “That’s what I’m talking about.  She’s hotter than two mice fucking in a furnace on the sun.”

Blue had to admit that the woman was a particularly unique specimen.  He couldn’t tear his gaze away from her.  Cindy’s shapely hips and her delicate naval made his heart race, and her feline power was only enhanced by her wanton gaze and the tantalizing sheen of sweat glistening on her taut skin as she swayed before him.  She was a woman who knew just what she was capable of, and she appeared capable of damn near anything. 

Blue wiped his chin to make sure that he wasn’t drooling.

Her eyes found him and she delicately chewed her bottom lip.  Blue instantly fell deeper under her spell.  She was a goddess. 

“Save me,” he pleaded.

            Two hours later Blue was definitely drunk, and he was definitely having a good time.  He was no longer dwelling on the dead man and the wet grave that poor bastard had inherited.  Blue felt great, and for the time being, he liked this place—and perhaps even this life—almost as much as Bama did.

            He had already bought two lapdances from Cindy and he was eagerly awaiting a third.  She had indeed bitten his cock through his pants, and he had enjoyed it.  The second time she danced for him, she had also draped her legs over his shoulders, slid her pink thong aside, and fingered herself inches from his face.  Her shiny stiletto heels had pressed against his back while her spiky hair had poked his groin as she deftly arched backward, her slender form growing taut as she contorted her luscious body and her finger plundered her wet slit, her strong right hand gripping his thigh for support. 

Then she had turned and slid to the floor with all the grace of a serpent, giving him a sublime view of her gorgeous behind that he would remember for the rest of his life.  After that, she stood and leaned over him, pressing her breasts against his face.  Her nipples were so hard they were like pink pebbles adorning those sublime mounds, and Blue actually found himself growing faint as she eased into his lap once more.  Perhaps she giggled as she ground her pelvis against him--he was feeling too warm and fuzzy to know or care.

Two other girls had approached him as Cindy had made her rounds, and while he had paid one of them for a dance, it had been a poor substitute for the work of the goddess who had enchanted him.

Yes, Bama had been right about Cindy, that much was certain.  The woman was an angel who had descended from heaven and taken a job at one of the sleaziest clubs in Florida.  She had apparently come to alleviate all of his concerns with her heavenly face, incredible figure, and her amazing skills, and thus far the mission had been a stunning success.  She was perhaps the finest finger-banging agent of the lord he had ever happened upon.

“Fuckin’ A,” he said to anyone who was listening.

Even as he reflected on her considerable prowess, she approached him again, smiling, her sultry gaze immobilizing him.  His dick got hard as soon as she placed her hand on his shoulder.  “I like you,” she said.

“I like you too.”

She laughed.  “You’re cute.”

“You’re cuter.”

“They say the third time is the charm.”

“I’m all yours,” Blue answered, awash in a sea of pure bliss.  Perhaps this life had never been better.

She leaned in closer and nibbled his ear just as someone screamed from somewhere within the club.  This sudden interruption was no playful shout or raucous catcall either, it was a bloodcurdling howl.  Cindy paused as another wretched shriek cut through the thumping club music and the unruly murmur of conversation.  Blue shoved the heavenly stripper aside, his blood turning cold.  A rush of fear every bit as massive as a roaring wave crashed into him even as he rose, his mouth hanging agape. 

There was another cry, this one a pitiful moan, and now just about everyone was taking notice, scanning the torrid scene for any potential threat.  There came a final pitiful whelp and a gangly man with a long beard came stumbling out of one of the private rooms. 

The man’s face was wet with blood and his eyes were fiery pits of malice.  He was stumbling like a drunk, caught in the grip of a strange euphoria, but he quickly regained his composure, eying those who gawked at him with disdain.   

            A stout bald man with a multitude of tattoos and an impish whore in a flimsy gown who must have been companions rushed to join the man with blood dripping from his tangled beard.  Now several people were screaming and some were already shoving their way through the crowd of onlookers transfixed by the unlikely scene playing out right before their very eyes.

Even as a bulky bouncer with a face like a pitbull stormed through that impromptu gathering, demanding an explanation for the outburst, Blue watched the outlandish trio led by the man with the dripping beard confer.  He saw the man with the bloody beard’s eyes flicker like a flame and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. 

“What’s going on?’  Cindy asked, gripping his arm.

He pulled away.  She tried to cling to him and Blue shrugged her off.  “Get out of here,” he said.

“Why?”  Her power had evaporated in the face of her terror.  Whereas she had owned this space only minutes before, now she was like a frightened animal looking for comfort and reassurance.  She looked older, and weaker, and Blue suddenly felt sorry for her.  Surely she wanted more from this life, but there was no time for that now.

 “Get out of here,” Blue hissed.

            He was drunk and he had always been paranoid, but he had also been in his fair share of scrapes, and he was quick to recognize trouble.  This was trouble of the highest order.

            He looked for Bama and saw the killer in black making his way back from the bar toting a couple of mugs.  He was watching the crowd that was inevitably gathering around the bouncer and the three weirdos, but hotshot that he was, Bama was still going about his business in his usual nonchalant manner.  He didn’t believe there was anyone here who posed a threat to him. 

            “What the fuck is going on here?”  The big bouncer with the pitbull face yelled, his beefy chest swelling as he confronted the curious trio.  As the onlookers closed in, Blue could no longer see past the strippers and lowlifes who had crowded together to watch the coming melee. 

There was a loud grunt followed by a vulgar tearing sound.  The crowd seemed to ripple as someone screamed, and then there was an abundance of screaming and everyone was running.  They fell over one another, writhing and clawing, howling as they sought escape, blindly stampeding toward the exits.

