XIII. Back To Basics
In Which The Wasteland's Heavy Metal Heroes Meet One of The Best To Ever Do It...
If you ain’t supposed to meet your heroes, how the hell are you supposed to help ‘em when they’re down? That’s something me and the boys have always kicked around with each other whenever we want to get existential. Of course we all got bitches who’ll back us to hell and back (even our straight-laced injun Brett started catching some strange after shows), but what about the fella on real hard times? We Wasteland acts still got our stories of great artists gone too soon, hot-rocking hounds fading out thanks to one dumb move or a bad crash.
And there’s the fuckers who just fade off into the dark.
Enter The Duke.
Now here’s a cat we all love, right? Old time rocker with that kinda artsy edge. Deep, bluesy voice that can go from zero to shriek in the blink of an eye. Has a half-dozen phases folks’ll argue about ‘til the cows come home.
Well, welcome to the Duke’s latest era: the wash-up. Least that’s the way it seemed when we found him, and by accident too.
The Metropolis gang were setting up shop in a proper dive-bar, De La Palma, off one of the old highways from way back whenever. Harry was working his brown mitts to the bone and back shuffling the Marshalls around the way he wanted them. Brett and Rory were getting the kit in place, and I was tying off some last minute negotiations with the venue.
Now, the De La Palma ain’t a big juke-joint. Shit, we could only fit half our stacks in the building to begin with, but we were still packing one mighty crowd in that night. You could always see someone from across the room because there wasn’t much room to see across. And when my haggard ass caught the sight of that thick gray muzzle from beneath a broad-brim cowboy hat, a cigarette in the steady hand that rocked a Les Paul hotter than Saint Helens, I went dead silent.
“That who I think it is?” I asked the manager.
“Who you thinkin’?” he shot back.
“That’s the Duke, ain’it?” I bit back through clenched teeth. Didn’t want to spook the fella off. “Shit, you oughta got half his records in that bubbling Wurlitzer down the hall.”
“If he is, that ain’t the name he gave us.”
I finished fixing our rates before strolling over. Play it cool, play it cool was all I had room for in my head. I didn’t want to do the starstruck-stammerin, the “YOU’RE MY HERO” happy-horseshit. I just wanted to know if the dude was, y’know, THE Dude. Fella leapt off the face of the Earth after dropping a killer album, Shockwave Sinner. Real, old-school, pre-atomic rock. Me and the boys always bump it before gigs. Some said he had a nasty accident in his truck, some said he was too bored to make anymore. No one knew! But if my hunch was correct, at least it was good to know he was alive.
“Heya, mind if I sit in, pops?” I asked, cool as I could.
He looked up from beneath the broad-brimmed hat, a patch of scruff tipping his chin. “Saw you and the crew roll in.” he nodded. “Betcha that back of yours could use the break.”
Yup. It was him. Smoky baritone, big strong drawl. I just got myself a seat in the court of the king himself. Again, didn’t want to spook him, so I kept playing it chill.
“Thanks.” I nodded. “How ya been?”
“Ramblin’ around,” he replied. “Been taste-testing these little shit-kickers from town-to-town.”
“What’s your special for here?”
“House bourbon ain’t bad.” The haggard old gray took another swig to make sure. “I don’t get shit-faced like I did when I was your age. Fucks your voice up something fierce.”
“Besides,” I chuckled, “music does it plenty for me as-is.”
“Oh, you’re one of them heavy acts, ain’cha?” he grinned wryly. I couldn’t tell if he was gonna tear me a new asshole over it or give me that nod of approval he gave the bourbon. Instead, he just looked at the rest of the band.
“Healthy young fucks, the lotta ya.” he chuckled. “How fast you play?”
“Don’t think we clocked anything above 180 BPM. Yet.”
“How loud you get?”
At first, all I could do was bust up chuckling again, but when I answered “when I’m finally deaf, I’ll let you know,” The Duke almost shot his drink through his snout. I went to pat his back, but he waved me off.
“Ever played a tune called ‘Twist of Cain’ before?”
