20/20

What's up, good people of the internet?
I imagine many of you are also putting your resolutions into play.  Like me, your 2019 may have been a bumpy ride, and maybe your life saw dramatic changes.  Hey, maybe your world got shaken up a bit, and you've had a lot of time to ponder the future.  That's my 2019 too, if so, and I'm ready to get to work in 2020 in more ways than one.
While I have a number of resolutions, I am also teeing off a project of sorts, and I am going to be discussing it here.  My blog is certainly part of it, so it makes sense.  If anyone decides to take a similar approach to the new year, I would love to hear about it, and we can surely have each other's back.  If I've learned anything from my 2019, it's that a support network is a precious commodity, and every bit of encouragement helps more than one could imagine.
So, here's what I'm doing.  I'm calling it 20/20, and it's pretty straightforward.  Where my writing is concerned, I have 20 goals that I'm looking to nail in '20.  Some are truly outrageous in scope, while others are honestly rather mundane.  All are surely steps in the right direction if I want my passion to become more than a glorified hobby.
I'll be breaking down my goals with you here and tracking my progress.  Blogging more frequently is one of the items on the list, so there's that too.  And all of these items could help me cross off the first thing on the list, my lifelong dream, and a longshot to end all longshots in this modern era when there may well be more writers than readers.  Yes, dear peeps, I really want this to be the year I see a book of mine land with a publisher.  And I have a candidate, and I have a lot of goals that could only help me where this is concerned.
And I'm hoping that my 2020 will represent the recovery to end all recoveries as I put my accident behind me and run down some dreams.
So, yeah, that's what's going on with your boy.  Happy New Year, my friends.  Let's celebrate for 365 days if we can . . .

Powerful Pages - Carrion Comfort by Dan Simmons (1989)

Carrion Comfort by Dan Simmons (1989)

Sprawling yet intimate, Carrion Comfort is the sort of novel that earns epic status with a deeply rewarding journey of astounding depth.  Unfolding over the course of several decades and spanning the globe, the tale is dense but personal, complex yet infinitely relatable.  Inventive and starkly realistic in equal measures, it offers readers a new breed of vampire so distinct that they aren't really vampires at all.  Profoundly disturbing and equally brutal, Carrion Comfort dishes out a smorgasbord of woeful surprises and fiendish chills.  Simmons can be a bit overwrought, but his attention to detail and his vivid characterizations combine to flesh out a massive narrative with precision and impeccable clarity.  His zeal for history manifests itself here in a heartbreaking examination of the Holocaust that is the very foundation upon which this groundbreaking horror opus is constructed.  Fittingly, the emotional whirlwind that ensues catapults readers to dizzying heights.  This book is shocking and moving, boasting crushing defeats amid occasional triumphs as it veers from fascinating character study to white-knuckle thriller without warning, with frequent descents into outright terror upping the ante even further.  No one is safe, and the stakes couldn't be higher in this massive undertaking.  Carrion Comfort isn't just a great read, it's the type of novel that elevates the genre, and it should not be ignored by those who enjoy horror--or compelling literature in general, for that matter.

Final Grade: A+

 

New Project, New Playlist/Soundtrack

I've mentioned this to some of my peers before so it may be a rehash, but if not, consider yourself privy to an inside look at the workings of a deranged writer's mind.  When I'm working on a project, I like to compile what I think of as a soundtrack for that tale.  Whenever I'm working on that material, I put on my headphones and rock out to the playlist I have prepared.  I feel like this helps me get in the groove and arrive at the same mindset whenever I work on that piece, so the vibe and the voice that I'm looking for are easier to summon.  That may seem perfectly rational to some of you, and it may seem like utter nonsense to others.  That's just how I work, and it does seem to help me get to where I need to be to sling some ink. 

Anyhow, I rarely share much about any project I'm dealing with while it is in progress, but I occasionally dish out the working title and the playlist.  I do this because I love my peeps and I like to share.  Such a reveal may pique your curiosity so far as the current story is concerned, and it may also inspire you to check out some groovy tunes.  With all this in mind, let's get right to it.  I'm currently throwing down a novel about the most nightmarish camping trip ever, and I'm thinking of calling it "Southern Fried Hell."

