X. A Girl & A Gun
A Wild Tale from a Wild Guitarman
Alright, so normally I don’t do requests, but we got some super-special circumstances on this one. Good ol’ Harry Garret, “Richter” to those in the know, sent something from his cozy little security man alcove in Infantry HQ. Now, seeing as the brown-furred sonofabitch couldn’t be fucked to join us, that means yours truly is doing the honors.
That said, I love the dog like a brother (plus I work with him to keep y’all safe out there in Radioland), so I ain’t too broke up about relaying this little number. But dig this: 50% of what you’re about to hear was Richter’s little rock-n-roll fantasy, and the other 50 was genuine fact. Pick your favorite bits, and that’s the story to believe. Tall tales are fun that way. And it all starts with a girl and a gun.
Enter one desert-brown mutt, having a lovely time with the fair-furred Scarlet in bed. And no, I ain’t gonna read the paragraph of smut he threw down. You’re lucky the FCC ain’t around to cave your teeth in, and that the Missus still has a wedding band on her finger.
So after the two get done doing the atomic dog, he gets up, gets in his western wares, and leaves his sleeping beauty to rest. He has to put the finishing touches on a specially-rigged Strat he’s been toying with since he joined me and our pearl-white pal Rory Armstrong in Metröpolis.
Now you’ve seen rock stars with all sorts of wacky guitar setups, right? 12-strings, double-necked, guitar-bass combos, bodies made from car parts, flamethrower lookalikes, the works. Well tonight, our wunderkind was making a ghetto-ass laser-gun on the Strat’s back. And not some chintzy laser-light show you see at a rock festival out here or up on stages in Haven. I mean a laser RIFLE. Pluck a string, fires a round. Play “Miserlou” and you waste an army.
To answer the burning question of why, may I remind you all that your story for the evening was penned by a redneck mutt who could play at 11, shred at 15, and nail hour-long sets at 18 with a voice that could level a settlement. A young hound for whom the height of class is bombing around in a ‘34 rat rod with license plates all over the floorboards and a pedal assembly made up of a silver paw for a gas pedal and a stop-sign brake that reads “Oh Shit.”
The boy ain’t right, but the boy’s ain’t dumb either.
Now of course, when he tries it out, he shatters the metal target outside his house on the first pluck. And when he decides to play one of our favorite tunes, “In The Bottom of the Bomb” (available in your local discount dollar bin), he makes enough noise to wake up his girl.
And half the neighborhood.
And half his humbuckers when the guitar went up like Dresden.
Needless to say the collective holler of “QUIET” and some singed claws put an end to late-night testing. And while Scarlet, ever the lass, tried to get him back in bed, the male urge to keep tinkering with shit was overwhelming, and Harry spent the next few hours getting his broken dreams back together. Which is all kosher, ‘cause I got the whole crew the weekend off.
Unfortunately, I forgot to unplug everyone’s radios.
Cut to my black ass and the rest of the band. Doc has graciously allowed us do some “live” rehearsals, which is his friendly way of saying “you’re paying off your tab by playing or else.” And so we obliged.
At least 3/4ths of us.
Rory was there, giving his drum kit the works, I couldn’t not be there with my wall of four-stringed noise, and good ol’ Brett “The Brave” Tsé had been with us for about a month or so by then, and knew the set inside out.
But where, pray-tell, was ye olden Harrison Garret?
Out joy-riding with his pretty white bitch and his two-toned, eight-cylinder speed demon. He let her take the wheel this time, and lemme say for the record that Scarlet Garret (née Jones), is a damn good driver. She got a keen mind when it comes to drifting, and a mean mind when it comes to dragstrippin’. I’ve talked about her Camaro “Sheba” on the show before, but get her and that blood-red ‘78 on a strip, and whoever the hell is on the other side of that Christmas tree is a doomed hound. Dead, donezo, eating seven shades of desert dust.
So naturally, she clips a wall in the first 20 feet. And then a derelict foundation. And almost goes over the…Christ, did she really Harry? Good grief.
Anywhosamawhat, in a merciful display of decorum, Harry wasn’t flaming mad about any of this. In fact, he’s too busy making merry (and other extracurriculars) to notice. I’d go as far to say that extracurriculars may have been part of the problem.