            Bama dumped the mugs and grabbed Blue by the arm.  “Fuck me running,” the killer shouted.  “Let’s bail.”

            “Damn straight,” Blue readily agreed.

            He and Bama slipped into the mob running for the door, riding the surging tide of hustling bodies.  Even as they fought their way forward, something hurtled above them and landed in their midst. 

Now the people in front of them were screaming as well.  A bloody body tumbled into Bama and he shrugged it off.  The stripper in front of Blue, a tall redhead with pale skin and a cobra tattooed on her lower back, abruptly turned and plowed into him, causing both of them to fall. 

            “Get off of me,” the stripper shouted, her knee finding Blue’s jaw as she scuttled across him in her panic.  Her heel jabbed him in the throat as she surged to her feet and then she was gone.

            Bama was reaching for Blue and then there was a blur that could have been movement and the big man was no longer there.  Blue turned his head and saw Bama’s bulk slamming into the wall ten feet away.  Bama came crashing down on the floor with a groan and then Blue lost sight of the big mother as the unruly mob pushed him forward. 

            Blue was very drunk, but he thought he saw the man with the bloody beard grin at him before a dark shape crashed into him at amazing speed, tackling him.  He was slammed into the floor, the air violently forced from his lungs, and Blue began to gag and cough as a dark shape straddled him.  Now he puked, splattering the bloody shape that had assaulted him with an abundance of vomit.  There were so many screams echoing off the walls now that it sounded like he had stumbled into a nightmare.

            He saw teeth in his face and Blue screamed, loosing himself in raw terror.  At once the mayhem was shattered by a thunderous gunshot.  The banshee wail of a chainsaw filled his ears and then Blue clearly saw the fiend straddling him, a monster with gore dripping from his bearded chin.  As this gruesome figure drew back, trying in vain to shield his face as another shotgun blast rang out, Blue began to tremble.  The bloody lunatic was flung away in a splash of crimson, rolling across the floor with a whimper. 

Blue rotated his head and beheld a tall man with a heavy mustache wielding a sawed-off shotgun.  This angry savior had a black headband on and his eyes were shimmering pools of heat.  Stubble lined his chin and his lips were compressed into a thin line.

A lithe young man sporting a manic grin bounded around the man with the mustache and this quick-footed daredevil came racing toward Blue with a chainsaw rumbling in his grasp.  Blue screamed as the young man easily leapt over him and he turned to watch this warrior plunge his roaring chainsaw into the writhing fiend who had tackled him only a moment before.  The lithe man destroyed his adversary with a few twists of his bucking weapon, a crimson mist staining him red as he deftly beheaded the bastard.  He kicked the bloody head across the floor, chuckling when a stripper whose shapely legs had been splashed with blood began to sob. 

Then the impish whore Blue had seen with the bearded man earlier slammed into the young man, knocking his chainsaw from his grasp and sending him sprawling.  People were still grappling toward the exits and Blue was violently shoved aside, but he continued to watch as the little woman advanced on her prey.

“Shit,” the lithe warrior muttered, quickly drawing a knife from his belt, but she took hold of his wrist as he tried to strike.

Blue sensed movement from behind, and even as his head swiveled in that direction, the tall man hurtled him and closed the distance in three loping strides.  He was pulling the trigger even as he thrust his shotgun into the bitch’s face.  Her skull exploded, her brains splattering everything and everyone within a ten-foot radius.

The young man was now drenched in gore.  “Thanks,” he muttered, his hair matted to his head with blood that wasn’t his own.

His tall cohort smiled and helped him up.  “You’re welcome, T.”

Blue heard more chainsaws and he turned to see a sleek figure with long black hair holding the stout bald man and his fascinating array of tattoos at arm’s length.  The man was fighting to free himself, twisting left an right while he lashed out wildly with his feet, but the sleek figure didn’t seem to notice.  While the stout man was suspended in mid-air, two young men who resembled one another enough to be brothers dismembered this third member of the sinister trio, their buzzing chainsaws ripping through flesh and scattering limbs. 

There was blood everywhere, and once the men with chainsaws finished their gory demolition, there was no sound save a whispering murmur of disbelief.  Bodies littered the floor and the club was now filled with faces that spoke of shock and dismay.  People were still scuttling out through the exits.

Blue didn’t see Bama anywhere.

The sleek figure with long black hair and the young man were leading the tall man with the shotgun and the two men with chainsaws toward the back door, and without knowing why, Blue followed them all the way out into the parking lot.  They were moving quickly, so he had to run to keep up with them.  As he trailed them across the asphalt, the tall man with the shotgun turned and took aim at him, stopping him in his tracks.

“Take me with you,” Blue said, surprising even himself.

The tall man didn’t respond.

“Please.”

The young man had doubled back as the others climbed into a hulking black van, and this blood-soaked warrior sized Blue up quickly.

“He said wants to come with us,” the tall man advised.

            “Bring him along for the ride,” came the cheerful reply.



Author's Note: 
This short story is a follow-up of sorts to my novels Trailer Park Trash & Vampires and Dirty Southside Jam.  It also serves as a bridge to what comes next for these unlikely heroes.  Stay tuned for more on that front.  For more on those books and my work in general, please visit jameswayland.com. 

Meet Luke Wilson and Devil Wood (Baller excerpt #2)

The pitch is simple enough: Baller is an Agatha Christie mystery on acid, with a suspended NBA player and a porn star filling in for Hercule Poirot.  These unique pals are attending a private party at a posh resort in the mountains when a blizzard rolls in.  The lights go out, a murder is committed, and things quickly spiral out of hand.  None of the prestigious guests who have gathered at WinterCrest are safe.  A game with no rules is being played and deadly gifts have been scattered throughout this remote retreat.  Can our pair of unlikely heroes figure out who is responsible and save the day, or will they suffer a gruesome fate?