This is the soundtrack I've put together to keep me on track while I put five lovely souls through the ringer:

Cattle Car – Clutch

Don't Step On The Grass Sam - Steppenwolf

Green Valley -Puscifer

One Horse Town - Hank Williams III         

Some Days – Sturgill Simpson        

Maggie M'Gill - The Doors   

Head Down – Soundgarden

Beercan - Beck

Shake Your Foundations - AC/DC  

Maybe I Am Amused - Melvins

Blue Monkey Disco - Syrup

Down To This – Soul Coughing

Spill the Blood - Slayer

I'm Shakin' – The Blasters

I Ain't Living Long Like This – Waylon Jennings

Vulture – Iggy Pop

Small Bones, Small Bodies – Future of the Left

Killing Floor – Body Count

Throw It On Me – The Hives featuring Timbaland

This Is Violence – Soulfly

Collapse - Motograter

D7 - Nirvana

Top 20 Horror Novels - #5) I Am Legend by Richard Matheson (from 1954)

Not only am I ranking my Top 20 Horror Movies for you this October, but I'm doing likewise with the scary books that I hold near and dear.  As with the movies that I'm discussing in that Top 20, I'm not attempting to rank these novels based on their place in pop culture, but rather their place in my heart.  Isn't that sweet?  Seriously, there are some fine books that didn't make the cut here because there just wasn't room, and there are definitely some well-regarded books that didn't make the cut because I don't really like them.  That also means there are some personal favorites of mine on this list that you may not have heard of.  If that's the case, I promise that I'll reward your trust with a gnarly tale if you give one of them a spin.  Finally, I may have shortchanged some of the titans in the genre (hey there, Stephen King) as I didn't want to overload this list with titles by the same author, though Uncle Stevie did manage to score three direct hits on my list.

The list thus far:

#20) Amok by George Fox (from 1980) 
#19) Manstopper by Douglas Borton (from 1988)
#18) Intensity by Dean Koontz (from 1995)
#17) The Terror by Dan Simmons (from 2007) 
#16) The Snake by John Godey (from 1978)
#15) Son of the Endless Night by John Farris (from 1985)
#14) Rockinghorse by William W. Johnstone (from 1986) 
#13) Vampire$ by John Steakley (from 1990)
#12) Falling Angel by William Hjortsberg (from 1978)
#11) Christine by Stephen King (from 1983)
#10) The Manitou by Graham Masterton (from 1975)
#9) At the Mountains of Madness by H.P. Lovecraft (from 1936)
#8) All Heads Turn When the Hunt Goes By by John Farris (from 1977)
#7) Hell House by Richard Matheson (from 1971)
#6) The Exorcist by William Peter Blatty (from 1971)

Top 20 Horror Novels - #5) I Am Legend by Richard Matheson (from 1954)

A case study in isolation and loneliness and a genre epic all rolled into one, this book packs a mean punch.  Matheson has an incredible body of work, but this 1954 epic is his best offering.  The tale concerns the last living man's woeful struggle to survive in a world that has been overrun by vampires.  Haunting and insightful, Robert Neville’s gripping saga culminates with one of the most compelling endings in the history of storytelling. That’s high praise indeed, and it may explain why Hollywood has put this tale on film several times now without embracing the bravery and the finesse that bringing the conclusion to life would require.  The clarity and the pace that define this work serve to provide readers with a stirring adventure that unfolds quickly.  Matheson has always believed in shipping the freight, and I Am Legend is a fine example of his ability to paint a vivid picture without any unnecessary brushstrokes. Much like the other books I’ve featured on this list, I would highly recommend this title to any reader, regardless of their feelings on the horror genre. I Am Legend is a legendary book (forgive me) and that climax will stick with you forever.