I nodded.
“How you feel about playing backup for one song?”
I remember nodding as well, but I also remembered hitting my head on the way down. Because yes, yours truly. All six-foot whatever of my black-ass fainted like a preteen when I was offered a chance to have The Duke sing with us. Luckily, I was only out for about ten minutes, and the weather-beaten cowboy hadn’t vanished into a hallucinogenic dream.
“Didn’t know you were a fan,” he scoffed. “Used to keep smelling salts on me for fuckers like you.”
When I came to, Brett, Rory, and Harry were all standing there as well.
“You’re lucky they’re built of sterner stuff.” he teased. “Nice axes too. Let’s hear ‘em. Unless we gotta carry your ass to the stage, son.”
I straightened myself up and practically bolted for my black-and-white bass. I was in a full-on kid-in-candy store mood with the news, and the fellas could all tell.
“You boys do know who I am, right?” the Duke asked the others.
Harry was the first to answer. “Permission to speak–”
“Fucking hell, I ain’t a general, son. The fuck you want to say?”
“I–we...damn, we thought you were dead.”
The old gray, clad in his black rodeo shirt, jeans, and silver-tipped boots, straightened up before our multicolored quartet and belted out a howling-mad laugh.
“Shit, this is what I get for not having one of them fan sites, now ain’t it?”
The Duke’s sharp tongue mellowed to that of almost a grandfather as he hurried us on stage. “Let me show you just how not dead I am.”
We got to our places, Rory counted us off on his kit, and once we started into the track, we waited. The opening took a little time, the pounding midtempo groove building to that first verse. But when it came, that sweet, badass baritone we’d all grown up on started right in and didn’t miss a note. And when that chorus came in...FUCK, was he on fire. Like the bastard hadn’t left the world, the airwaves, the whole lot. We played the whole song for the folks who were there in the bar, and when they realized WHO it was at the mic, the whole joint erupted. When we hit the end, we took our bows, and etched into my mind for the rest of my days will be what the bastard said next:
“Play it dead-on like that tonight.”
We had gotten the master’s approval, even after my fan-girl bullshit. But he still hadn’t answered the question our mutt of a guitar hero hadn’t finished asking.
“Where the hell have ya been?” I asked as we all shared the first decent lunch we’d had in ages.
“Truth be told,” the Duke began between swigs of soda, “wasn’t exactly for the love of the art I left. Had some serious business to tend to. I know why y’all thought I was dead. Some stupid sumbitch ran around with a picture of a crashed pickup and said it was mine. What that feral fuck didn’t tell ya was it wasn’t. That was one of my daughters. Spent those years hunting the fucker who ran her off the road.”
“You get him?” Rory asked. Our white-furred compadre leaned over the table with anticipation.
“Yeah.” the Duke sighed. “The fucker’s dead alright, but he got me one right...here.”
He parted the scruff of his neck to reveal scarred skin. They got him right in the vocal cords.
“Singer can’t come back if can’t sing, now can he?”
The four of us fell back in dead silence.
“Thank God you got better though,” Brett chimed. Funny thing about our tan friend was that he sat there with the same fry in his hands for the past five minutes, just listening to the whole ordeal.
“Yeah, but it was still a good few years of healing. Time me and my bitch needed to move on from it all. Also nice to raise the rest of my nippers to adulthood. But without all the usual press junkets and shit to send out, I just kinda enjoyed fading out.”
“You are coming back, aincha?” I asked. “You got a fucking belter on you for having gone through that.”
At first, silence. The old gray knocked back another swig of his root beer. What followed though was probably the reason why he wanted us to bring him on stage tonight.
“It all depends. I want to go back-to-basics. None of the showpiece bullshit, just rock-n-roll. All killer, no filler. Been playing pick-n-choose with dive-bar bands like you guys. Nice to catch a heavy act like yours to boot. They’re killing me with all this folk shit. I can do it and I dig it, but if I gotta sing ‘Guinneveeeeeeere’ one more time, they’re the next fuckhead on my list.”