I provided an excerpt in my previous blog on Baller that details what happens when one of the deadly gifts mentioned in the pitch is opened by one of the guests at WinterCrest.  You can enjoy that excerpt here.  Today, I'm sharing another excerpt that provides an introduction to the main characters of Baller, Luke Wilson and Devil Wood.

An excerpt from Baller (Warning: Adult Content)

 

Jagged black spikes loomed on either side of the winding road, proud monuments of earth and stone thrusting up into a bleak winter sky that was all but obscured by the falling snow.  The road was narrow and curvy, a winding strip encompassed in metal guardrails that would give way upon impact, spilling into the rocky crevices that beckoned below.

Luke tightened his grip on the wheel; he still had complete faith in the Jeep and his ability to operate it in these conditions, but he had never seen a storm gain strength and tenacity with such speed.  He was reminded of a dog devouring food at a frantic pace, eating as though such an opportunity may never present itself again.  As they continued on, a white haze seemed to overtake them, the blinding mist swelling as the snowfall intensified.  The wind ripped through the night, driving the precipitation into swirling torrents that danced through the air. 

“Dude, can you even see to drive?”  His passenger wondered.

Luke smirked.  “It’s not so bad.”

“Shit.   It’s a good thing you’re the one behind the wheel.  It’s really coming down.  These roads will be covered in no time.”

“They salt these roads.”  Luke continued to crane forward, focusing on the narrow stretch of pavement that was quickly being blanketed. 

“Well, they don’t salt them enough.  I think we’re going to wind up spending the night at this bullshit affair.  If we even get there.” 

“We’ll get there.  We grew up in West Virginia, man.  Bluefield’s our hometown.  This ain’t nothing new for either of us.  As long as we don’t brake too hard or yank the steering wheel, we’ve got no worries.”

“We?  Ain’t no we, man.  It’s all you, I’m just watching.  And praying.”

“We’ve got no worries.”

“Maybe you don’t.”

“I always thought you were fearless.”

“Shit.  That was before I moved to California.”

“Well, this ain’t California,” Luke said, straining to see.  He let off the gas a little, squinting as he peered through the falling snow.  “We’ll be there in no time,” he said, but there was a trace of uncertainty in his voice that made it seem as though he was trying to convince himself as much as his passenger.

“If you say so.”

“You know you didn’t have to come.”

“Yeah right.  The invitation you received was issued for you and a guest.  If you show up by yourself, everyone there will think you’re an asshole who doesn’t have a girl or any real friends.  And anyways, it’s been far too long, man.  I want to hang out with you.”

“Yeah,” Luke agreed.  “It has been a long time.  A lot has changed.”  He was clad in a pair of jeans and a black sweater.  He hadn’t shaved his beard in almost a month now and it was becoming unruly, but it suited him.  His leather jacket was in the backseat and he was wearing his favorite boots.  No matter how many zeros they put on his checks, Luke would always be a country boy at heart.   The private party they were en route to was a first class affair, but this was as nice as he cared to dress on a trip to the mountains.

As he veered into a curve, Luke worked the wheel a little too hard and the tires lost their grip on the slippery pavement for an instant.  “Shit,” he muttered, gingerly tapping the brake pedal as he nudged the wheel.   

The tires regained their traction and they came through it without a hitch, but his friend was shaking his head. 

“Yeah,” he said with a grin.  “No worries.”

Luke shrugged.  “That was nothing.”

His passenger responded with a chuckle. 

“Look,” Luke said, eager to talk about something else, “I was thinking about something.  Do I really have to call you Devil?  I mean, is that what you’re going to call yourself tonight?”

 “Why not?  That’s what everyone calls me now.” 

“Well, I mean, why not just go by Ricky around me?”

“Ricky?  Who the fuck is Ricky?  It would be Rick by now anyway, wouldn’t it?  We’re not kids anymore, dude.  Nobody calls me Ricky.”

“What does your mother call you?”

“She stopped talking to me a few years back.  But in her letters, she refers to me as Richard.”

“Well, maybe I could call you Richard too.”

Devil shot him a dirty look.  “Get the fuck out of here.  Richard is my father.”

“What does your mother call him?”

“They haven’t said a word to each other in over three years, but that’s another story.  He calls me Dick, but only because he knows that I hate it.  You can imagine how thrilled he is with my new life, but it is what it is, bro.  Shit, it’s not like we were the happiest family on the block anyway.”

“There’s an understatement.”

“Like I said, it is what is.  I’m fine with it.  I’m Devil, man.  Fuck it.  You are what you do.  It ain’t a bad gig, I’m telling you.  Fuck man, we can’t all be ballers and shit.” 

Luke couldn’t suppress a chuckle of his own.  “What the fuck are you talking about, man?  We’re both ballers.”

Devil thought this over for a moment.  “Yeah, but you play ball in the big leagues and I ball chicks while the cameras roll.  Both are fantasies, but only one of them will make you rich.”

“You’re not doing so bad.”

“I’m doing okay.  What?  Am I supposed to think this will last forever?  Shit, man.  I’m on the road to nowhere and I’ve got my foot on the gas.  I mean, yeah, Randy Spears is still kicking, and hell, I used to jack off to shit with him in it.  Not because of him, you know, but I’m just saying.  He did this scene with Raylene in a bathtub that I used to blow up, man.  I totally wore out that spot on the tape.  Who knew you could bust a nut that big?  It was like he opened up a fire hose on that poor girl.”  Devil stopped talking long enough for a wistful longing to creep into his eyes.  “I loved that scene, man.  It was on a collection I had, one of those tapes with nothing but six hours of scenes.  Those were the best, man, just get rid of the lousy plots and enjoy the fucking.  Plus, they were funny because the scenes were taken from various movies so there would be little bits of dialogue that didn't make any sense taken out of context.  It just sounded like ridiculous dirty talk.  'Damn, baby, you're one hell of a good landlord.'  Shit like that.  Anyway, I think that one was called Hosed and it was probably the best collection I ever had.”