Short Attention Span Review: The Relic (1996)

It's an old story: a great book goes to Hollywood and becomes the basis for a lesser movie.  What can I say?  The best stories are told on paper and they can't always be transferred to the big screen without losing a little something along the way.  Sometimes they lose a lot.  Yet there are cases--like The Relic--where the book is so incredible that even a lukewarm adaptation makes for an entertaining show.  While it is surely a far cry from the book, to include the absence of the novel's main character and a far less impressive conclusion, The Relic still works in a variety of ways.  The mood and the sets are top-notch and the very idea of setting a creature feature in a museum (which is poised to debut a new exhibit entitled "Superstition") gives the picture a slick and creepy vibe.  The cast (Penelope Ann Miller and Tom Sizemore are the stars, and the wonderful Linda Hunt makes the most of her role) is on point and the direction c/o Peter Hyams is equal parts ominous and exciting.  Stan Winston provided a stellar design for the monster and most of the effects are solid.  The Relic also benefits from holding off on showing us the beast that roams the halls of the museum until the closing reel, generating a lot of suspense on the way to the grand finale.  Unfortunately, the biggest failing from the effects team comes during the climax of the picture, . . . and that's a real bummer.  Honestly, if there were no book to compare this film to and the final confrontation with the fearsome creature that causes so much havoc along the way wasn't bungled, this would be classic horror fare.  As it is, it's well worth a watch in spite of its flaws, and viewers who dig horror should be able to sink their teeth into this one.  It's not the horror movie equivalent of a good steak, but a decent burger will do in a pinch.

Final Grade: C

Great sets are among the movie's many strengths.

Journey of the Dead by Loren D. Estleman (from 2011)

Journey of the Dead is an interesting take on Pat Garrett's later years that aims to be something more.  Entwining Garrett's tale with the story of an aging alchemist in pursuit of the fabled Philosopher's Stone, Estleman tries to elevate the famous lawman's inevitable decline into a meditation on time and destiny.  To some extent the author succeeds, but I could have done without it; I don't feel that the alchemist subplot was necessary for those themes to be featured in the book.  In truth, the alchemist's role in Estleman's novel is exceptionally minor, and while Estleman is able to wring some thoughtful and hauntingly poetic moments out of this character's presence, it seldom feels like more than a gimmick or a distraction.  This is Garrett's story, glossing over his early years and his fateful date with his poker buddy Billy the Kid in favor of exploring his efforts to live up to his monumental reputation as he aged and society evolved.  When the book focuses on Garrett (as it does for the bulk of the tale--I would say that Book of the Dead is 95% Pat Garrett and 5% nameless alchemist), it is intriguing and complex, expertly depicting a man whose greatest skills are becoming less relevant as the times change even as his ambition grows.  He grapples with guilt and his own wants and desires, which are frequently foolhardy and self-destructive.  All the while, he remains compelling and likable.  I enjoyed Book of the Dead and I would recommend it to fans of this material, but I think I would have given it a better grade if it was a more direct exploration of Pat Garrett's waning years.

Final Grade: B-

Dragonfly by John Farris (from 1996)

The fact that John Farris doesn't garner more appreciation in the realm of literature is an unforgivable crime in my humble opinion.  Farris is a superb author with a gift for crafting compelling stories and yanking the rug out from under his readers on a consistent basis that is nothing short of awe-inspiring.  No one is better at springing a massive twist upon readers; Farris frequently delivers jarring shocks in a most casual fashion, totally reshaping the narrative at hand with a subtle shift that is impossible to predict.  At a certain point, I had read enough of his books to know that the twist was coming, yet he almost always managed to take me by surprise at some point.  With this in mind, it's a bit of a surprise that Dragonfly is one of my favorite offerings from this captivating artist, as it is relatively straightforward.  Now, that doesn't mean that it lacks intrigue or that it doesn't offer up a plethora of thrills, but it surely isn't among his most startling books.  Yet it is gripping from start to finish and it boasts some fine characters and a seductive plot.  Essentially, Dragonfly is about a con man whose latest scheme places him squarely of the midst of an even bigger con.  He also develops genuine affection for his mark, and soon he must choose between the girl or the scam.  This is a tough decision to make, for he's really choosing between an easy score and putting his ass on the line to save someone who probably won't be all that fond of him should his criminal past come to light.  Again, it's a far cry from this author's most wildly inventive works, but it's so damn solid.  The prose is rich and inviting and there are several incredible setpieces that are truly magnificent.  There is one sequence near the end where our hero (who has been drugged) most survive an assault from a professional killer during a tropical storm that ranks among my favorites from Farris.  In closing, I strongly recommend any of this author's books to those who many not have experienced his writing, and I'm placing Dragonfly at the very top of my list so far as thrillers are concerned.