Regardless, it is between his extraordinary bouts of lechery that he tinkers with the guitar. Every time they hit a bump, a round fires. And while he’s smart about not pointing it at the floor, last thing he needs is getting wasted from the back seat by his own gun. It’s midway through their bombing around and our one-day “Pay the Piper” residency that the call comes in.
“EMERGENCY, EMERGENCY. CALLING ALL PATROLMEN, CALLING ALL PATROLMEN.”
I got the ears of a hawk, even after all the torture I put them through, so when I hear a bulletin like that, I know my ass is grass if I don’t answer it, even in the middle of a “gig.” I pass the buck to Brett, he starts his bluesy noodling, and I hop offstage, booking it for my pickup. “Officer Ridgefield,” I hollered, “What’s happening?”
“We got ourselves a J.G.Z. on the lamb in a blue-and-white ‘82 AMC Eagle. Name’s Elwood Perkins, 5-foot 9-inches, white wolf, maybe strung out on radium. Firebombed Northern settlement Clantonville, seen heading south to Central. Killed at least six in the attack.”
“He coming by Doc’s Oasis?”
“No clue. It’s why she’s called a dragnet.”
Fair enough.
I was fortunate to catch Rory and Brett at the end of the song when I broke the bad news. My white drummer took it easy, but the long face on Brett made me feel like shit. Like we’re all grown-ass men, but I could tell he was really getting into it, and him being the only civvy in the band was still a growing pain when it came to getting called into action.
“Hold down the fort, and show ‘em what you got,” was all I could say, but that was plenty. There was a moment of silence, a counting off with the tap of his boot, and with a gnarly snarl of his Les Paul, he fired up an old favorite, “Mistreated.” That was the last thing we heard before high-tailing it after our pyromaniac.
Meanwhile on Lover’s Lane, Richter and Scarlet had a choice; drop the gal off home where she would be safe, and let her man take care of business, or take her along for the ride. After all, the last time any of us had seen her in action, it was as a hostage of a proper creep. The fact she came out the other end as well adjusted as she did is something I keep thanking God for everyday.
That said, our fair-furred gal had a penchant for being just as nutty as her boy-toy, and Harry would just as soon take a bullet for her as she would dish ‘em out for whoever tried their hand. Not to mention he now had a highly volatile, but incredibly power prototype he could shred away on.
Naturally, they chose the fun option.
“I’ll let you take the wheel” were the first words out of her lips before he bumped her back behind the wheel.
“Nah, babe,” he smiled. “You’re gonna have the real fun.”
She ripped the rod into gear, slapped that sandaled paw down, and off they went. Richter jimmied his killer riff machine, praying the bastard didn’t blow his face off, and called into the Commish to let him know he’d be joining the chase.
Now, I don’t know how bad a six-hound body-count registers up north. Like one’s too many regardless, but when I got told we had a dragnet on, I wasn’t prepared for Rory and I to be joined by a standing army to hunt the bastard down. Like if General Godred had spotted our asses at the wrong angle, at the wrong time, we’d look like an invading force. And swerving into view was the lovely Miss Scarlet, rocking the red-and-white ‘34 Ford, with Officer Garret riding shotgun, with his six-string shotgun.
As you can imagine, my response was that of a cool, calm and collected professional. A hound of utmost grace and class while in the field.
“THE HELL IS A CIVILIAN DOING ON THE DAMN JOB, RICHTER!?”
His answer was about as nonchalant as I ever heard in my life.
“We’re taking ‘em out with the big three, Speed. Sex, drugs & rock-n-roll.”
I don’t know what world this young fella was in, but it felt like I missed the first few reels of this action movie he was cooking up.
"Run that by me again Richter.” says I. “You're gonna kill 'em with WHAT!?"
"You heard me you black sonofabitch!” he shot back over the radio, steel-capped boots kicked up on the dash. “Sex, drugs & rock-n-roll! The bullets are laced, the Fender Bender's locked and loaded. And as for the sex...let's just say Scarlet and I got that base covered.”
To be honest, I didn’t know what to say. First off, it’s a laser rifle, how the fuck do you lace a laser? There’s no “poison dart” selection on these cartridges, you can’t go to the Gun Emporium and ask for an Agent Orange. If there was, we’d all leave ‘em on for the hell of it. To be honest, dude sounded like he was off his own face on something, but knowing his temperament, it could’ve easily been good ol’ high-T ego. Fortunately for my flabbergasted ass, Rory knew just what to say.