“You share too much.”

“Always have.  That probably says a lot about my career path.  Regardless, Randy Spears is an exception to the rule.  Most of us don’t make it nearly that long.  Guys, I mean.  A lot of us wind up impotent, broke, and strung out before we get to have a midlife crisis, and that’s no lie.”  This potential candidate for such a woeful fate was wearing pressed khakis and a delicate knit sweater with tan loafers.  His short blonde hair was carefully styled and he was clean-shaven.  He looked like someone who should have been featured prominently in the Ralph Lauren winter ad campaign.

Luke was forced to slow the mighty Jeep to a crawl as the road wound upward in a precarious series of wicked curves.  As he deftly worked the brakes and nursed the steering wheel, he found himself wondering why he had agreed to bring Devil along in the first place.  He had wanted to reunite with his boyhood pal, but his friend had changed a lot over the years.  This could turn out to be quite embarrassing if his old chum didn’t do a better job of censoring himself at the lodge.  His friend had obviously been in California for too long.

Devil was still prattling on, explaining some of the finer points of his lurid profession.  “It’s different for girls.  They last longer in the industry, and they’re the real stars anyway.  They make the real money and on most sets they call the shots.  If you’re doing a flick with a slit with clout and she ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy, man, you better believe that.”

“No shit?”  Luke wondered, immediately chastising himself for encouraging his friend.

“No shit.  Hell, some of the best directors are aging starlets who don’t want to lube up for a paycheck anymore.  They’re the real players in this industry.  Maybe one day I’ll get my chance to get cozy with one of them.  If you’re lucky enough to dazzle one of those dames and she starts using you steadily, that’s your ticket to the race right there.  That’s what I’m shooting for.  Who knows?  Maybe one day I’ll get there.”

Luke restrained himself from commenting, hoping the conversation would end there, but Devil continued, absorbed in his commentary.  “Like Nina Hartley, man.  Nina’s a golden oldie, she’s been doing this as long as I can remember.  I bet my dad used to jack off to her.”

Luke shook his head.  This was definitely going to be interesting.  Censorship didn’t appear to be a concern for Devil.  Luke was starting to think that the aloof country boy he had grown up with had been irreversibly altered by his vulgar profession.

“Forget it,” Devil continued, though Luke had lost track of whatever it was that he was supposed to be forgetting.  There wasn’t a point to this winding opus, there was a random series of points.  Undeterred, the porn star poet marched on, gesturing boldly as he spoke.  “It doesn’t really matter. Though Nina is definitely one of the hottest blondes of all time.  That ass?  Terrific.  A perfect ten.  Maybe the best ass of all time, and certainly the best ass I’ve ever seen.  You could decorate your house with pictures of that woman’s ass and no one would ever object.”

Luke arched his eyebrows.  “I know a few people who probably wouldn’t like it all that much.  Like my mom, for instance.”  

"Your mom might surprise you." 

. . . 

Baller excerpt (Warning: Adult Content)

Baller revolves around a suspended NBA player and an old friend of his who earns a living starring in pornographic videos.  These unique pals are attending a private party at a posh resort in the mountains when a blizzard rolls in.  The lights go out, a murder is committed, and things quickly spiral out of hand.  None of the prestigious guests who have gathered at WinterCrest are safe.  A game with no rules is being played and deadly gifts have been scattered throughout this remote retreat.  Can our pair of unlikely heroes figure out who is responsible and save the day, or will they suffer a gruesome fate?

Here's a neat little excerpt from Baller that details what happens when a party guest who is up to no good stumbles upon one of the deadly gifts mentioned above:

An excerpt from Baller (Warning: Adult Content)           

Tommy shrieked.  He didn’t know what he had expected to see, but it certainly wasn’t a nest crawling with massive hornets.  To make matters worse, by opening the box he had disturbed an amber vial that had been rigged to spray.  He had been doused with a colorless liquid with an obnoxious smell.  Though Tommy couldn’t have known this, the chemical was known as 1-Pentanol.  It was the primary ingredient in the liquid commonly known as “hornet alarm pheromone,” and it was driving the big insects crazy.  Like many of their social peers, hornets can attack with the strength of the entire nest, identifying their prey with the pheromone.  

This agitated bunch was composed of some extremely large hornets, some over two inches long with heads as big as one of the rotund man’s fingernails.  The fat hornets were burgundy in color and they had thick yellow bands on their swollen abdomens. 

He reached for the lid, but it was too late.  They were coming for him, quickly vacating the box and buzzing angrily as they swarmed toward the startled man.  He abandoned his perch on the bed and screamed.

The alcohol in his bloodstream had made him jumpy.  Without thinking, he raised his weapon and fired three quick shots at the hornets that had taken flight before he emptied the clip in the box. 

He may have killed a couple of them, but that was debatable.  One thing was certain, he had definitely agitated all of the survivors even further.  Tommy flung himself at the door, knocking it open and slamming it so hard that it didn’t latch and instead rebounded back toward him, the hornets gliding through the opening.

“Son of a bitch!”  He screeched.

He turned and jumped for the stairs, landing awkwardly and flailing for balance.  He lost that battle and went tumbling down the staircase with a series of muffled shouts.  In addition to accumulating an array of bruises on his torso, he sprained his left ankle, tweaked his left knee, and nearly dislocated his right shoulder in the process. 