Now it was our turn to snort our drinks through our snouts. Four cannons going off like a 21-gun salute as we all broke up in hysterics. Luckily, not a drop got on the Duke.
“Good to know I still got it.” the old gray goat chuckled. “The art of the raconteur’s going outta style.”
We spent the rest of the day sitting and chatting like mad, waiting for that fateful evening to fall, and for us to welcome to the stage one of the few fellas left in this desert we can call a rock god. And fateful was indeed the word.
Gig started at six, we got the crowd jumping with a few of our old bluesier favorites. Something to give the hound a good tee-up. We had a lot of them flannel-wearing country-bumpkin types, but that was the kinda bar we knew we were getting in. We just had to make sure none of us started talking in one of them faked “YEE-HAW” drawls.
Christ was Rory trying his hardest.
But when we’d gotten five songs into the set (just as he’d asked), I got to say those magic words:
“Ladies and gents, it is with our greatest pleasure to bring you one of the great rock gods of our fair desert. God knows I loved him growing up. Please welcome to the stage: THE DUKE.”
He strutted out onto that stage like a pro, black leather jacket and all, and before he got to the mic.
BANG!
Someone started firing like a fucking lunatic in the bar. I dove for the old man and shielded him like a Secret Service agent. With my Smith & Wesson in hand, I tried to get a good line of sight on the creep. The crowds were going ape-shit, but they’d parted long enough for me to spy the fucker through one guy’s legs. Once he got out of the way, I lined my shot and got our assassin-maniac-mystery-box-ass fucker right between the eyes.
He was a mangy little shit; a light gray with that fresh-outta Hinzert body, his own camouflage denim two sizes too big.
When we all got up, and I made sure I hadn’t squeezed the king too tight, I popped Duke the obvious question. “You know the guy?”
When he knelt down over the dead body, thumbing the scruff of his chin, he noticed something in the flannel’s shirt pocket. He slipped a finger in, pulled it out, and read it for me.
“This is for Jeb.”
“I don’t know this guy,” he began solemnly, “but I know what he’s writing about. This is the guy. One I killed for killing my girl. One who almost took my voice away.”
“Hey, he belongs to a gang?” I could hear Harry slowly making his way into Officer Richter mode, double checking the cylinders of his own long-barreled peacemakers.
“Couple of bikers,” he nodded. “No big-time thugs though. Just petty shit.”
“They gotta name?” Rory chimed in through gritted teeth. I could tell just by looking at the quivering white devil he was itching to get even.
“The Quags I think.” Duke replied. “Weird name like that.”
“Come with me,” says I. “We’re gonna run things through my truck. Harry and Rory, you make sure no one else–”
BANG BANG they went AGAIN! Two fuckers aiming right for the Duke, spraying from the doorway. This time, however, the man himself did the honors.
Like all good rock gods, he knows how to kick with the legs. He swung a table down while Rory and I took cover behind one of the brick thresholds. Harry stood by his side, the mutt readying his revolver. What he hadn’t readied himself for was the sight of Duke’s.
This guy had himself this gorgeous old 18-inch monster of a revolver, polished to a shine.
“Knock ‘em dead on three.” the old rocker winked. “One, two, THREE!”
Him and Harry leapt up, and in two shots each, split the thugs’ heads open like cantaloupes.
“As you were son,” Duke nodded. “Good shooting, Harry.”
Our favorite brown-furred mutt bowed graciously as I carried on.
“Right.” I hollered. “Harry and Rory, you help make sure everyone’s alright. Duke, come with me. And Brett–”
“Lemme guess, I’ll keep everyone entertained while y’all are off?” Brett quipped.
“No, my tan-furred friend. Depending on how many of these bastards there are, two more guns is better than two less.”
I don’t think he ever expected to hear that until then, but what I saw whip across his face was equal parts surprise, relief, worry, and at last acceptance.
“Thank. FUCK.” he sighed at last.