“That’s cute, kid.” he sighed from the comfort of his mighty bike. “Now how about you put in practice.”
And I shit you not, on command, out came our rust-bucket AMC. There’s our hound of the hour; off his face, cackling mad, all the usual criminal shit. And just like that, our dog got his silver screen moment.
“Your wish, our command. Floor ‘er Scarlet!”
That rat rod starts screaming, his bad little bitch starts cackling, and Richter snaps to attention. He strikes a mighty power chord and…nothing. Dumbass forgot to plug it in.
So he plugs it in, flips the switch, resumes his imposing pose, and, at last, lives up to his call sign. He rattled off a power chord and sent a stream of blood-red laser fire right into the cat’s bumper.
NOW it was picture-perfect. That malaise-era machine was rocking and rolling alright, the devil-driver Perkins going fucking ballistic (as most our favorite radium junkies do), and it looked like he could’ve blasted the run-flats right out from under him too.
Until the Northern boys took my guitar god’s cannon fire as their cue, and the dragnet went to absolute pieces.
I imagine Northern Hell Patrol was extra-over-served that morning, because like a slurring war machine they came on. Revolvers, peashooters, rifles, sawed-offs, firing a wall of electric lead, one after another, into each others’ bumpers, and like five shots managed to make their mark on the AMC. Every other recruit scattered, Rory and I dodging the chaos of a dozen muscle cars and motorbikes zig-zagging, kicking up dust. One of the dumbasses even nicked my Hilux’s rear window. The schmuck payed for it with a right hook to the jaw afterwards.
We rocked up alongside Richter and Scarlet when our thug played himself a real nasty trick: he pulled out a Les Paul and started firing back.
Let that sink in.
Here we have an arsonist, chased by a gaggle of shit-faced patrolman, us three and a few stragglers trying to stabilize the situation, and my young buck managed to bring a guitar-gun to a guitar-gun fight.
And best of all, Richter was fucking PISSED when he saw that. I mean I saw steam comin’ out of those desert-brown ears, he threw out every swear in the book, and he just started shredding away. I’m talking a wall of noise that’d make a Norseman proud. Dog’s quoting Bach, noodles himself into a real Blitzkrieg, and in reply, dear ol’ Elwood replies with nothing but 12-bar blues played at Mach speed.
If it wasn’t for the arson, I’d have brought him on stage for a set. But such is life.
Funnier still, Scarlet’s still there in all this commotion. At first, she got skittish, as most civvies do in these chases. She ducked, kept her paw down, but now she couldn’t see. Now you have this comedy of errors happening where Harry starts steering with his boot, accidentally stomps his chick’s hand, she brakes from shock, and he almost launches himself at the AMC!
It was one of Elwood’s misses that sent Harry stumbling back, away from the indignity of a death befitting a North Hell Patrolman. He takes a quick seat and looks to his lover. She’s well past embarrassed, but he takes a deep breath, gives her a kiss and says “DON’T WORRY, KEEP GOING!” in the manner of a drill sergeant on a triple shot of piss and vinegar.
You could see, even from where I was, a million things running thru her mind:
He’s even hotter when he’s angry.
Holy fuck, I almost killed him.
Just relax, dumbass.
The last one you could tell because she popped herself one in the cheek and shook the nerves off like fleas. That’s that’s a lesson for all y’all duellists and drag-racers to remember: kill your nerves, pump yourself up!
Now that our FCC mandated edutainment is over, back to the action, where there roared Elwood Perkins and Harry Garret, in a battle of one-hound bands. Shredding, screaming, going absolutely ballistic on each other. My hound was quick on the duck, but Elwood was shit with his aim, which made dodging just as much a gamble. And not to mention the chaos reigning behind me and the white-furred biker next to me.
“Don’t something always come to fix this?” I hear Rory holler over the radio.
“Watcha mean?” I reply.
“Someone’s dumb luck oughta kick in by now, y’know?”
And again, bang on time, straight from God, Elwood hit a rock, midshot. Up his white-furred head goes, and OFF his neck it went. Harry cleaved it with an open A and six shots, right through the neck.
Now that’s it, right? We got our hound, and the killing blow came from our friendly neighborhood guitar hero and his very own battle-axe. Them six up in Clantonville are avenged, all’s well that ends well. Worst that’ll happen is that I have to hear about the noise complaints from the Arch Commissioner, and then the next 48 hours will be devoted to everyone chewing each other’s ass out.