As he tried to stand, collapsing to his knees with a moan, one of the hornets finally caught up to him, stinging him on his hand as he flailed at it.  Another hornet stung him on his forehead.  The pain was instant and Tommy squealed even as he clapped his hand down on the hornet, trapping it against his flesh.  The little fucker stung him again and even bit him as he started to squash it, the bulging abdomen crunching loudly as yellow fluid that looked like mucus oozed out. 

Tommy seethed as he ground the hornet into mush.  Another hornet stung him on the back and he flailed again, disrupting the angry horde.

“Motherfuckers,” he roared.  “You dirty little motherfuckers!”

He dove and rolled, scurrying toward the money stowed by the front door.  The hornets continued to bear down on him, attacking as one, a buzzing monstrosity that thrived on rage.  One of them stung him on his lower back and he screamed again.  The stings were agonizing, far more painful than any that he had ever suffered before. 

Tommy was clawing his way forward, screaming.  He grabbed the money and thrust his shoulder into the door, knocking it open as he lunged out into the cold.  He slammed the door, spittle flying from his lips, but two of the hornets were out there with him, zipping around his face as he ducked and fell, sinking into the snow. 

The hornets were obviously disoriented by the cold and the gusting wind, but they were still coming.

“Damn you!  Damn you to hell!”  Tommy was in great pain and he was losing it.

He ripped his jacket off and used it like a whip, downing both of the vicious insects with a single clumsy strike.  He beat the jacket against the snow and stomped the area in which the hornets had fallen, dancing on their corpses as he trampled them, burying the big bastards in the compacted snow.

“You don’t like that shit, do you?  No, you don’t like that at all.  Lousy motherfuckers!  What in the fuck is going on here?  Son of a bitch!” 

For a few minutes he could do nothing but pace, furious, his body running so hot as a result of his fury, the multiple stings, and the booze coursing through him that he didn’t notice the brutal wind or the frigid cold. 

He was lost in a flurry of emotion, his beautiful plan marred by a situation so absurd that he couldn’t believe he had fallen for it.  Worse yet, even though he had been effectively victimized by this ridiculous scheme, he had no idea as to the intention behind such a ludicrous ploy.  He still had the fucking money and no one was moving in to take it at this, his greatest moment of weakness. 

Was it mindless terror?  A sick joke with no greater meaning?  That wasn’t likely.  It seemed like too much of a coincidence on this particular night, the night he had made his play and took his rightful place in this world.

Tommy was pondering what to do next when Lamont Fields finally eased the big double-deuce into the driveway.  Tommy was so out of sorts that he hadn’t even heard that gigantic machine’s engine rumbling as it approached.

Fields stepped out to greet him, concerned by his grave appearance.  “Damn, man, you all right?”

“No,” Tommy fumed.  “I am not all right.  I am not all right at all.  I am very, very pissed off right now.  As a matter of fact, I am so pissed off that if I were you, and I liked having my teeth in my mouth, I would probably just shut up and get back in the fucking truck.  And I probably wouldn’t say another word tonight if I damn well didn’t have to.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, I-“

“I said shut the fuck up and get back in the fucking truck!  Mouth closed, asshole!  Do you understand?”

Lamont could only look perplexed.

“Answer me!  Do you understand?”

“But I-“

Tommy slapped him.  Hard.  Fields wasn’t a man accustomed to such treatment and the indignation in his eyes was hard to miss, but Tommy couldn’t have cared less.  “Nod your motherfucking head, asshole.”

Lamont glared at him, but Tommy knew his place in the grand scheme of things and he was unafraid.  “Do you understand?”

Fields took a step back and nodded his head.

Dirty Southside Jam (Kickstarter details and an excerpt)

 As I work to publish my second novel, Dirty Southside Jam, I have started a fundraiser on Kickstarter.  Obviously, I would be grateful for your support, so I'm providing a link here:

 Dirty Southside Jam on Kickstarter

You can learn all about the book and my goals for the fundraiser, as well as contribute, just by clicking that link.  Just think: you would be helping a starving artist to take the next step toward putting food on the table for three hungry children and one pregnant wife.  For the record, the kids are well-fed, but as anyone who has children can attest, they're almost always hungry.  Anyway, I wanted to provide you with something more here, so I'm going to drop the basic hook for Dirty Southside Jam and an excerpt on you.  I'm giving you the first chapter, and even if you don't elect to chip in and support me, any and all feedback is welcome.

Thanks, peeps!  You know I'd do it for you.

So, what's Dirty Southside Jam about?  It goes something like this:

Billie Boyd, better known to the good people of Bogut as Blue, is the kind of guy whose luck only comes in one flavor. Sometimes it seems that his entire life has been punctuated by one bad break after another, but that's okay. He's a simple guy at heart, a man who has learned not to expect much. Everything changes when Blue finds a small fortune and decides to keep it, believing that his luck has finally turned.

He should have known better.

Now, good old Blue is at odds with a drug-peddling brute, a ruthless killer, and a corrupt lawman. His only ally is an aging drifter who likes to smoke pot and drive fast.  A man who never asked for much has bitten off way more than he can chew, and it's becoming painfully obvious that his next bad break will definitely be his last.

Now, here's a sneak peek at the first chapter.  Enjoy!

-        

Chapter One: Good Old Blue

Billie Boyd was enjoying another leisurely night at Cinema City.  Lately, leisurely nights were all the place had to offer.  Billie was better known to the people of Bogut as “Blue” and he was a quiet fellow who seemed to give off a bit of warmth, an intriguing outsider who was very comfortable in his own skin.