Duke and I strolled out and I ran things through the module in the Hilux. Sure enough, The Quags was on our radar. Records made mention of the hit-and-run against Duke’s daughter, but was just for starters. These creeps knew how to rack up a whole host of old favorites. An arson charge here, a couple of homicides there. Most of their bikes were grand theft moto on top of the homicide.
“Shit, we can wipe these bastards out no problem.” I scoffed. “Just gotta figure out where the hell they–”
BANG! BANG!
Again! Outta fucking nowhere, these maniacs were coming our way, torches in hand. Fuckers all rode those trike-bikes too, with the three wheels and shit. It was the strangest crew I ever seen, but I didn’t think twice about blasting that torch out of their hand and into the fella’s screaming face riding at nine-o-clock on his left.
But just like the surprise ambush in the bar, out came Duke’s majestic old Colt, and away he went blasting them watermelon-heads open again. We’d gotten a good chain reaction going, but some of these cats were the kinda guy who would run over your head if you weren’t using it. And one of them kept another torch handy.
“You keep it up, I’ll keep nailing ‘em.” Duke hollered. “You still got too many folks in there in the crush, plus that’s some nice equipment I’d hate to see you lose.”
When the Duke tells you to play chauffeur, you play chauffeur, and I got us right up and running in my pickup. And coming up behind was...Brett.
Harry and Rory were still sorting the mess out in the bar, but ol’ Navajo Joe managed to get his keys in his ol’ Ford and join in the chase. Good thing too because apparently the Quags weren’t the only weirdos coming down the mountain. Backing them up was this land armada of folks. Bikers on normal bikes, with billy-clubs wrapped in barbed wire and plenty more guns to play with.
“Pull up that Jeb fella on the display.” I asked, burying my boot in the floor.
When he did so, he said something I never thought my hero would say since I was a wee one. “Oh shit.”
“Oh shit, what?”
When he read it off, I couldn’t believe my ears. Jeb Polaski was something of a negotiator. With all these terrible criminal organizations we in Hell Patrol spent so many years fighting, some folks find alliances a smart way to gang up on us lawmen. Jeb was one of those, and was in the middle of what was easily one of the biggest gang treaties in Wasteland history when the Duke took him to the River Styx.
Now, this isn’t a “oh no, I killed a loving husband and father,” oh shit moment. Jeb was a stone-cold piece of shit, and we’re all glad he’s dead and buried with a pitchfork through his cataract-coated eye. No, this was a “he sealed the deal before his death” oh shit, meaning a mini-gangland alliance domino effect was upon us. It was like a lopsided World War I, but with the Duke playing the part of...well the Duke. All we needed was one Serb with a steady hand to seal the deal.
Instead, Harry and Rory joined the fray, and now I got a big beautiful pack of two trucks, a rat rod and a bike to help us mop the floor with these maniacs.
Brett came up alongside me, flashed me the okay sign, and flattened his throttle in time with mine. We were gonna be the battering ram to help clear the way for our more vulnerable (and twice as deadly) cohorts to make some mince meat.
And literally, as flanking me on my left was Rory, the white-furred madman rocking a machete he snagged from the paste we made running the Quags over. Frankly, the fact he was the one running around bare-chested yodeling war cries, and our Navajo rhythm man was politely glowering from behind the wheel of his F100 made me question who was the real warrior of the bunch.
Until I heard a tape click into place, followed by a whole heap of drums and a whole bunch of “HAYAAAAA-HAYAAAAAA.”
Kid had a fucking war tape!
I bet you he was saving for this exact rainy day. When you add mutt Harry, the short brown maniac driving with his sunglasses at night and already firing before we even hit a single biker, I caught the kind of bemused glower I ALSO never thought my favorite Wasteland rock-n-roller would ever shoot me.
“Y’all aren’t quite right in the head are ya?” Duke quizzed, checking his magazine.
“Least we’re on the right side of the law.” I replied, snapping my revolver’s cylinder back with a flick of the wrist.