Final Grade: A+

The Onion Field by Joseph Wambaugh (from 1973)

I greatly enjoy Joseph Wambaugh's work, but his non-fiction books hit me a lot harder than his fiction.  Truthfully, my favorite fiction novels by this cop-turned-author are titles like The Choirboys and The New Centurions, books which seem to be a bit more authentic than some of his more robust offerings.  It's not that he doesn't write well, and I can see where his more entertaining yarns could represent a much-needed departure from the darker territory he tends to cover in his efforts to chronicle actual events.  Yet there's a potency to his non-fiction that cannot be equaled.  I'm being 100% sincere when I say that I can't imagine any author from any era writing a better account of a crime or the efforts of the police to combat the lesser elements of our society.  His impeccable research, his keen understanding of human nature, and his ability to present such tales from all angles are all downright inspiring.  Few writers can tell such stories with Wambaugh's amazing attention to detail without bogging the prose down.  Like Fire Lover, The Blooding, or my personal favorite, Lines and Shadows, The Onion Field is never anything less than riveting even as it digs deeper and deeper into a sadistic crime and the incredibly complicated trials that followed.  At once a deeply personal tale of loss and guilt, it also stands as a powerful rebuke of the legal process.  Those who feel that the courts are far more interested in the rights and the welfare of criminals will only be further embittered by this haunting tale of a fine system gone mad.  A noble cop is killed in cold blood and the guilt of the responsible parties is never in doubt, yet the efforts of the defense to prolong and even sabotage the ensuing trials transform a burning quest for justice into a genuine fiasco.  Sadly, there are moments when the courtroom proceedings become so absurd that the passages wherein the author details those shenanigans wind up being somewhat comical.  The Onion Field has it all: a wealth of drama, powerful characterizations, and a heartbreaking combination of destiny and tragedy.  It is a remarkable piece of writing that is ripe with emotion and will leave readers asking difficult questions and pondering monumental issues.

Final Grade: A+

Dark Gold by David Angsten (from 2010)

"Like Benchley's Jaws, David Angsten's debut will once again chase swimmers out of the water."  That's the quote from James Rollins featured on the cover of this book.  I don't necessarily want James Rollins to be burnt to a crisp, but in a perfect world, anyone who compared something like Dark Gold to Jaws would immediately burst into flames.  Dark Gold is more likely to scare readers out of the bookstore.  My work hasn't reached a large enough audience to hold much sway as of yet, but I'm offering up a better quote for future editions of Dark Gold: "If Peter Benchley had suffered some sort of massive head trauma and written a book while dealing with severe headaches and chronic confusion, he might have produced something like Dark Gold--with a better ending."  I don't have to be compensated.  Take the quote and do the right thing: prepare future readers for the mind-numbing descent into stupidity they are about to endure.  Look, black magic, buried treasure, and sea creatures are right up my alley.  I am the target audience for this kind of material.  I'm also willing to admit that the premise was engaging and I initially liked many of the characters, though they grow more and more tiresome as the tale grew more and more insipid.  Yet the wealth of stupidity that punctuated the dull last act would have made even the finest novel seem like an insult to one's intelligence.  Even prior to the idiotic finish, the main character's absurd ability to survive even the most severe injuries was growing rather tiresome.  Every other chapter ended with this dolt's apparent death, and before the foolish climax mercifully drew to a close, I was hoping and praying that this buffoon would finally perish.  Alas, he survived, and the book hinted at the possibility of a sequel--and that's easily the scariest thing about Dark Gold. 

SPOILER ALERT: Don't read this last tidbit if you're still thinking about setting sail on this voyage into idiocy.  I don't want to spoil the book for anyone because I don't dig on spoilers, but I really don't want you to have to read this turd either.  If you think I'm being too hard on Dark Gold (and the conclusion in particular), all I'm saying is this: there's a sequence where our main character is swallowed by the sea creature at the heart of the tale, hangs out with an old chum in its gullet, and then escapes from the creature's mouth to prolong the miserable climax.  That's Dark Gold in a nutshell for you. 

Final Grade: DO NOT read this shit. 

How's that for a Final Grade?  Seriously, I gave it one star on Goodreads because the site wouldn't allow me to give it no stars. 

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.