The lean projectionist was in the lobby, wiping down the counters with a rag that was old and worn.  Blue had long hair that he sometimes pulled back in a ponytail, but tonight it was hanging in his face as he worked.  Blue had never been employed anywhere else and the theater was like a second home to him, but he didn’t think it would last much longer.

The failing cinema had once been regarded as a terrific place to catch a movie.  Twenty years ago it was undoubtedly the local hot spot, particularly when a true blockbuster was playing.  In those days, the parking lot was often so full that late arrivals had to park at the pizzeria down the hill and hoof it from there. 

Blue had made that journey on numerous occasions in his time, but nobody had a hard time finding a parking spot these days.  The old theater was barely turning a profit and the parking lot was mostly empty, even on weekends. 

Cinema City had fallen into a sad state of disarray and it was getting worse with every day that passed.  The carpet was old and dirty, fraying in some places and stained in others.  In one spot the red wallpaper had peeled back to expose a filthy yellow expanse of drywall.   The video games lining the lobby were a primitive array of battered shells housing unheralded titles.

Blue watched as an old man approached the front of the cinema to study the posters advertising the movies they were playing.  The old man lingered in front of each sheet, trying to muster up some enthusiasm, but nothing caught his fancy.   Grimacing, he turned and walked away. 

Blue sighed.  He loved this place, and it pained him to watch it wither away right before his very eyes.  They hadn’t added any new features to their bill for three weeks in a row, a drought that would hamper any cinema’s business.   In fact, this was the worst Saturday night Blue had ever been on hand for.

They had sold a whopping sum of fourteen tickets for the three seven o’clock shows.  To make matters worse, the concession stand hadn’t made so much as a dime after the movies started.  Unfortunately, this was typical of late, as Cinema City was mired in a lingering slump that had Barry contemplating doing away with the latest show on each day aside from Friday and Saturday.  If it came to that, things were definitely coming to a halt sooner rather than later. 

Blue had held his job since he was in high school and he had always displayed a loyalty to the place that was inexplicable and wholly undeserved.  Barry made it clear that he liked Blue and appreciated his efforts, but he wasn’t about to provide a raise that matched his praise.   He seldom gave his star employee enough hours and the old coot was always too busy ogling the young females who operated the concession stand to truly appreciate Blue’s efforts. 

When Barry finally got tired of scraping by and decided to close the doors for good, Blue would have to move on to something else.    Until then he was getting paid for doing almost nothing, which was nice, but maybe it would be wise for him to start looking at other options. 

The next job he took would certainly be more difficult.  He had it made at Cinema City.  Most nights he spent far more time reading whichever book he was currently devoted to than attending to the patrons or the projectors.  Currently, he was plowing through an old copy of North Dallas Forty by Peter Gent.  His copy of the novel came complete with yellow pages and a musty odor.  It was one of his all-time favorites and it frequently inspired him to laugh out loud.

Later, after all the shows had let out, Blue finished his work upstairs in the booth, which was actually a large room.  He deftly threaded each film through the projector for the next shift, his fingers dancing through the process, his mind elsewhere.   Once he had assured himself that everything was in order with a cursory walk-through, he went to the box and shut down all of the appropriate breakers in rapid succession.  He went downstairs, set the alarm, and exited through the side door. 

Blue strolled over to his car, enjoying the crisp night air.  Some people seemed unable to shake their fear of the dark, but he had always enjoyed the night.

Blue drove a 1992 Toyota Tercel that had a heart of gold.  He had owned four cars and each vehicle aside from the Tercel had proven to be a total piece of shit.  He hadn’t called any of the others anything aside from random curse words, but the burgundy Tercel he had dubbed “Martha” and he treated this particular lady with tremendous affection. 

The old girl was rugged and dependable.  He had owned the vehicle for six years and she was steadily approaching three hundred thousand miles.  Blue was determined to take her to that plateau and beyond.  To date,  she had avoided major repairs. 

“That’s another one in the books, Martha,” Blue said as he climbed in.  He was smiling, but that wasn’t unusual.  Blue smiled a lot.  

Good old Blue.

Maybe his story is a triumph of sorts, but then again it could be a tragedy.  It’s a tale that begins and ends on a winding stretch of country road in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains.   That ornery strip of asphalt is called McClusky Lane, except when referred to as plain old State Route 79 (often reduced to a raspy old 79) by those who have lived in Bogut long enough. 

They like to spin yarns about old 79 in these parts, and those yarns are frequently bloody nightmares that yield restless nights.  Many of them are true, or at least based in truth, for on McClusky Lane the straights are long and narrow and the twists come fast and hard.  The road begins winding about the foothills like a frightened serpent before skirting the lake, drawing perilously close to the water’s edge.  Later, long after most of the traffic has filtered onto other roads, it crosses Cold Rock Creek via a rickety covered bridge that has created concern amongst the populace for decades.  Thus far the decrepit wooden structure has held, but all the old-timers agree that it won’t be long before the whole thing takes a bath.

They’re probably right about that, and someone is bound to go with it.  Those old-timers know the lay of the land, and they also know the history of these parts.  McLusky Lane is a mean stretch of pavement indeed, a dangerous country corridor itching for blood.  In most places there’s a similar stretch of highway, a winding road in a lonely hollow with a few twists too many and just enough room for reckless youngsters to build speed and momentum.  Like those other passages in those other places, McLusky Lane has claimed far too many lives. 

It’s notorious not only for a number of horrific accidents, but also for a history rich with stories about moonshine, exciting tales of hotshot runners racing against the law and taking big chances on that devilish road.  There are a few major players whose names are familiar to all those who call Bogut home, and virtually everyone living in these parts still has some kin with access to a working still.  White Lightning has always been a welcome addition to any shindig in Bogut, and there’s seldom enough to suit everyone. 