“Shit, I’ll take it.” the elder gray sighed. He went to roll down the window, but when he felt the force of ten Harleys scrunching up against my bumper, hopping us around like a Japanese pogo-stick, he switched his safety on and waited for the road to smooth out. It eventually did when the rest of the gang realized I was driving a Hilux, and then he got to shooting. And not gonna lie: he was kinda sloppy on the road. Not careless, but he wasn’t as crack a shot as I’d hoped. That said, I was doing 125, he was in his 70s, and not-for-nothing, he was still doming these bastards something fierce.
He was also doing it one handed. In his other hand was a rosary, one he thumbed feverishly between shots. He was smart to pray, especially when they finally got a few shots on the truck.
“Shit!” Duke growled.
“You alright?” I asked.
“Singed the cheek, but that’s pretty damn close.”
I saw the blood on the pads of his hands and handed him a handkerchief from my pocket.
“Put that shit away, I ain’t gonna look like Van Gogh with these fuckers lighting into me!”
I left it on the seat and left the king to his bloody court. Not gonna lie, it was pretty badass of him, but he’s fucking lucky he’s got God on his side. They managed to whittle my sealant down and crack the windshield. Sure wasn’t helped by the way I was driving, barreling over bikes and bodies alike.
What the Duke didn’t dome, Brett smeared across the highway. What Brett didn’t smear, Harry blasted to kibbles-n-bits with his Remingtons. The bikers who managed to avoid all this got met with the business end of Rory and the machete. Let’s just say the mad bastard didn’t stay nice and pearly white for long the way he was swinging it.
It took us about an hour to do these fellas in. I wound up getting a kick across the knuckle when I started joining the shooting gallery. Brett’s bull-bars were pure white with scuffs, and his hood red with biker blood. Harry, in classic fashion, didn’t let a drop get on that speckled fur of his.
And again, Rory was coming out looking like an Apache after a Comanche field day.
The Duke, however...he still wasn’t looking too hot. He did wind up dabbing the blood off his cheek, but that wasn’t it. Poor fella was damn-near shell-shocked by the amount of shit he saw. Not that he wasn’t a tough wolf in his youth, but that old gray goat clearly wasn’t used to Hell Patrol numbers.
By the time we got back, there weren’t many folks left in the gig. Most of the folks were scared off by then, but the house staff didn’t close until three in the morning. The clock read us for 11:16.
“Want to finish the gig?” I asked.
At first, nothing doing. He was just stone-cold silent. I didn’t have to do a mirror breath test on him, but he was still not quite there. When the rest of the band strolled up to the battered, blood-caked Hilux, he looked down and saw three of the most earnestly worried faces I think he ever saw.
“You alright?” Brett began.
“Shit man, that was wild.” Harry chimed in.
“He ain’t hurt, is he Speed?” was the cap-off from Rory, and I think he was the one who convinced him. I joke about our resident lunatic, but Rory was just as big a fan as I was growing up, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look more like a pup than he did, looking up to make sure the fella who got him singing came out alright.
He looked down to those three faces, all rolled right back to 10 years old, and again smiled that gentle smile he hit us with.
“Well, they won’t pay you for just five songs. Let’s see who’s left in the mess hall.”
Our audience was halved, the locals had dumped the bodies out back, but we had plenty of time to kill before Hell Patrol’s cleanup crew rolled up. I got my bass slung on, and cocked my head to the band.
“As I was fucking saying” got a good laugh from the remaining (noticeably sloshed) patrons before I at long last reintroduced The Duke as “the only fucker who can take on a standing army of assholes and live to tell the tale.”
Then we tore right into it. The “crimson highway” line hit extra-special that night, but instead of fading back to that lonely ol’ booth, he matches us song-for-song for two hours straight. We kept playing as our fellow officers scraped the gangland massacre off the tarmac, and we kept playing after most of the audience passed out. We would’ve closed the joint had Duke not gotten a call from the Missus, during which he again had to make something crystal-clear.
“No babe, I ain’t dead. In fact, I think I’m ready to cut that new album.”
Now we woulda kept playing, but the knowledge that we had just gotten the bastard back in the saddle sent me spinning to the floor, followed by Harry, then Rory, then Brett.