Ghost Child by Duffy Stein (from 1982)

There are few things I enjoy more than the smell of an old paperback.  I love visiting used book stores and searching for treasure on shelves that are packed tight with vintage books, many of which are all but forgotten.  I'm an equal opportunity reader who enjoys literature from a variety of genres and eras, and I'm am fully willing to delve into an intriguing non-fiction title or something a bit more fantastic.  Of course, my love for the horror genre is no secret, and curious gems like Ghost Child by Duffy Stein are my favorite sort of book to enjoy.  In many ways, this haunted house/possession/ghost story hits many familiar beats.  Yet it is also inventive and unique, and the author's unwillingness to pull any punches in the grim finale makes the more familiar aspects of the novel feel like an elaborate set-up in retrospect.  Yes, I thought I knew where we were headed, and I was mostly right on the count.  However, when it came to who would fall prey to the horrors lurking within the creepy old house in Vermont that the likable Talman family had moved into and who would survive, well, I guess I was being a bit too optimistic.  The violent and shocking conclusion was incredibly savage and far more diabolical than I anticipated.  I kept waiting for certain characters to wise up and they kept getting cut down, and I kept waiting for someone to arrive to save the day, but the characters who attempted to do just that weren't very successful.  The book got off to a slow start, but was creepy throughout, making deft use of standard horror fare (an old house with a gruesome history, spooky toys, and even a secret room) and sound characterizations.  Given the power and the sheer terror of the conclusion, I'm more than willing to recommend Ghost Child to those who enjoy this stuff as much as I do.  It doesn't reinvent the wheel, but it is solidly entertaining, and the ending is a vicious assault on the senses.

Final Grade: B-

The Intangibles by Monte Dutton

Yesterday I finished The Intangibles by Monte Dutton, a fine book that had me hooked from the start.  I read the last third of this compelling drama in a single sitting, eager to reach the conclusion--which was tense, exciting, comical, and heartbreaking.  That's quite an accomplishment.  It wasn't all that long ago that I reviewed Monte's novel The Audacity of Dope, and I'm officially going to label myself a fan of his work. 

In truth, the prose was much cleaner in The Audacity of Dope and if I wanted to give someone the best example that I could of Monte's writing, I would recommend that one.  However, I enjoyed The Intangibles more.  It was very raw and very personal, and though it got a little muddy at times, the characters and the story spoke to me on a deeper level.  The Audacity of Dope was a slick and entertaining ride that dealt with complex themes in a lighthearted way.  The Intangibles takes a similar approach to themes that are more complex and a bit harder to wrestle with.  There are a great many laughs to be had while reading this one, but it also boasts some genuinely wretched people and some truly despicable schemes.

The book is set in 1968 and depicts the impact of integration on the people of a small town in South Carolina.  Much of the story centers on the local high school, where a pair of determined and thoughtful football coaches work to bring their team together.  In the process, they may just bring the community itself together, though there are those who are working just as hard to prevent that from happening.  The tale reaches well beyond the football field, following the lives of several players and their friends and relatives as they come to terms with the changing times--or, in many cases, as they fail to do so.  It is possible that there a bit too many characters involved and sometimes elements of this saga that deserve more attention seem a bit rushed.  Yet life can be equally overcrowded and abrupt, and as such, it is likely that some of this novel's flaws contribute to its authenticity. 

There are meditations on more than race relations, as religion, sex, politics, and drug use and abuse play pivotal roles in the way the characters and their relationships develop.  As with any worthwhile drama, there are struggles, triumphs, shocking developments, and tragedies housed within the pages of The Intangibles.  It is clear throughout that Dutton is writing about things that matter to him, and one has to think that his personal experiences played a significant part in bringing this story to life.  While the end result may be a bit overwrought in some places and a bit jarring at times, it is a potent and meaningful story with a lot of soul, and it is surely worth reading.  The journey is enlightening and the climax is a stunning example of Monte's wit and talent. 

You can purchase a copy of The Intangibles here.