Blue preferred pot, but he could never pass on a jar when it was offered. 

He hated the road, though, hated it with a passion.  He agreed with the old-timers on that score.  While some people scoffed at the road’s reputation and wondered how the locals could lend a strip of asphalt such personality, Blue was intimately familiar with the woeful history of McLusky Lane.  He had survived his ordeal, but he was a victim nonetheless.   

He was only eight years old when the accident happened, but he could remember it vividly.  It was never going to go away, he was certain of that.  No matter how hard he tried to force the episode into the darkest recesses of his mind, those memories were always crawling out to confront him at his weakest moments.

He was going for a ride with his older brother when a deer bolted across the road in front of them and Ronnie panicked.  Billie screamed as his brother yanked the wheel too hard, sending his rugged little Jeep into a dangerous slide that quickly became a violent roll.  The Jeep went off the shoulder and tumbled down into a ravine, flipping four times in the process.

When it ended, Billie was lying against the door with pieces of his brother in his lap.  He was drenched in Ronnie’s blood and the wreck had imprisoned him within the vehicle.  Physically he went virtually unharmed, but the mental anguish he suffered was almost too much for him to endure.

He was trapped in the wreckage for nearly four hours before they got him out, the stench of blood filling his nostrils as the wet warmth of Ronnie’s remains pressed against him.  Gradually the sticky lumps of meat that had once been his brother grew cold. 

It would be nice if he couldn’t recall that period of time, if it was lost in a fog, horrifying yet shapeless, a formless nightmare from the past.  Unfortunately that just wasn’t the case.  It was still all too real to him even after all this time.  His mind hadn’t drifted into shock or provided any distractions in the form of hallucinations.  His memories were vivid, a gruesome record of that terrible ordeal that had yet to fade and likely never would.

He had sat there, drenched in blood, pieces of Ronnie all over the place, the grim horror of reality refusing to release him into any sort of sanctuary.  Time had never passed so slowly, each moment stretching into an eternity, the hours crawling past like days.  His spirit broke and his hold on his sanity crumbled during that hellish passage. 

When they pulled him out of the mangled Jeep, he told the paramedics exactly what had happened, describing the accident in great detail.  Then he lapsed into silence and closed his eyes.  He couldn’t remember things so well for a while after that. 

It was better than six months before he spoke so much as a word and nearly a year before he spoke at any length about Ronnie or the accident.  He seldom talked at all and he began keeping to himself.  Some of the kids starting calling him “Little Blue Boy” and the nickname stuck.  Time whittled it down to “Blue” and he never resisted.  He didn’t particularly like the moniker, but he didn’t dislike it enough to object.  After a while, it become part of him. 

He found himself thinking about the wreck more and more these days, but he kept pushing it away.  It was far easier to find distractions than to contemplate that horrid experience.  It was over and he had suffered enough.  He had moved on a long time ago and he needed to forget it. 

Blue shook his head and grimaced.  Some things were easier said than done.

The sky above was speckled with twinkling stars and the breeze was gentle.  It was a nice night for September.  Blue drove with his window down, listening to a cassette tape he had purchased at the flea market for a dollar a few weeks ago.  It was the timeless Outlandos D’Amour from The Police, a bargain at any price, and Blue was quickly wearing it out. 

He was only a few miles down the road when he spotted David Blanchard walking along the side of the road with his olive bag slung across his shoulder.  David was an old salt who had pulled three tours in Nam after earning quite a reputation for running moonshine in these hills when he was but a pup.  Most folks around here knew who he was, and aside from those wearing badges, most felt he was a good enough guy. 

The current sheriff was a chubby prick named Arthur Leopold III.  He had been sheriff for nearly a decade and his daddy had owned the post before his beefy son took his place.  Some time before that, his grandfather had been sheriff, but his time in office was cut short in a gruesome accident on McLusky Lane. 

He was chasing a young David Blanchard at the time. 

The first Arthur Leopold was pitched through his windshield and slammed headfirst into a tree at something like seventy miles per hour when he came into a sharp turn running hot and didn’t have the mustard to bring his good old Ford around.  His hat was found some sixty feet from his body.   

And so it was no secret that the current sheriff despised the old vagrant, and surely there were those who didn’t blame him, though in a place like Bogut most of the populace preferred a man who ran moonshine to a man sporting a tin star.     

Blue didn’t think much of Leopold, but then he didn’t think much of any of the authority figures he had dealt with.  In his opinion, most people who were given any small measure of power ceased with deliberation and began acting on impulse.  David, on the other hand, was all right as far as Blue was concerned.  Leopold wasn’t going to mess with the old drifter if Blue could help it.  He had given the old vet a ride on several occasions for the same reason, and the dude sometimes smoked him out in return for the trip.

They shook hands and Blue asked the old drifter where he was going.

“Nowhere in particular,” David said.

“That’s one of my favorite destinations.”  Blue put his foot on the gas and Martha rumbled ahead, slicing through the night. 

David settled back in his seat, stretching his legs, making himself comfortable. 

Blue found his mind slipping toward the past again, taking him to another episode from his youth that involved that wretched road.  The man sitting beside him was also a player in this memory.

When he was a kid, long before anyone ever called him anything but Billie, he had invited a friend over to spend the night.  This was when he and his family lived on a dirt road just off of McLusky Lane. 

Billie and his friend had decided to go for a walk and shortly thereafter the two of them were a few miles from home, heading toward the lake.  They were walking along McLusky Lane, approaching the boat ramp and enjoying the nice day as they went.  They were talking about comic books when a weaving truck sped by, nearly careening into them. 