First the local mayors chew his (we blew past three towns after all), then the Arch Commissioner chews the regional Commissioners’. My boss (head of Central) chews mine, and then I get to chew the gaggle of idiots who shouldn’t be allowed within ten miles of an alcoholic beverage. And after all that ass-chewing…maybe North Patrol gets an actual commissioner instead of the drunk who was in-charge back then.
Maybe.
The politics of Hell Patrol, unfortunately, weren’t our biggest problem. Not when we have an unmanned 1982 AMC Eagle with a headless driver who died with his boot on the floor. Not when a sea of completely shitfaced hounds at our back, bobbing and weaving like a boxer on the edge of a knockout. And not when that Strat’s humbuckers finally gave out.
The blue-and-white hatchback veered out of Scarlet and Harry’s way, into the oncoming, beer-soaked storm. Harry not only sees the guitar sparking, but can hear that terrifying buzz of a transformer about to detonate. So with nothing left for it, he chucked the guitar over the hood and at the Eagle. It blows to pieces beneath the machine, but it doesn’t stop it from getting right in the sights of the North Patrol.
All that effort into their missed potshots doubled, even with the VISIBLY HEADLESS CRIMINAL sticking his neck out like a store-window dummy, gushing the good red stuff like a bad horror movie. Though at that point, I think it was just target practice, and boy could they have used some.
I got Rory to stick tight by me as we made our way to Harry’s rat-rod, and once the three amigos (plus one) were reunited, we fucked off to watch the chaos unfold. I radioed all units (and the Commissioners) that Perkins was dead, but only the stragglers bugged out to other work.
The Northern Patrolmen, however, were playing Mayan rules with the arsonist’s head, and still trying to waste the rest of him left to autopilot the car. And seeing as they were still failing (though pretty good at knocking his severed noggin around with the butts of their guns), I decided to put the whole situation out of its misery. Out came my revolver, I knocked the passenger side tires out (as we were all sat there like spectators), and the blasts finally sent the damn thing cab over wheels, and the largest pileup I’ve ever beheld in life was set in motion.
Bikers into the beds of pickups, pickups into sedans, wolves of all shapes, colors, and beer guts getting their hands slammed on steering wheels, and crammed up against one another. Don’t bother looking for the head, I’m sure that was pulverized after the first five tires, but that Eagle got COOKED in the carnage. First thing that hit it send the hatchback spinning like a top, the cars that tried to go around dinged its hood, which kept her spinning, and sure enough, Harry got himself a line of sight on the upturned AMC, and rattled off an old Schubert tune to keep his tin-can top in play.
Rory, in a lapse of irresponsibility, radioed the nearest MedHub, Harry tattled to North Patrol’s commissioner, and I called out our Big Cheese to let him know what happened. Medicine men and women were there in a flash, the North Patrol’s chief was boiling mad, and our bossman was howling with laughter.
In the end, it was 72 hours of ass-chewing, rather than the standard 48.
The only thing left was to smack the brown-furred bastard upside the head for bringing Scarlet, asked the fair lady how she was doing, and then asked him how the fuck you lace a laser bullet.
He took the smack in stride, Scarlet was no worse for wear, and I later found out that “laced” simply meant juicing the charge-pack on a cartridge. To spare the non-mechanically-inclined among us, you lose half your battery life in exchange for twice as much heat per round.
Now, you might think, “gee, shouldn’t everyone do this?” Y’all hear the stories on the news about coked-up thugs tanking bullets like vitamins after all, but the reason we don’t is because “roiding up” laser cartridges increases the chances of the unit exploding. It’ll kill you, your gun, and for those of us rocking carguns & ammo crates in the Infantry, your entire fucking ride. It’s no goddamn wonder his guitar went up in smoke the way it had been.
I slapped the dumbass another for the stunt, but to give him credit, he didn’t take out anyone other than the cat we had to. And he did promise to never use them in the field ever again. He could blow himself up on his own time.
We all came back to Doc’s just in time to find the joint cleared for the team’s lunch-break, and Brett had just saved me a few hundred credits with his playing. Went over like a cancer cure and a winning lottery ticket all rolled into one. And we had all managed this before one in the afternoon, giving us 11 hours of sweet, sweet relief.
Relief found by racking up the tab again.