Playlist/Soundtrack for my Current Project

 I know, I know, it's en vogue for artists to tell people all about the music they're listening to while they work these days.  Forgive me for being trendy, but I had an urge to share.  I'm currently nearing the end of my fifth novel, currently titled 101 Nights of the Rougarou.  Ever since I wrote Trailer Park Trash & Vampires, people have been asking me if I would ever pen a story about werewolves.  In a way, this current project is just that, though much I like did with vampires, I'm doing things a bit differently.  The rougarou itself is a bit different from the werewolf, though there are similarities.  There are also several variations sprinkled throughout the folklore pertaining to this particular beast, so that gives me a lot of room to maneuver.  I like that.

Anyway, like many, I like to listen to music while I work.  I've always thought it was a good idea to listen to a fairly consistent mix while I work on a project to maintain a certain mood, so I actually create soundtracks for each of my projects.  I have always been a very visual writer, and I think my work would lend itself well to film, so I proceed accordingly.  Each of these playlists starts with a song I imagine playing over the opening titles and ends with a song I would like to hear played over the credits.  The rest of the music suits the mood and flow of the piece.  Often, there will be songs that are tied to specific scenes.  Finally, since I favor big third acts, you may notice that things build to a crescendo toward the end of the playlist.

So, for those who are interested, here is my soundtrack  for 101 Nights of the Rougarou:

"Sniper At The Gates Of Heaven" by The Black Angels

"I Can Almost See Them" by Tomahawk

"I Am A Man Of Stone" by The Toadies

"Human" by Elastica

"Mama Told Me Not to Come" by Three Dog Night

"Connected" by Stereo MCs

"Caress Me Down"  by Sublime

"Blood On Our Hands" by Death From Above 1979

"The Hives Are Law, You Are Crime" by The Hives

"Adrenalize" by In This Moment

"Silver Queen" by Philm

"Lobster" by Bender

"Smoke a Little Smoke" by Eric Church

"Aisha" by Death In Vegas

"Nervous Shakedown" by AC/DC

"Psychotic Break" by Jerry Cantrell

"The Talking Horse" by The Melvins

"Boom" by Soulfly

"Hush" by Tool

"Adeadenemyalwayssmellsgood" by Future of the Left

"Exhale" by Kylesa

"Stillborn" by Black Label Society

"Bury Me" by Helmet

"Evil World" by Powerman 5000

What I'm Working On Now: Baller

I'm currently putting the finishing touches on a novel called Baller.  When I'm done, I'm sending it to Andrew Necci, my trusted editor, and my dear friend Mal Rorrer will dream up a cover.  It's exciting to be at this stage of the game with another project, and this represents another cross-genre yarn, something I'm growing rather fond of.   

Baller is essentially my take on an Agatha Christie mystery, though the end result is (of course) something entirely different.  The protagonists are a basketball player named Luke Wilson and a porn star who calls himself Devil Wood.  Luke is currently serving a suspension, and he has invited his old friend to join him at a private party his former agent is hosting.  The party is set at WinterCrest, a quaint resort in the mountains.  A snowstorm keeps many on the guest list from attending, and those who arrive find themselves snowed in.  Still, it's a beautiful place, and things are going well right up until the host gets murdered.

At this point, our basketball player and porn star have made the acquaintance of Vincent Sanchez, a fearless detective who is also on the guest list.  In fact, they are seated together when the murder takes place.  Vincent looks to Luke and Devil for help and they quickly find themselves swept up in a sinister plot that will become a nightmare for all involved, bringing a frenzy of mayhem and death to WinterCrest.  Can these unlikely heroes survive a number of cold and calculated attacks and uncover the killer's identity before it is too late?  Who is the savage predator at work?  Why is this lunatic preying on the guests stranded at WinterCrest?   

Baller is equal parts mystery, thriller, comedy, and it also has a potent dose of horror in the mix.  I've gone from cross-pollinating horror and comedy or suspense and comedy to birthing a four-headed monster.  The book is surely my most entertaining offering yet, and my revisions are going well.  It isn't often that I speak about my work until I'm finished, but I'm close enough to dish out some details in this case--the first draft is complete--and I wanted you to know what I've been doing when I haven't been writing for RVA or working on movie stuff.  I do my best to share those things with you and I figured now was the time to tell you a little about Baller.  I think the book is hilarious and I don't feel that the comedy is in any way negating the impact of the other genres that it toys with.   It will be interesting to see what you guys think when it is released.  It is very possible that we'll see it in print before the year draws to a close.

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.