            Suddenly the truck slid to a stop, pelting them with gravel.  As they looked on in mute terror, a stocky old man with a silver crewcut and a scraggly white beard lurched out, barreling toward them with a club in his hand.

            “Did you give me the finger, boy?”  He bellowed as he advanced, his eyeballs swelling in their sockets until it appeared they would burst.

            It occurred to Billie later that they should have run.  Though imposing, the madman was old and built for power, not speed.  They could have eluded him with ease, but foolish children that they were, they had stood there, frozen in the grip of terror.  Blue and his friend were practically rooted to the ground as the stranger approached with his barbaric weapon, his pupils so big they looked like black checkers to the frightened boys.

            “Huh?  Did you?  Did you flip me off, son?”

            Billie didn’t know if the man was addressing him or his friend, but neither had made any gesture whatsoever, so he said just that.

            “Bullshit, brat!  I’ll teach you to give me the damn finger.”

            He was poised to strike when David Blanchard came out of nowhere, calmly approaching this roaring menace with his arms before him, his palms facing outward.  Billie would never forget the way the drifter looked on that day, his black hair pulled back into a ponytail, his beard thick and unruly, his worn combat jacket providing a stark contrast to his red flannel shirt.

            “It’s okay,” David said in a soothing voice, almost as though he were dealing with an animal.  “We have a misunderstanding here, man, that’s all.  Let’s make sure no one gets hurt.”

            The man with the club sneered, but he lowered the club.  “Who are you?”

            “I’m no one,” David said flatly, “No one at all.”

            “The fuck did you come from?”

            “Nowhere,” David said in a soft tone.  “It doesn’t matter, anyway.  Everything’s cool.”

            As young Billie watched the two men talk, he was sure that if the surly man with the club made the wrong move, David was going to tear him to peaces.  There was nothing in the vet’s manner or stance to suggest this ferocity, but young Billie sensed it lurking just beneath the surface.

            In the end, nothing grave happened.  David talked things out with the man and that old nutjob actually apologized before leaving.  Billie and his friend were quick to depart as well, curtly thanking David and setting off with quite the tale for their chums. 

It had been a long time since Blue thought about that incident, but it passed through his thoughts as his trusty car raced through the darkness tonight, David Blanchard riding shotgun.   The strip of pavement framed in the glare of his headlights was as a grey blur churning beneath them. 

            He suddenly felt the need to discuss the episode.  “When I was a child,” he began, “I was attacked by a man with a club-“

            “I remember,” David interrupted, a tired voice emitting from somewhere within his tangled mess of a beard.  His thick unruly hair hung about his shoulders, his grey locks frayed and dirty from a lack of grooming.  “I remember just fine. Never could figure why the two of you didn’t just run, but I remember the whole thing well enough.”

            “You knew that was me?”

            David smiled and took a joint from his pocket, lighting it with a devilish grin.  The aroma of marijuana, tantalizingly sweet and unmistakably pungent, filled the Tercel.  “Of course I knew it was you, boy.  Of course I did.  The real question is what did that crazy old bugger have a club for?  Really now, who carries a club?”  The old drifter shook his head and laughed.

            Blue was surprised.  They had never discussed anything of great importance before, but this acknowledgement seemed to suggest a far deeper bond than Blue had imagined.  What was his value to this strange old bird?

            After several deep drags on the joint and few rattling coughs, David passed the joint to Blue.  He provided a sound imitation of his predecessor in this regard.  Almost at once, the warmth began to spread through him and his body began to relax.  The Police were still tearing it up in Martha’s cassette player, and the old stoner took note.

            “This is back when The Police were the shit,” David said, smiling as he lost himself in the music.  “They had their own sound.  I suppose it was only a matter of time before one of the guys got uppity.  I just never imagined it would have been Sting.”  The old drifter laughed.  He took the joint from Blue and took two big hits in rapid succession before continuing.  “I mean, who would have thought?  What are the chances of a guy named Sting having an ego?  Especially if he’s a revelation on bass and he’s got a pair of pipes fit for an angel.”

            Blue felt the need to say something, but he didn’t know what he could possibly offer. “I’m really enjoying this album,” he said.  He was clearly out of his depth.

            David pressed on.  “Truly gifted.  But he never did anything to rival this one.  Or maybe Reggatta De Blanc.  That’s the one with Message in a Bottle.  Nothing in his solo career could touch The Police.  They had their own sound, man.”

            “You already said that,” Blue said, wishing he hadn’t.

            “Well, maybe I said it twice because I wanted to make sure you got the point.  I mean, a man driving around with Outlandos D’Amour in his tape player should understand these things.  The Police weren’t some addition to some scene, man.  They were a scene.  They had their own thing going.  You dig?”

            “I get it.  I got it.  I’m the one who bought the cassette tape.  I’m listening to it, aren’t I?”

            “No, that’s what I’m trying to tell you.  You may be listening to The Police, but you aren’t hearing The Police.  Not yet, anyway.”

            An uneasy silence followed, broken only by Martha’s steady hum and The Police’s efforts on Next To You.  Before long, Blue’s mind drifted to the past again, taking him back to that strange episode on the side of the road.  “Why-“ he began, but it was a question that would go unanswered. 

Later, Blue would be unable to recall what he was going to ask.  He would remember little of what had transpired leading up to the accident.  Had they shared something?  That gentle moment before the storm would be lost forever in the glare of headlights and the scream of burning rubber. 

            For the second time in his life, Blue was part of the dance as steel met steel and flesh collided with machinery in a pulverizing display of power.  Once again, he screamed as he was thrown forward, his wail drowned out by a metallic squeal that filled the night.